” Don’t forget who you are…and where you stand in the struggle.”
So Much Things to Say — Robert Nesta Marley
Long time; no talk, yeah? Still on my overly punctuating game you’ll notice from the three pieces of it in that short not-really-a-sentence. Pardon my geekiness: that ain’t changed. My address has—whew-ew! Fat stats have—whew-ew! On the other hand, Kashi still rocks my socks. And alas, it turns out I am still 13, unsure, and putting on a serious show that suggests I just might be. Of course there are some things I have always known: that one day you would forget me, that trouble don’t last always, and right is right and never wronged nobody (as Grandmommy says). And sadly, for what I don’t know I spend an inordinate amount of time talking out loud to myself trying to create formulas and work out equations that will make it make sense. It’s like trying to find the end of pi: 3.14444444444444444444444444444
No that was not a typo.
When I used to read, listen to, make poor imitations of slam poems one of my favorite clichés came from a poet who shall remain nameless because I don’t wanna sound condescending when I call one of her lines out for being the cliché that it is. Now clichés aren’t necessarily inherently bad—just lazy for a writer ‘cause, well hell, you’re a writer: it’s your job to be original. But clichés are also (usually) inherently true. What she said/wrote:
Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise.
When I think about writing, I think about it as a natural movement. And realizing that makes me ever aware of how its gait changes to negotiate hills, valleys, crumbling sidewalks, cute boys, heels or tennies, and pet walkers with feisty or curious dogs. Yes, those are cheap metaphors for all the stuff I’ve been encountering lately (and not-so-lately anymore seeing as though it’s been awhile since I wrote anything).
A professor who taught me to discover obscure vaginas in print advertisements of oatmeal also taught me that silence is noise. Like white is not the absence of color but the cacophony of it.
*(Side note that you should feel free to ignore: Dude I Dated used to like that word—bless his heart).
Silence tells a story. In Images of Women in the Media, that professor encouraged me to accept that subliminal messages are as plain and seductive as tangible in-your-face ones (like the vagina in the oatmeal ad is as obvious as bikini clad women selling you stuff that has nothing to do with the beach).
In Women’s Autobiography, she recognized and called out silences in my own writing, said that they told a story as tangible and in-your-face as my vignettes of growing up, growing breasts, and growing stupid-disillusioned for my troubles.
You could probably convince me pretty easily that I’ve written this post before in some other story or discussion. In fact, I’m sure I have. But life is a circle: we’re bound to revisit points on it at some time or place anyway.
So yeah. Been silent for a few minutes. Let that be today’s story.
One thought on “Let That Be the Story”
Reblogged this on Under the Radar and commented:
Digging in the crates.