Saturday, February 8, 2014

"sex for nikkum?"

We used to intentionally mis-hear the lyrics to Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov: "sex for nikkum" probably means something else, said properly in Russian. But it was a rape scene, villagers raping the priests. The children's chorus in the wings could either laugh, or be horrified.

There were fleeting seconds when I thought I knew how those priests in Boris Godunov felt, and in my memory I heard echoes of the children's chorus laughing
as timpani pounded, trumpets screamed, violins ached
bells, bells, bells in my heart, lungs, body, heart,
reverberating orchestrally.

Triangulation: not only where the stories coincide
but where the music, the violence, and my body collide.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Ready or not

I have not been posting about the Dylan Farrow case, because it hits closer to home than I want to admit. But "admit" implies a need to hide, and a guilt, so here goes. Writing as a creative narrative is the easiest way to spit out what is, I think, likely real.

I remember being very young, maybe four or five, playing hide and seek. I was in the basement of a very large house, not my own.
All the adults - lots of them - were upstairs, being serious.
A man I didn't know came from a bedroom and saw me looking for a hiding place. He said he would help me find one, and led me into a room - a bedroom, or perhaps a den.
I don't remember quite what he did but I remember it hurting and wanting to run away. I don't remember what he looked like, or his voice.
I don't remember.
I don't remember.
I do remember a touch I lacked words for, and a shame that had no precedent.
Do I remember?
But I don't remember enough to be sure it wasn't a dream, if perhaps I fell asleep while waiting to be found.
At a school assembly a couple of years later they talked about good and bad touch and I felt like I should tell, but didn't know who to tell on.

Ready or not, here I come.