i. notes of early spring.
a journal entry.
‘‘I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.’’
Simone de Beauvoir.
The wild wind blows outside and the water has turned cold. It is silent, settled around me. I move a finger and I disrupt that monumental silence. I move my arm; I cause a cataclysm in that monumental silence. But the silence returns. The wild wind blows outside. Begs at the window frames. I will not let it in. The water is cold. I press the fig of my lips to the curve of my knees. One. Then the other. The wild wind blows; I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. The water is cold. I press the fig of my lips to the curve of my knees. One. Then the other. I catch a glimpse of myself in the silver tap; I am incurably selfish, so I am told. I desire no children. No marriage (perhaps more I have never seen myself getting married). Often I desire repetition and routine. Often I do not desire that— that which mutilates me in unhappiness. Often I desire freedom. I am my own captive. Setting routines for myself that mutilates me if I fail to follow it. I desire no children. No marriage. But I desire passion. art. conversation.
in my dreams I speak
No wild wind blows
It is a monumental silence
I—
the syllables pour
No wild wind blows
On that distant shore
They do not reach
They wait
I—
voyager from birth
having never learnt to swim
with no boat to steer from
these syllables stay stagnant
In dreams I speak
I am incurably selfish, so I am told. I press the fig on my lips to the curve of my knee. One. Then the other. I catch my reflection in the silver tap. Hair stuck to my neck. Shoulders. The top of my breasts. Darker than when dry. Slick to my head. My cheeks are red. The water is cold. I disrupt the monumental silence — the wild wind blows — take my wet fingertip and trace the shape of my eyes. My nose. My lips. Water drips from my eye lashes. I desire. The wild wind blows; it is full of the voices of ghosts. They drift. Lost. Unmoored. Each gust is a tale waiting to be explored. I desire and I am not afraid to say I do. We are all born covered in a woman’s blood.
and in my bedroom, the last of the light melts onto the walls. My hair drips down my back. I am incurably selfish and let it drip onto the rug. I brush the wet ends slowly, like my grandmother used to. For a moment, I am in futile hope that all of this might have been some horrid day dream— that when I am to blink, I will open my eyes to the soft red of my grandmother’s carpet beneath me and her tender hands through my hair. I close my eyes. I am incurably selfish. When I open them my hair drips onto the rug beneath me. The wild wind blows. I have only myself.
and in my bedroom, the last of the light melts onto the walls. The wild winds blows. I watch myself in the mirror. My lips. My eyes. My nose. My shoulders. My breasts. We are all birthed in a woman’s blood— how strange it was that I was once covered in my mothers blood— in my entirety. How strange it was that once I fitted into her. Now, how strange it feels to be anything at all. I watch my body. My legs. My hips. My stomach. My breast. One. Then the other. My shoulders. My neck. My lips. My nose. My eyes. The wild wind blows. I desire and I am not afraid to say I desire.
The sky turns an opal pink and the last light melts from the walls. I am too demanding and I am too passionate. I am incurably selfish, so I am told. The sky turns an opal pink and tonight I will sink my teeth into this colossal desire that barely fits into me. Tonight, while the wild wind continues to blow, I shall press the fig of my lips to the curve of my knee. One. Then the other.
Beatrice.