Tonight I was explaining to my friend Noel (you know Noel!) about how I am in this ludicrous bloggy phase of my life right now and how I feel it’s saving me all this money in therapy dollars and Jacob’s precious hearing.* I explained it thusly: “You know that Muriel Rukeyser quote about how the world splits open every time a woman tells the truth about her life or whatever?”
And she got it. 1970s feminists get that kind of jive. And it made me remember how much I love MuRu and that quote, and I figured I’d toss it on the blog. So I did, see right.
Then I Googled it and realized that that quote is perhaps THE “I was a Women’s Studies major and I have a blog” quote, and now I feel super sheepish. (Also, I can’t get it to properly space itself so I have to use the annoying / between lines and that is sort of / kind of / just a little bit / irritating / the hell out of me / like / like no witty simile I can think of right now.)
Am I being super dorky with my overly sincere quote here, or what? My love for The Ruke is blinding me, and I can’t decide. Am I tossing on my blog the equivalent of an American Apparel dress and zigzaggy hair on a hipster girl in Williamsburg? Am I cliché to the max?
If so, I’d like to state that I’ve been loving Rukeyz since before half those girly bloggers were born, probably. How can you not love her?
I’d rather be Muriel
Than be dead and be Ariel.
I mean, come the fuck on. She’s the shiz. Take that, Sylvia!
The Poem as Mask
When I wrote of the women in their dances and
wildness, it was a mask,
on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone
down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from
There is no mountain, there is no god, there is memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.
No more masks! No more mythologies!
Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.
Oh, baby. Tell me more.
Me: “OMG OMG OMG SO LIKE UM SO LIKE OMG so I was reading this article and did you hear about that dude who and Brittany’s blog says and what do you think of my hair and HuffPo says and I have so much more cooking to do whine whine whine and try this chocolate and look at this Lolcat and OH!!! LISTEN TO THIS!!!!”
Jacob: [weary, bleary, trying to get work done]
Me: “BLAH BLAH BLAH OMG OMG OMG OMG”
Jacob: “Shhhh…it’s 4 am.”
Me: “Why must you tamp down my natural effervescense?”
Jacob: “Of course, I want to hear all about it. But sometimes…it hurts.” Unspoken: “Literally, my love, it hurts. Because you have been talking for eight hours straight. And sometimes doing weird dances to punctuate your points that make me wonder if you have to pee.”
I was born with excess energy, and it’s a pretty constant problem. Once I had a sip of coffee and was up for three days. Blogging suits me, that’s what I’m trying to say.