My Office Chair

day before yesterday:
the flimsy faux black leather beneath me relaxed and bitter as the edge of my heel snagged at it’s cheap stitch

chair: "hey, watch it, bitch!"
eden: "excuse me but don’t forgive me...your budgeted build conforms too easily. can’t you tell my ass pangs to greet your residually under-filled canvas each day"

yesterday:
i removed my shoes and kissed my left heel firmly onto it’s rounded yet square flat surface.

chair: "your foot stinks"
eden: "atleast i’m not needling you with my stilleto boot heel, you ungrateful heap of..."

today:
i pull my chair out and plop my ass on the chair with a quickness.
my flowing skirt falls short of sheltering my bare ass from caressing the empty black space.

eden: "how does this feel?"
chair: "feels great, smells good, and tastes sweet - thank you dear!"

The Power of...

My tenderly torpid physicality...suspended by gracious gravity over a bravely mustard yellow yielding, conforming to the brawny-esque that should be my heart shaped ass - as if I could not conjure up a method to illustrate the spread of the underlying claims of humanity like thread unwinding between two pieces of insouciant fabric. Unraveling - slowly disengaging from the opening from which it was inserted by a prick; a perforation made by slender carbon steel points. In and out like an inhale and exhale...like the necessity of polarities - by hand or by machine - the motion creates an intense heat, an impactful energy...fast or slow...like a pseudo-luminary disconnecting hapharzardly over the threshold of nothing.

Nothing.

Darkness without any light.

The blood, it drips fervently to the ground to remind me why I was meant to survive - monthly by any means, keep me alive; for lineage, for ancestry - raise one arm up into the air and tighten up your fist and shift, sway it with a passionate authority...your power...is the power of femininity...because without the flower you would not exist!

Equal Rights Amendment, FUCK YEAH! No, my strength is not stronger but my voice is. You can violently pummel my face into the ground until I can no longer see through the teary brown eyes that cry R-E-S-P-E-C-T but my spirit moves on through my voice, through the muscles in my throat, through the echo that extends over the world like a cloak without end; lingering words of equality to those who fear civility, who fear reflections of themselves by the color of their skin because they think they wear theirs so well.

2.13.2011

It's the thirteenth. Of February. Happy birthday, Henry.

A long time ago, when I was a very different person, I worshipped at the altar of one Henry Rollins. I had his spoken work albums (of which there were about 6 at the time) memorized. I wanted to play guitar like the guitar player (Chris Haskett) in his band. I read his books. I even toyed with the idea of working out constantly and getting tattoos. But, like I said, that was a long time ago. And I was indeed a very different person. While all in my peer group were wrapped up in the height of grunge, as well as the ascendancy of indie-rock and the birth pangs of the rap/metal hybrid that would eventually suck the world of fun when it became known as 'nu-metal,' I turned tail and headed for the land of American hardcore. My holy trinity was Ian MacKaye, Bob Mould, and Henry. Now, I know that to many hardcore enthusiasts, Bob and Ian have sold out (to varying degrees), and Henry was the reason Black Flag fell apart, but I say they still had a huge influence on what my peer group were listening to, as well as American music in general.

So, for me, while my friends were cultivating pot habits, chin beards, and long(ish) hair, I was shaving my head, struggling with trying not to drink or smoke (both of which -- at the time -- I actually liked doing) and generally being a party pooper. But, at least I could huddle in my dorm room bunk bed (lower bed, with heavy blankets draped around, making it a wonderful hiding place) and read/listen to good old Hank. Let me tell you, when you are a 19 year old kid in college, who still really hasn't figured out how to talk to girls (which is all I ever wanted to do) sitting in your room and being angry and listening to the world's angriest faux-poet/spoken word artist/lead 'singer' is NOT the answer. Sure, I knew and know a few women who dig Henry, but -- at the time -- I would have done better in that freshmen year to cultivate an Eddie Vedder outlook and fashion sense, eventually giving way -- over the next few years of schooling -- to a quasi-Beastie Boys look. But, alas, I blended my idols du jour into a weird mish-mash of shaven head, black shorts, and colorful plaid shirts.

All lamenting aside, truth is, I kinda needed those Hank tapes. I still have them, but they don't really apply anymore. Back then, when pining away for that one girl whose name I won't bring up, they were tonic. The stories (back then, Henry's tales were more about not getting laid, which was right up my alley) gave me a certain sense of strength, even a bit of confidence. He was the first guy I'd ever heard admit to masturbating. Ever. Suddenly, even that didn't feel like such a cross to bear anymore.

Over the years, he's changed, and so have I. I have seen him a number of times, and even had the pleasure of chatting with Chris Haskett. But, as with all things, the perspective changes, and I've found less and less to relate to in regards to his work. I loved that the last Rollins Band album had female backing vocals and a horn section. But I don't relate to his constant travel stories. Sure, I wish I could fuck off to Africa or Vietnam on a whim, but truth is, I chose a different path. Not wrong or right, just different. There is a part of me that wishes I had taken myself up on my challenge to be a bit more like old Hank way back when, but I think I knew -- even in the hazy days of 1993 -- that I was destined for something else.

I respect Henry. I really do. I hope he manages to live to 150. I wish there were more like him. And if I ever had the pleasure of meeting him, I'd be as giddy as a schoolgirl. But I guess I just don't need him like I used to.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Henry. Here's to 50 more.

Arise

There is a great chase that signals the unraveling. There are forces that race, that connive, that conspire to inject the totality of their powers into the singular conquest of your heart. And you are a pawn that serves a master of fear that lies before this very chase.

In all your years, untidy, undefined years, all of them, you have encountered obstacles and impediments that have labored before the will of confusion. And confusion is a most tempestuous and unforgiving bitch. 

Your place is at the feet of the wolf; its eyes, one blue, one yellow, piercing you beyond your body and into your soul. No yield. No quarter. You are powerless against it. In fact, your every effort seeks only to enliven its cause.

You have taken course upon a road that has stayed true to its promise of unease and undoing. And you have penned a script that tells of tragedy of a most personal sort. You have poured forth upon your audience the most intimate and piercing details. You have sat at the table and consumed the fatty flesh of your subject, and you have walked away with a ravenous hunger that threatens to consume all before you. God, what a bastard you are, and what a coward to bow in the face of truth.

The door handle was very cold, but goddamn if you wouldn’t swear you felt a mote of her warmth still there, after thousands had come in her stead. And goddamn if you didn’t break down and cry like a child, one you know so well, and beg it all to go back, and do it all again. 

I couldn’t do it. Though god knows I tried. Forever is such a long, long time. And still I know it well.

No one has arrived at the mantle. 

It’s a Sunday. 

Arise.