Write Out Loud – Stories from the Frontline

March 25, 2009

My Revolutionary Pussy – by Joyce Angela Jellison

Filed under: BrokenBeautiful Randomness — writeoutloudboston @ 1:16 am
Tags: , , , , ,

There was a season when I lost my mind. A wintering of my logical self  and the hibernation of reason.

Purgatory – death – hibernation – there is no distinction in my mind. Roaming without purpose is insanity snarling at comfort. My insanity came unexpectedly and as is often the case, without invitation but perhaps some provocation.

Insanity is death or it is the courting of death without the courage to marry it. I am not afraid of commitment, but Iam afraid of death – the silence of the whole affair – the void – the absence of light and the prospect of an eternity in a questionable void  are infinitly terrifying.

I went insane over a man or should I say under a man – the weight of his ficklness and indifference. This is the mania of womyn like me – those who write and feel more than they should.  I went crazy for  a phone call never received, a misunderstanding, a miscarriage I was planning to abort – but once choice was taken, I mourned the lost child as I mourned the reluctant/resistant father.

I lay on the floor and just craved my body to sink into itself, for my breasts to become flat and empty – for my helpless vagina to curl inward and render me, essentially – sexless. I lay on the floor and sometimes I would fall into a sleep that harbored distant realities – I dreamed he called, I dreamed I was whole again, I dreamed, I dreamed and then

I awoke.

To night – chilly and foreboding – it echoed dully and constantly of what I did not have – him. I would rise in darkness to dress, just enough to cover myself from the prodding eyes of strangers seeking to imprint on their fleshy greedy corneas my insanity as if knowing would be an amulet for them – but I dared not share myself like an antidote to heartbreak – let them find it on their own I would think and then

I would hurry to my car and drive to Cambridge so I could wait for him to open the door and let me in – grief would be my skeleton key- but he had indifference and this was no match for my rageful mourning. Sometimes, I would not leave my car – the warmth of it protecting me from stepping into his unfamiliar coldness.

I played Natalie Merchant endlessly – she and I knew love, we knew seperation – in her voice, there was survival. But survival was not a goal -it was a happenstance. If by chance I survived this – then it would only be by chance, it would not be my intent. I intended to die at his doorstep – force him to step over my carcass – he would be a murderer.

I did not know him any longer.

This unknowing was the pain creeping along my spine and forcing me to lay down whenever the weight of air, sky and earth beneath my feet became too much for me to contend with – too much for me to navigate.  I wondered at the brightness of the sky – the fullness of the moon – it all seemed to be too much, the air warming and the ice melting, transforming Boston from brown to green – too lush for heartbreak to survive or just lush enough for pain to be more acute.

Rosalia De Castro wrote of dying while things bloom. Death in spring is cruel.

I  never knew him – this is what all spurned lovers lament. I did know someone else and in all honestly, this is who I sought – this is who I left my trail of tears for – I left my tears for the man I had made love to without question the first evening I met him – the man I had drunkenly declared my love for the first night. This other, the one whose indifference made me insane – this was not the man I loved and so I continued to climb into my car and search for the original man.

My neighbors gossiped about me. They laughed at my appearance, my screaming – my pain. A year later one of them would be dead from lung cancer having never smoked a cigarette – had she in her laughter, inhaled the cancer of my heartbreak ? one can never tell – it is tragic, but possible. All things are possible – dont flowers blossom between the toes of the dead? Doesnt grass grow green over graves? To inhale my grieving and have it manifest itself as cancer is not odd – it is quite simply, the order of things in the midst of chaos.

I began to ring doorbells. Just random doorbells – I wanted strangers to let me in. Take me in and let me crawl beneath their beds and shed my ache – one woman, let me in – I told her I had locked myself out and I needed to use her phone – instead I called him, it was a number he would not identify but he did not answer and the woman – scared, enraged, insisted – demanded and threatened that I get my crazy ass out of her home. I left in tears – there are no life boats for the heartbroken – they must float amongst us and we ignore the stink of their rot even as we taunt them.

I gave up on waiting. The phone calls I made to him were never returned. The letters never answered. I stopped pleading one day and the next day was easier because I no longer had hope and my grief became a paperweight I occassionally picked up – fingered lightly and set back down.

I still listened to Natalie Merchant – but her voice changed, leading me from him to her – to dark basements crowded with poets and the clinking of glasses filled with bad wine. Natalie and I stood over our own cradles and rocked one another to sleep – me comfortable in offering my heart to noone and she never knowing me – but knowing there were someones like me being led by her voice to places they had never traveled or considered.

The nights became warm – not because I was healing but because summer came so quickly overtaking spring forcibly, almost abusively. I would stand on my balcolny and wish for him as one would wish upon a star. I loved him but my heartbreak was becomming a callus that was easy to ignore. I made love with many others or rather I fucked them recklessly and I never thought of him as I did.

Fucking made heartbreak a small thing. No one spent the night – that was and is still too much of an intimacy -to share a bed through the evening.  Nights were for me to curl my body around delicious voids and fall into dreams populated with poetry that I would document in the morning. Nights were not for anonymous dicks to lounge in – expecting my pussy to greet them like carnal coffee – I fucked them and prodded them like baby chicks toward the door. Go home to the life I am not interested in, I thought. Perhaps there was a mournful corpse awaiting them.

Fucking became empowerment and I was a fucking revolutuionary. My vagina was and still is a warrior and I was glad it did not curl inward during my grieiving or that my breasts had not become flat and empty. They wanted to be touched and my vagina wanted to called a pussy and I wanted to forget that I had made the mistake of thinking of my womanhood was existant because of a phone call, a smile – a misleading commitment.

My pussy fought back – she and I fucked and forgot names, places and circumstances but never condoms. We cancelled a trip to New York to see my best friend just to fuck some poor fuck who was more impressed than I with his abilities.

Heartbreak was there – but she was no match for the revolution and she lay low. Rearing her sheepish head only to be ignored or soothed with me crying in the shower – my tears inextinguishable from the shower water and this way there was no longer a trail for him to follow. I was lost to him and he to me.

Eventually, he called. Late one evening or rather early one morning. It was actually a text message.

“Hi” he wrote

I read it ten times – almost regretted my revolution – thought the better of it , having made an agreement with heartbreak to allow her moments of peeking in and quickly dissappearing. He was no longer he – but rather him, a derivative of heartbreak, grief, and me wishing away my revolution.

That just would not do.

I deleted his message and me and my revolutionary pussy settled into a reckless night of subversive fucking. Viva La Revolution!

Joyce Angela Jellison is the Author of Where Everything Fits Beautifullt, Black Apple and the Shhh…the secret language of black women (to be released this Spring) She is the director Write Out Loud:Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths -www.writeoutloud.synthasite.com

Advertisements

Leave a Comment »

No comments yet.

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

%d bloggers like this: