ensimismada

I’m sexy and I know it

Picasso, “Seated Woman”

(it’s darker in real life)

I love Picasso and thought that this would be a fun addition to the meme…

Remedios Varo, “Mujer saliendo del psicoanalista”, 1960.

One of my favorite artists oh god I love her work so much.

esto huele a rumba

Sorry if this is a repost. But I am powerless against the powers of vintage pinups, vintage fencing photos, and smexy heels.

Because you can NEVER have too many fencing pinups.

This one is just so classsssy. Reminds me of old Woody Allen movies. Annie Hall?

Olas gigantes que os rompéis bramando
en las playas desiertas y remotas,
envuelto entre la sábana de espumas,
¡llevadme con vosotras!

Ráfagas de huracán que arrebatáis
del alto bosque las marchitas hojas,
arrastrado en el ciego torbellino,
¡llevadme con vosotras!

Nubes de tempestad que rompe el rayo
y en fuego enciende las sangrientas orlas,
arrebatado entre la niebla oscura,
¡llevadme con vosotras !

Llevadme, por piedad, a donde el vértigo
con la razón me arranque la memoria.
¡Por piedad ! ¡Tengo miedo de quedarme
con mi dolor a solas! 

—G.A. Béquer, Rima 53

Every morning: I take a long shower, letting the bathroom get steamy because I don’t like the sound of the fan. It makes me want to rush, when really the rituals of toilette should be unhurried and natural. The only times when I rush are when I’m travelling, and even then I try not to do so. I like hotels, with their different soaps and color of tile and types of water. I remember when I was thirteen, in London with my family, and the shower smelled like cigarettes and the floor buckled whenever I shifted my weight. Every time I showered, I imagined a fat, hairy, middle-aged man smoking cigarettes in that shower, a week or so back in time.

I open the door to let out the steam, which flows beautifully into the hallway, momentarily fogging up the glass on the few closest pictures. My mom in a kimono. My grandpa, back when he maybe wasn’t insane yet. My father, back when he looked like my brother.

Then my perfume, once the steam has cleared, in its pale purple bottle. I leave my mark, my scent on the world.

Every afternoon: I write. Usually with my computer, but sometimes with a pen and paper if I’m feeling old-school, or more freeform, or just like I need to physically manipulate some objects or I will go insane.

This happened more and more frequently as spring gave way to summer. I would sit and tap my pen, or draw flowers that would blossom on the page but unfortunately leave no room for words. And then I would rip the page off the top of the pad and begin to write again, awkwardly at first, then eventually hitting my stride and writing until the story was done or it was too dark to see, at which point I considered my work over for the day.

I began to write more personal stories, more character sketches. I would assume the names of other women, of competitors, of women who had defeated me or whom I had defeated in the arena of love. My names were Ivanne, Alicia, Emily; in these guises I walked around strange towns, investigated crumbling brownstones, and occasionally—awkwardly—made love with paper and ink for the first few times. These orgasms in white and dark blue were abstract, dry, and as mysterious to me as the orgasms I had read about in middle school—the orgasms of women, not girls like me, orgasms between lovers, not girls alone and confused like me. Was what I did at that age normal? I never have discussed it with anyone and I cannot forsee doing so. Even as I’m interested in the answer to this question, it doesn’t really matter to me, as I don’t regret it.

The use of these womens’ names was in no manner a revenge tactic; I wished no ill for my new narrators, the new versions of me; I just searched for names and those were the first names to occur to me. Every story begins with a name. I cannot write with no name.

Every night: who knows. I read, I go walking, I listen to music. Perhaps I sleep. Perhaps I visit friends. Even I am not sure what I do at night. It never seems quite significant enough to remember. That’s what happens when you start sleeping alone again, when you can no longer spend every night with the man you once spent every night with. Time had separated us, as it is wont to do, and I had never said “I love you” to him but I know that he knew that that was how I felt, so I don’t regret that, either.

Maybe I regret it a little.

I am writing a final paper this semester on Cuando las mujeres quieren a los hombres (When Women Love Men) by Rosario Ferré. As research, I’m reading an essay of hers called “La Autenticidad de la mujer en el arte” (“The Authenticity of the Woman in Art”) and I came across this AMAZING passage:

…al hombre se le educa con miras a la realización propia, mientras que a ella se la educa con miras a la realización ajena; al hombre se le educa para que se desenvuelva en el mundo, para que tenga éxito y se realice a sí mismo como profesional o artista; y a ella, en cambio, se la educa para que enseñe a los hijos cómo lograr ese éxito y a las hijas cómo sacrificarse para que sus hermanos lo alcancen. La soledad y el anonimato del hogar han sido tradicionalmente el destino de la mujer, mientras el hombre sale a conquistar el mundo. 

or (my translation):

…the man is educated with his own fulfillment in mind, while she is educated with others’ fulfillment in mind; the man is educated so that he goes off into the world, so that he’s successful and makes a professional or artist of himself; and she, on the other hand, is educated so that she can teach her sons how to achieve this success and her daughters how to sacrifice themselves so that their brothers make it. The solitude and anonymity of the home have traditionally been the woman’s destiny, while the man goes out to conquer the world.

Wow, guys. That is really frikkin powerful. This is from the perspective of an extremely talented, female, Puerto Rican author, circa 1980. That, uh, wasn’t so long ago.

I’ve never been that into it before, but now I’m starting to get interested in gender studies and relations. Filing that interest away for future projects…