Tag Archives: girls

She Was (Between August 1st and 10th, 2007)

Tall
Tall enough
Not too tall

Smile
Warm as the sun
Kind

Eyes
Eyes that show
Soul

Soul that sings
Sings
From the heart

Tall
Tall enough
Not too tall

A Catalog Of Thoughts; Or, Sorry, Lena Dunham, But Our Generation Already Has A Voice

It’s called Every 20-Something With A Liberal Arts College Education And A Smartphone Who Was Reared On Pop-Culture-As-Literature And General Memetic Awareness With A Knack For Creative Nonfiction Who Also Probably Lives Paycheck-To-Paycheck In An Urban Environment Not Because You Have A Family To Feed Or Anything But Because Your Actual Salary Isn’t Really Comparable To The Lifestyle You Lead Because You Know Happy Hour But I Mean Who Really Cares About A Savings Account Anyway That’s So Totally Just For People In Their 30s Or God Forbid Even Older Than That But Now That You’re Out Of College Life Is Pretty Different And You’re Struggling To Find The Balance Between Growing Up And Growing Old And You’ve Started To Notice That Your Body Can’t Quite Synthesize Alcohol The Way It Used To Even Though You’re Well Aware That You Probably Still Drink Too Much But I Mean Like You Drink Too Much In Moderation Instead Of Just Binge Drinking On The Weekends (Thirsty Thursday Obviously Counts As Part Of The Weekend) So I Guess In Some Ways That’s Still Kind Of An Improvement And There’s Something About Turning 24 That Offers A New Perspective On Life at 23 And All Of A Sudden You’re 25 But It Feels Like 25 Ta Life Ya Know And You Feel Like You’re Still A Kid Or At Least You’re Not A Grown Up Unless People Don’t Think You’re A Grown Up In Which Case You Are So Totally Grown Up You Are Mature You Are Successful It’s Really Going To Start To Happen Even Though You’re Still Not Entirely Sure What “It” Is But You Can Still Talk About It Probably In The Form Of A List Or Some Other Kind Of Clever Post-Ironic Creative Non-Fiction Form In Vague Language And Terminology But With Just Enough Specificity To Make “It” Seem Real Or At Least Real Enough To Invoke Empathy With Your Fellow Liberal Arts College-Educated 20-Something With A Smartphone And A General Awareness Of Pop Culture And Internet Memes And The Technological Know-How to Share-Tweet-Tumble-Like Everything You’ve Said In An Electronic Acknowledgement Of Camaraderie That You Are Not Alone They Are Not Alone These Experiences Are Nothing New Nothing Unique But It’s Your Voice And That’s What Makes It Special Because You Are Special You Are Unique You Are Every Liberal Arts College-Educated 20-Something City Dweller You Are The Voice Of A Generation You Are Not Alone

Girls in Sundresses

Olive skin absorbs the sun,
reflects it with a glow that

resonates off floral covers,
the kind that hide the prize

that gets exposed in later days
when that fleshy luminosity

becomes so overwrought,
exploited, and unappreciated.

When at the season’s dusk
the eyes grow weary of their

sight, longing instead for the
thrill of a still-covered breast

with half-revealed legs that
tease the summers’ sex and

the shattering of autumns still to come.

Freshmen Weekend

The crisp, pre-autumnal
scent of perfume, vomit
and underage drinking
wafts through the air
on Huntington Avenue.

Wherefore art thou pants,
sweet maiden? Why dost
thou mate lie incontinent
along the gutters of the bridge
on Massachusetts Avenue?

Cellphone screams, the
clumsy click and clack of
stilettos slice the stillness
of the early morning light
on Commonwealth Avenue.

While I nestle softly in
my bed off Centre Street.

 

My Bad

I had this one class—fiction workshop—all girls, male teacher.  The first day, I looked around the room and thought, Holy shit, so much estrogen.  It must have taken a lot of bad karma from a past life to be the only guy in that room.

So we went through the course, almost everyone submitting pieces about love and lust and how much it sucked to be a teenage girl, even though we’d all left our teens several years prior.  Everything was carefully composed, a good mix of elegance and zing, but it was only a matter of time before the recurring themes got us in trouble.

One night, we workshopped a story about a high school virgin.  Towards the middle, the narrator remembers a time she went further than she wanted with a boy in the baseball bleachers.  She goes home feeling cheated, hating herself, and projects the anger on her mom.

One classmate said she didn’t get it.  Why was the narrator so upset?  The rest of the class tried to explain it to her gently.  Vaguely.  Politely.  The classmate insisted she’d never talk to her mother that way, and why would the girl feel cheated?  None of the tactful dances around the point got through, so I, the resident mute, finally blurted across the table, “She blew him.” 

The room exploded with voices.  Disagreement split the class in half and left the mortified author with her face buried in her arms.  Nine girls rabbled over and across each other in a steady crescendo until the teacher threw down his copy of the story and proclaimed, “I knew this would be terrifying!”

He smiled immediately after, a charming attempt to lighten the mood, but all I could think was, Damn, what a trooper.  Get that man a drink.