Skin lightly touches my own; I can feel it. On my back, in between my shoulder blades, on my tattoo. The tattoo I am always aware of—as aware of as any other part of my body—despite the fact that I have never, due to its location, seen it, except in mirrors and photographs.
It feels like a finger, or maybe a palm; I can’t quite tell. My senses—or rather, their memory, as the touch is gone as quickly as it came—focus on that spot and then I think it was the back of a hand.
It has always been my desire, when someone touches my tattoo in such a sensual and yet brief and therefore harmless way, to remain facing away from them, to see what they do next and if I can figure out who it is. As though I wish to use my other senses to connect with the physical space around me, rather than use my tired, overused eyes. As though the eyes of the dragonfly inked into the skin of my back will see for me.
I always forget that, though, the few times this actually happens; instead I invariably end up turning around to face them in a moment of pure unfortunate reaction.
I turn around, in a moment of pure unfortunate reaction.
I should have known it was you. I think I would have guessed it, if I’d stayed facing away, which I do regret.
—I didn’t mean…
—To touch me?
—I was just noticing your tattoo.
—You can keep looking; I don’t mind.
I turn away.
“More wine?” she asks.
“No, no thanks, I probably shouldn’t.” I swish around the nonexistent liquid for a second and then put the glass down on the coffee table.
She laughs. “Had enough?”
“Oh yeah.” I am feigning more of a buzz than I actually have. This is so I do not get tricked into drinking more than I should, which is less than it would be in most cases.
I just noticed I haven’t been posting much lately (save for the Feminist Theories responses, which are, as you guessed, coursework). That’s because any writing time I’ve had, I’ve been working on my script.
It’s called “It Adds Up” and it’s my senior project. Well, part of it. The other part is to direct it. It’s a 10-minute play I wrote almost a year ago that I’m developing into a one-act (30-50 minutes). You can read a little bit more about it in the blog I’m keeping as the reflection part of the project.
Here are some parts of the script. Some I think of as done, others as draft. Let me know what you think!
I keep thinking you look at me all the time but maybe it’s just because I look at you all the time and you’re looking back at me and thinking, Why is she looking at me? Continue reading
A poem of mine, “Hassle-Free Sex!”, was published in former-fellow-student Gina Abelkop-aka-‘s brilliant and beautiful omnibus, “Finery”.
Click on that link to purchase or trade a copy. Really. You should. Not just for my poem, but for everyone else’s stuff plus the gorgeous design of it. I’m listening to the “Amélie” soundtrack right now and it and this omnibus go together really well. The finer things in life… sigh… :)
I’ve tried to deny it for years, for a lifetime, but I just can’t anymore. I’ve got traitor blood in me. I need to stop rejecting that fact and accept it as an inherent part of me. My family left me with a lot of legacy, and so much of it’s really great, and I’m proud of it—the military might, the great business sense, the pride, the cunning wit, the survival skills, the revolutionary dissent, the great genes, all of it. But in order to be truly proud of who I am I need to accept the bad along with the good. And I’ve got traitor blood in me. And that’s ok. As long as I don’t feel shame about it. Because it’s not my fault. Hell, it’s not even his fault if you want to know the truth, but this isn’t the time for a history lesson. Fact is, he was who he was, he did what he did and generations later came me in the same line, the same stock of people, and I am who I am. I have seen the best people in my family ruined because they’ve tried to deny their blood, their traitor b lood. They have been ashamed of it, but I won’t go down that path. Oh no. I am going to fully embrace that part of my history, my family, my genes, my blood, my self—and not apologize for it. I will announce it loud and clear and proud for anyone who wants to hear it—I am a descendant of Benedict Arnold, and that is why I changed coffeeshops.
Oi! You! Get out now!
You dirty English bastards!
We’ve fucking had it!
Secondary Definitions Of ‘Irish’
fieriness of temper or passion; high spirit
offensive illogical or apparently so
—Those English Bastards Again (Oxford University Press)