International Women’s Day

The only commodity I wish to own is a pair of Dior Onde2 sunglasses. And the only hair I want is thick, horse-brown, heavy on my back. Although. The woman’s head, sitting across from me in Plaça de George Orwell, possesses these things. And her man, more a toad than a stallion, is looking past her beautiful hair, over her perfect shoulder. This sculpture in the centre of the square, ‘the tripi’, is supposedly an abstract of a woman’s form. How dare he.

How dare any of they/

I will not amend my desires.

Yesterday, he said he’d read the story I sent him ages ago, which I had written like a million years before it was published, to my embarrassment, Sorry, and is not my you know finest work, sorry sorry. He said It’s good. He said You should write fiction more. And I said Fiction, nonfiction. What’s the difference? In the writing, I meant.

He said other kind things. I buried my head in my dressing gown and grinned madly. I said I am no good at lying. But. Maybe that’s what liars say.

In pushing things as they happened into words that sound ok on the page. There’s a lie implicit in that. But the lie, could it be a little bit noble? Does noble exist? I write ‘I am sitting here’, I write ‘today’, and when I edit this for truth, days later, weeks or years, in another state entirely, suddenly, badness reigns.

I don’t have firm ideas about this. But whatever I think about at any given moment is underpinned by a vast, vague, entitlement to the truth it conveys. The story he read, which I wrote a million years ago, which was published last year, sorry, to my embarrassment, is an extremely obvious dramatization of the postcolonial theory I had been reading for school.

Politically Engaged Literature is a gesture we make to the self: make oneself useful with one’s limited talents. So that we don’t have to imagine what it would be like if we didn’t exist.

The same.

On international women’s day I buy a waist trainer on amazon. Do I want to upgrade to amazon prime? No, no. This is the last time. The last impulse purchase to make myself. Checkout, now. I apologise to. A lot of consciousness-influencing imaginary figures. Sorry, Gayatri Spivak. Sorry, Queen Latifah.

An individual is not responsible for the corsets they buy in time. I mean I probably won’t even use it. I hate working out. Never stick to regimes, beauty or other. The story he said he’d read was about how writers are colonisers. Always always. That’s what makes them other than spokesmen, advocates, advertising men. The latter three, all liars. On the other hand, writers lie and thieve.

Thing is. Writing ‘about’ betrays me. Never am I a writer but a spokeswoman advocate advertising assistant.

A video of the last 61 seconds before cumming, this hot pink slug, him breathing into his phone I love you I love you I love you. I watch it in the writers studio, alone. My bowels are full and hot blood is ready to erupt from me so I don’t touch myself, though I simulate touching myself in my mind. Like, wanking, video, simulation, imaginary wanking; several tiers removed. From the flesh centre.

It is not quite morning light yet, still champagne coloured, and the yellow mimosa are really singing.

There is a guy on the internet who is archiving every false rape claim in history. I found this out trying to find out if anyone had done the same for every rape. He writes,

In 2015, singer-songwriter Chrissie Hynde claimed she was gang-raped at the age of 21, and caused outrage when she appeared to blame herself for the violation. I have to say I don’t believe any of these claims, and I hope they are not true, especially the one by Chrissie Hynde, whom I’ve always liked.

and this tickles me, pink, red, raw, all over. Does he mean: I always liked Chrissie Hynde, hope she didn’t get gang raped? Or, Hope she didn’t lie about it? The answer to that is too bad to think it. I think Probably nobody has ever loved this person. Everything is worse than it was.

 

Ellena Savage (ellenasavage.com) is an essayist and poet. Her work has been published, most recently, in Literary Hub, Cordite, and The Lifted Brow, where she is a contributing editor.

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