In honor of the first day of school and the start of my new career as author, I have a new piece up at Moms Speak Up. Please check it out and let me know what you think.
unpublished writers
Last week it was 1976 with side trips to 1992 and 1974. My political awakening, understanding and jading. Politics, though it touches our lives in ways most of us barely acknowledge if we realize it at all, are not what brings music to our soul or dance to our toes.
The summer of ’93 brought me back to writing via a pocket sized notebook I took along to New York City. I was staying with a friend, Lisa J, who was in one of what turned out to be three different internships. I think it was surgery that time because she was doing a lot of needlepoint. I remember being a tad disappointed when she didn’t settle on pathology because I thought it would be cool to have a medical examiner for a friend.
Her apartment was one of those renovated old buildings/warehouses in Brooklyn with a doorman. It was within walking distance of the subway station. She instructed me in its use during a day trip to Manhattan. We went to the Battery and took the ferry out to Ellis and Liberty Islands. Someday I would love to go back to Ellis and just sit and write. There is the start of a story waiting there for me, I think. I have no interest in Liberty. That surf pounding last scene in Planet of the Apes where Charlton Heston curses the American goddess has turned the statue into something I will forever identify as creepy and apocalyptic.
I wrote and wrote and then went home and taught writing to 8th graders, who were frankly not much of an outlet. I have never truly enjoyed teaching writing to children when it went beyond the building blocks. Most of them – like most adults – suck when pushed to be creative. Competency can be taught but flair and the ability to tell a story? Not so much.
It was the next year that I wrote my first novella. The same one that I am slowly transforming into a novel right now. The inspiration came from a week long seminar my SisFriend and I took at Grinnell over the summer. I can’t remember the instructor’s name anymore. Morris Something or perhaps that was reversed. He was very – different.
I had taken the seminar before through my school districts AEA. It was a quick way to rack up credits towards re-certification. The first year had been a Thomas Jefferson scholar named Clay Jenkinson. He gave lectures while in character. That was a bit freaky.
He was cute though – that rumpled, long haired professor thing – and all the middle-aged women at the seminar damn near broke each others bones to sit with him at supper in the dining hall every evening.
I was invited to eat with him once after I mentioned that I didn’t care for the characterization of Ophelia in Hamlet. I have always found her “mad” scene after the death of her father to be over the top. I may have also admitted to thinking that Hamlet is one of the most selfish characters I have ever read. An opinion I still hold.
Getting back to Morris then, he had us write a short story based on an illustration taken from the Chris Van Allsburgh book, The Mystery of Harris Burdick. Interestingly I used that same book as story starters for my students.
So I wrote a novella. I had people read it for the purpose of feedback. I revised it many times and it was one of the pieces I submitted to the Writer’s Workshop at the University of Iowa.
And I got rejected. The end.
I just didn’t have the self-confidence to write and put it out there. This despite the fact that I took creative writing courses over the summers before and after that where I received quite a bit of praise and admonishments to try and publish.
Jump ahead with me to 2006 and masters seminar. I tossed out my written presentation on a whim as I listened to the presenter ahead of me and, riffing off her, totally winged it. The guy who gave his thesis presentation after me was toast. Poor guy. But one thing came out of that presentation that I should have seen coming and yet it caught me a bit off guard when I heard myself close with “…I had thought that obtaining a masters would renew my interest in education and instead it has shown me that what I am meant to be is a writer.”
Epiphanies. They aren’t angels’ bells on a Capra-esque pine, but they jingle just as sweetly.
Once I was the living embodiment of the goddess. I dwelt in the Kumari Ghar. Worshipped for my living perfection, I was loved out of necessity. The deep despair that is life drove them to their bellies in my presence, afraid to look on me and compelled to just the same.
Skin, smooth and supple, rippled atop undulating sinew and bone as I performed the rituals with equally flawless and fluid movement. My voice echoed back to me over the supplicants prone and reverential below, dulcet and bewitching.
I was Devi, bestowing my energy on the consciousness of man and allowing him use of me.
That was before. In the bloodless time.
The essence seeps from me now like the drip of water down a cave’s wall, used against me by the same men who once humbly sought me on bended knees.
Flesh hangs and bags over brittle bones while I move without respite, begging for the same attention that was once mine for simply existing. It is I who bows, eyes cast down and hand outstretched in hope of recapturing the essence I once wantonly gave away with no thought of myself.
The greediness of men and the scant length of their memories sears what remains of my soul.
It began on the day of my birth. The midwife assured my parents that my stars were as aligned as my limbs. A perfectly rounded head and eyes the color of a monk’s prayer beads assured that I was kumari. She was sure and they rejoiced in good fortune because, as word spread, villagers transformed the hovel of my nativity into a grotto. Want would not know them again for four years.
When the priests arrived in our miserable village, I was paraded before them with two other girls born in the region on the same day as I. But I already knew I was Devi, and I refused to be handled, subjected to the doubt. And then they knew too.
There are thirty-two points of perfection. I was all and more.
When I sang, men wept with joy and women with the knowledge of their own inadequacies.
It never occurred to me then my goddess self was mortal. How could I have known? From my earliest conscious moments my divinity was praised and nurtured. I was never told my holy essence was housed in what amounted to a decaying prison. Every day bringing me closer to banishment from my earth tethered celestial home.
I was four years old when I walked through the temple doors. My gait steady and unhurried, ignoring the priests who sought to herd me like a common girl while simultaneously shielding me from any potential harm as my people strove to get as close to me as they would ever be allowed.
Only my oldest human sister accompanied me. I could have ordered my priests to move the entire human family to the temple grounds. I think they were expecting me to do that as my human parents did remind me before the priests came to escort me home that I was allowed to bring them if I chose.
But I did not choose.
Simple minded and attached to dreams of what my divinity could do for them, I bade them stay and dedicate themselves to a simpler way of life. It was obvious to me where they belonged although, apparently, it was not clear to them. Their place was not at my side anymore.
Your dutiful care of me has been appreciated, I told them when my priests arrived, but you have had exclusive access, and yes – sadly – use of me for long enough. Our mutual journey together is now over.
My human sister was different.
Amina’s grace and beauty pleased me. Her devotion and love was a credit to her. More importantly she had not once sought to use my god-nature for her own gain.
She would die for me.
And I loved her for that.
I shouldn’t have, but I did. Sometimes eternals succumb to favorites and Amina was mine. Just ten months older, she could have been my twin. As the priests schooled me in rituals and protocol, so I in turn taught her. Many was the time she surreptitiously took my place. The priests would shake with impotent fury when it happened, but it was a delicious joke for us.
One we should not have played so often.
The one aspect of ritual in which I never tutored Amina was communion with the Guardians. There was simply nothing to teach or learn. Even I didn’t know exactly how I became one with them and if the priests knew, which was doubtful, they were not forthcoming.
“The guardians of the rainbow don’t like those who get in the way of the sun.”
With these words was I introduced to my brethren and immersed for the first time in the rainbow rays that flooded the inner sanctum of the temple, a place where only the living goddess dwelt. I was the only one who could bear the intensity of communion.
The first experience overwhelmed me. The onslaught to my senses was a lesser version of what I would know with men in the days after the first blood. Much less.
Sometimes if I lift my face to the sun and close my eyes enough to allow the its dimming rays to illuminate the lids pink and orange, and if I still myself to the point where the heart slows and the rush of blood trickles like a parched stream, I can almost remember the heat -the pleasure – throbbing through me. Vibrations that would shake a mere girl apart.
On the day of my birth, my last self had finally ceased her first moon cycle and was called to communion by the priests. A mere girl again, she did not survive. And thus was I born again.
But this time, for reasons I still do not know, I remembered what they had done. And when my moon phase was at its end, I sent Amina, donned her clothing and escaped into the penitent throng.
That was many sun phases ago and since that time no Devi has inhabited the Kumari Ghar though the priests search and search for me as the sun grows dimmer and our world colder.
No one suspects this old whore. Well, almost no one.
The guardians of the rainbow don’t like those who get in the way of the sun**.
*This short story was based on a picture starter provided by Parenthesis and is a recurrent meme on that site. My idea came from an association of the picture with the Globe and Mail story on Nepal’s living goddesses and a bit of research. Not my best work, but not bad either. Comments? Or simply play if you like. The rules are on Parenthesis’s site and are linked above. The deadline is August 31st. This is just a rough draft. I haven’t done much by way of editing or revising but plan to and submit it in a more polished form – somewhere. All rights are reserved to me then so don’t reprint this without my permission.
**This line was part of the challenge and was taken from “Going Postal” by Terri Prachett.
anniegirl1138 