a woman of war

“As women, when we're children we're taught to enter the world with big hearts. Blooming hearts. Hearts bigger than our damn fists. We are taught to forgive—constantly—as opposed to what young boys are taught: revenge—to get "even". Our empathy is constantly made appeals to, often demanded for. If we refuse to show kindness, we are reprimanded. We are not good women if we do not crush our bones to make more space for the world, if we do not spread our entire skin over rocks for others to tread on, if we do not kill ourselves in every meaning of the word in the process of making it cozy for everyone else. It is the heat generated by the burning of our bodies with which the world keeps warm. We are taught to sacrifice so much for so little. This is the general principle all over the world.

By the time we are young women, we are tired. Most of us are drained. Some of us enter a lock of silence because of that lethargy. Some of us lash out. When I think of that big, blooming heart we once had, it looks shriveled and worn out now. When I was teaching, I had a young student named Mariam. She was only 11 years old. Some boy pushed her around in class, called her names, broke her spirit for the day. We were sitting under a chestnut tree on a field trip and she asked me if a boy ever hurt me. I told her many did and I destroyed them one by one. I think that’s the first time she ever heard the word "destroyed". We rarely teach our girls to fight back for the right reasons.

Take up more space as a woman. Take up more time. Take your time. You are taught to hide, censor, move about without messing up decorum for a man's comfort. Whether it's said or not, you’re taught balance. Forget that. Displease. Disappoint. Destroy. Be loud, be righteous, be messy. Mess up and it's fine—you are learning to unlearn. Do not see yourself like glass. Like you could get dirty and clean. You are flesh. You are not constant. You change. Society teaches women to maintain balance and that robs us of our volatility. Our mercurial hearts. Calm and chaos. Love only when needed; preserve otherwise.

Do not be a moth near the light; be the light itself. Do not let a man’s ocean-big ego swallow you up. Know what you want. Ask yourself first. Decide your own pace. Decide your own path. Be cruel when needed. Be gentle only when needed. Collapse and then re-construct. When someone says you are being obscene, say yes I am. When they say you are being wrong, say yes I am. When they say you are being selfish, say yes I am. Why shouldn't I be? How do you expect a woman to stand on her two feet if you keep striking her at the ankles.

There are multiple lessons we must teach our young girls so that they render themselves their own pillars instead of keeping male approval as the focal point of their lives. It is so important to state your feelings of inconvenience as a woman. We are instructed to tailor ourselves and our discomfort, constantly told that we are "whining" and "nagging" and "complaining too much". That kind of silence is horribly violent, that kind of insistence upon uniformly nodding in agreement to your own despair, and smiling emptily so no man is ever uncomfortable around us. Male-entitlement dictates a woman's silence. If we could see the mimetic model of the erasure of a woman's voice, it would be an incredibly bloody sight.

On a breezy July night, my mother and I were sleeping under the open sky. Before dozing off, I told her that I think there is a special place in heaven where all wounded women bury their broken hearts and their hearts grow into trees that only give fruit to the good and poison to the bad. She smiled and said Ameen. Then she closed her eyes.”

—A Woman of War; Mehreen Kasana

our finding kind of hope

All things change—move nearer, further from. I am 26. It is time to stop hiding from what I want. I want to be a writer. I want to write. I have always wanted to write. I see words. I feel words. I throw those words. They are ugly and jarring. They're in whimsy and kind. They are slow, and they are guilty, and they won't ever not fall.

And what I want to write is a blog, a book, a flock, a vignette. The story between Chelsea and I. The story between me, and you, and spinning. All things fleeting and made of gods.

And the death of a typewriter was only always going to be a chapter, somewhere halfway between the hiding and the hurting—the hope in both of those moments. But it is not the story.

My name is Ian William L., and this is Our Finding Kind Of Hope. New bravery. New strangeness. New too much. New pictures. New music. New words. New hope. New love. New place. New now.

Stay tuned.

(Still ironing out some name change issues.)

all our words, all our hearts

"I wish we could gather up all our words, and keep them safe, somewhere. A decade in letters, tightly bound, and carried close to my heart always, not just in my mind. But sometimes, just the thought is enough." 

Chelsea Lynn Kirtley

the broken ones

Chelsea gave this to me a few weeks ago, and in infinite lapse I did not shiver out loud for its beauty and message.

hopewriting

I need to shape up, get started, take all that fire from the moment and use it. I started this for you, and I will be bold for you, even if that is only simple words, no cascade, or colour, or lightning within—it still crackles. The truth cannot be scared to stand only on itself, and therein still remains my weakness. But you believe, and you smile, even when I paint devils, even when I only strike as hell. I'm closing my eyes, trying to make it—yet so sure in my thoughts!

The purpose for all of this was to keep you safe—two years—234 messages—your name divining the light. I can be slow there, knowing you have come to be so happy, so I should stand here now, rise to breathe against the flame. but I still tremble, and show cracks—the thoughts of others terrify me. (the fire!) I am trying to show—map—depict the calm, the chaos, the shift of—(take heart. think of beauty. say the love out loud.)

All right, this is going to be ugly now. (a breath of pavement.) I started this for one, but I know there are so many, and that there can never be too much love, that wants to be reached.

You—I am in debted that your eyes even pass here. I imagine you small and strange, but a blaze of life, hope mapped on your palms. (a breath of storms.) Are you small? I won't tell you to be brave. But imagine that your smile is a strength that crashes against the stars! You take the light in. (a breath of sand.) I try to stand up for you, too, as best given from clay, madness, schedule.

The dream of 2011—the year has gone to bed. But this is a dream that survives all that hungry daylight. (a breath of fire.)—shit, fuck, I dwell—I want that we can all be so loud, or thankful, or kind—that smallest kindness can stave someone's war. But it can be hard to be weird, and speak like you are very wounded, or worn, that crown of fortitude. It is hard to be that they can not expect the colour of your flight, take through as easy braille, cast you out as cruel. It can be hard for so very many consequences—weird and ugly and great as you are.

(THE SLEEPING DREAM OF 2011.)

There are great people all around you—I was always fond of the pretty girl at the coat check. But if you look around—I also know the sad lady on the bus (for sometimes you can see the weight of the day hang to her lower lip). If you have fought a war, do you hear all those guns shots? But they don't mark your song. Be more than a soldier but as a traveller. Be more than a well but as an ocean. Be more than dimmed but as the determination of light!

(there is a hole here. I think for the words but they do not come.)

Move outwards as they cut at your branches. Cycle through the memories of sunsets when locked to the night. Sing your ugly song so close to their machines. Tell the stranger they are not.

(a breath of watercolour.)

For those of you who find comfort in PostSecret, this draws from that same hope. We send secrets that find ourselves, but what for the love you feel for the world? The idea will survive the tremors. You can make something real. Is there someone you want to tell such a warmth to? Maybe you will never see them again, or maybe you wish you would, or maybe they are a friend, or a guard, or a lover. Maybe they served you, or maybe they fell over in the train. Maybe their smile was enough. Tell the stranger they are not. Send your message here and I will post them (a string of lights) on Wednesday, anonymously or otherwise. Wednesdays are always hard, always lost, floating somewhere between, but maybe it could be found. And maybe they will never see your words, but kindness always travels quietly. Maybe one day they could find themselves here, on the wings of the infinite, quicksilver fates. I can think that they would smile.

This is the sleeping dream. This makes me blush violently and want to hide, but I remember you. I will replace your bruises with apples, and let them tell you the art of your worth, closer than I could ever draw. And though I know there are only a handful of people who might read this, I can not just rest with my earthquakes. I will try. I hope you will understand. I hope you will be a hopewriter.

glossolalia

I will calmly state the facts. I scrawl a few notes: last week was uneasy, spilling at the throw. This will happen in periods of change. Sometimes taking notes and making lists is not enough. Sometimes there isn't enough ceiling to stare at, isn't enough story in the song. But it is another violence survived, another badge on my ward, iron feather. (and here the perilous point, where my mind stretches, abstracts, to other matters. I think of being alone. I think of smiling. I think of what I could do, but will not.)

But if I write about my life, then it is a journal entry I don't want to keep. I think that defines moving inwards, which I do—so the fear? I am not sure. It feels like announcing that, so loudly: I will not create. Only rest in stomachs.

I will always report the world felt, hold my forehead, where fire settles. Don't lose it yet—but Chelsea is the only one who can drive me outwards. My tenses forge—what sense! But, without, I try to take the colours of havoc, and stretch them out, nailed down—spider teeth—for they to show. In my head, the only point that matters is that all of this is just an introduction. I haven't moved to the end yet—told that—but, always seems to be so. The end for a fast mess. Even though I was careful to make notes, and structure lists. But I am keeping calm for now. Saturday allows me that much. ("you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness") I count cat hair, and see volcanos. Plasma reaching out across her, unaware. All the ghosts that she must see, and my expanding skin. Guard me, keep me, know me.

I will turn to demons, but what did I want to say? The problem is even though I am calm, and safe, in Saturday (the late hours, the bottom of cups, something pretty), I can no longer write. I have recorded this so many times now—the slipping tenses, hiding my eyes from yours, even here. If met, what for collapse, I remain forever afraid. My brain will not let me. I am not sad, but I cannot pen a single line, that would greet you calmly, the weather, (the broken backs of) sports. I cannot write in first person, or not with head up, eyes ahead—you, standing in the field. I will always be looking away, unable. He was sown strange. He was reaped with the walls coming down. Whole things thrashing their bones into one. Too sensitive to every soul, and word of oak.

Which would drive me to heat up, the crown of fire, electric divine, fucking violence of time. I would speak—a nonsense—and strung between worlds. Parts of books yet to be born, but teeth already pulled, shirt collars, and bullets across the sun. And, see, is that a colour? A thought? A pattern I am tracing—always tracing. I want sense. For I am happy, or in between. Passenger of light bulbs and heavy glow. The smell of pupils, that which sees the night. I speak of fucking eyes, the dark. I am getting somewhere here, with this, though I was retreating, the patron saint of—

I wish this writing had a colour to say I was happy, because i was. I was okay. But it's still a sale. I will always be this way—unable/possibility. Defined as a freak, and then an angry song gives me the taste of blood.

weeker

I feel like the girl that los campesinos sing about, the one without focus, a messy blur, trying to finish the chapter, trying to finish the song, writing lyrics down on my knees like I belong. and even, those are just lyrics. and it has been a while, and I can acknowledge that much. but then I have to wrangle all this madness, and try to divine a point, a purpose, an anchoring stone, an angry spark. but, I am lost in the mess, headphones biting into my ears.

I guess it would be safe to say, I am always procrastinating, forgiving myself for these blurs. but how long do you get? but, see, it goes sidewards: I've been busy at work, but I've lost the hunger. I hope for a renewed contract, when I need the broken nose, the door, the four winds.

(my brain dislodged here——wandering.)

I am trying to record a week, and not stumble. but where did clarity go? i'm feeling like a mess, chels, fuck. i know, it's ridiculous once more. so i'm not going to fall down here, i just need to write something coherent, and i can only do that here, it seems. i try to write, but i'm hitting a wall. i want it to move the fucking world, not just house my broken voices.

again, i said from the start, you were my motivation. these letters to you. and my brain would obey me! and remember that! then it would all be easy. i would be anchored, eternal. but it blurs and bends. try to focus. get upset.

feeling lonely again. i never get to say that out loud any more. not to anyone. everyone just laughs at you, for wanting to not be alone. or, you know, keep on waiting. and i can wait. but i want to say...i am lonely. so fucking lonely. and the only people i ever encounter, regard me as this alien. over and over. i know it's old news, so it's stupid to mention. and maybe i can't even say this, if i transfer this over to my archives - hungered eyes, you see. and i hope that never offends you, that the things i write to you: they find my head, and i have to use that... to try to bridge myself to the world. i feel bad for that. but it's not my intention, ever. you are more than a translator. you know that. you are the only colour that keeps me.

but i am feeling lonely, and lost. hospital broke my gym pattern, and now i struggle again to reign my aliens in. get back to gym. wait for my contract at work to expire... two more weeks? either get renewed as full-time, or get a new job... i just need constants. so i don't have to worry that my existence is meaningless.

i am writing this to you. i really fucking am. i swear to sparks of that...

i am lonely because i don't mesh. and i really do try. and i really do not try. because you have to be both these things, don't you? i want to be myself, but i want to try to not be so...

it's so lonely...ugh. why can't i shake that? fuck. why do i ask out loud... sorry. sorry. sorry.

and again, you save me, chelsea.

i was in the hospital. this is not related to an excuse; it just is. food poisoning, and it reminded me. when i was little, all i ever wanted to be was in hospital (or be a turtle.) i should have known the warning signs, way back. you know? walking behind trees, talking to myself, hoping for hospitals.

tiles and, fever sets free and

so a few days pass and i guess i've been participating. i miss chelsea, the word 'participation' makes me think of her...she would know why. but i write this, tired and strange. i can hear my throat clicking, the slow flare of paralysis. but i am not unhappy...i've been happy. so this is just the violence of the dreamer, starved for sleep.

i need to write some things... i've got these ideas, ridiculous and bold.

but something is blocking me... and i can only think of articles. but they accredit it all to depression, and i'd like to think of it as a need for sleep. there is a choice there.

there will be more.

(i still feel that photography makes me less happy than it is intended to. you turn your eyes on me, and i am a shifting line of sparks. you need to look a little softer.)

p.s. keane's new EP, night train, colours this. the shadows are sad, but they buck.

'cos when your back's against the wall, that's when you show no fear at all.

armour glow

I was in bed crying, and the night was really bad, but I started to read The Perks Of Being A Wallflower again, because this is next to my bed, and always makes me feel better. I wish I could explain it, but I think only Chelsea understands. It is just, you only need small things, and everything else goes away. And it made me warm, and I thought of music I wanted to listen to, and things I wanted to say, and things I wanted to do, and how the crippling darkness can't fight that much of an armour.

The characters feel like the best friends I ever had. And I also suggest listening to Basement Parties by Matthew Pond PA while reading. I changed the lyrics in my head, because it feels more pretty, more sad. I think that is the way of things.

I'm tired of going to these basement parties, where everybody wants to leave their bodies, I'm hiding in the bathroom with no witness, I'm speaking through the door about some sickness, we don't mind silence, we don't mind sitting, I can be quiet, you always hear me.

across a dark infinite night

Hope is exploding in my heart like fireworks across a dark infinite night. 

Chelsea Lynn Kirtley

violent libraries, really only

I said a very long time ago, that I would find my voice. I would conquer all the evils that haunt my head. I get so caught up in everything, but nothing comes out. I try to write on paper, but I need lines, and then they feel lonely. I try to write to the white spaces, but they're violent, and all those silent eyes. I'm too in control, madly. I can't even write to you, and I can't even say hello. I'm just a storm. sometimes I lose my mind, and sometimes you will feel it, but not for a very long time now. I try to keep it all under wraps, until I couldn't speak.

fuck—too messy, too clean, too straightforward. fuck—I am an engine of angles. fuck—I can't commit to any more than a ghost of a sentence. I said I would find my voice, and I said I would write for chelsea. and maybe I just need to get started, to be warming up a beast.

I want to say everything. I want to help. I want to be helped. I want to be heard.

but then, still, I feel suppressed by an army of eyes. I've never been any one way. so I keep my secrets here, bad colours, maybe.

anything important...my brain just freezes up. I'm always lost in projects, small nothings. I'm shy. I get more anxious with words. I'm going to be.

I will explain everything. I really will write for chelsea.