R.B. O'Brien's Blog, page 9

Eroticism

Today’s post comes from a movie I watched the other night: The Shape of Water. Have you seen it? This won’t be a movie review. It’s impossible to write one without giving everything away, so I discuss the thing I loved about it the most, the eroticism of it.
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When it comes to sexy, we all have differing ideas. Just look at last week’s post on hair! Short. Long. Dreads. Bald. And everything in between. We all have different tastes and different styles. What about our reading or movie-watching pleasures? What do you find sexy there? Or does that depend on what you’re looking for at the time, your mood?  If you’re looking to get aroused, perhaps to aid yourself in rising to “that” place, the big O, a quick, one-handed read? Or is it a long, angsty drawn-out sexual tease? Or perhaps you prefer more subtle, more sensual art and writing? Less erotic and more romance? What about no sex at all? Just straight romance? Really! I want to know.  As I write this, I’m smiling because it started to snow, and so I am going to seemingly go in a different direction for a moment, but I’m not, not really.

I always look out the window when I write for some reason, as if Nature herself will tell me what I’m thinking or what’s on my mind. You know that idea that to center ourselves we can place our fingers on our collarbone with our right hand on the left side of our collarbone, move it down just a bit and press? That is what Nature does to me. When I look out at her majesty and stop and let myself go and not think, that is when I think. Oh the irony! And when my mind quiets, I can write.
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What quiets you? Where are your thoughts? It’s the quiet moments of the morning where I write best, especially in the summer, when my mind isn’t going in a million directions. And the way the snow is falling right now, big, huge flakes, so light you know they would melt on your tongue immediately, their white beauty a direct contrast to the naked trees, brown, barely alive. And I realized I find it oddly erotic. Subtly so. The beauty of it is quiet. It doesn’t make a sound and yet it makes such a loud impression. This. This is what I like. And it ties into my thoughts today.

​I like subtle eroticism, even though sometimes I don’t write that in my own work. Like I asked you above, it does depend on my mood too. But the things that affect me the most, are not the in-my-face and graphic erotic, but, instead, eroticism that is there nonetheless, somehow a work of art, that I somehow find beautiful or sensual or erotic. I guess one would simply call it romanticized eroticism. Hmmmm…I wonder if that term has already been coined? Perhaps I should coin it if not, because yes, I do see the world that way. Things I truly admire or marvel at bring me to that conclusion. ​The Shape of Water does that too. Its director brings us a tale that is so rich with such beautiful, yet subtle eroticism, we suspend our disbelief about all of it. It strips barriers of stereotypes and what it means to be human and lets us just see living and love and hate and racism and good and bad and light and dark and greed and pride and science and nature and romance and the romantic and everything in between. It is no surprise why it won best picture. It reminded me that I do wonder, often, if we don’t really exist as we think we do. That perhaps we are all just connected parts of nature, four seasons, going through the cyclical inevitability of life. When I look up at the sky and pause and see its infinite expanse and ultimately question true existence and whence and how I came to be, I have no answer. Somehow, that too, is beautiful. And I realize, I don’t mind at all. I do breathe. I do feel. I do love. And that is all I really need to know. For I exist.

A Look at Long Hair in Popular Culture

​Do any of you women have short hair? And heterosexual men—do you prefer short or long hair on “yo’ woman?” Yup. That is the basic thrust

“Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come” ~Shakespeare

In The Nu Romantics the other day, this question was posed: If you were given an envelope with the time and date of your death inside, would you open it? Why? Why not? My knee-jerk reaction was, of course, “No,” harkening back to Julius Caesar’s famous quote: “Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.” But on further inspection, I realized that wasn’t true, not for me. Not at all. I’m not old. Not by societal standards. In fact, one may argue I’m still but a babe in the womb. But I’m not young either. Life’s experiences, responsibilities, they make us who we are. No two people are the same or see life the same way. Two people may look at the sunset and know it’s beautiful, aesthetically we may agree, but what of the person who doesn’t see color? What is his vision of it, who can’t see the orange and yellow and red like Nature herself had painted it just for our exhalation, where we sigh and believe for one infinitesimal moment that god exists? Is it the same as yours or mine? What of someone who has a memory that isn’t pleasant or had an experience tied to that moment of Nature’s story? No two lives are alike. And neither, then, is beauty. Almost everything we see is tied to experience. And that is very personal.
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If I had the opportunity to know death in an envelope, a necessary end to life, I would, indeed, open it. And here is the sad truth that, perhaps, on first reading the question, I didn’t want to admit. It doesn’t matter when. It will come. I get that. But I don’t often live my live as my imagination would have me, the way my dreams play inside my soul. I’m responsible. I’m loyal. And often, with it, comes obligations. Much of my life has been lived this way. What I realized after pondering this question, is not IF I would open it, but what I wished for it to say. What I realized is that I began to envision, hope, for what was inside, and the words I longed to read. Words that penned the story of the life I often wish I could lead but do not.  ​Yes. Some may think this sad or pessimistic or depressing. Maybe it is. But it's nothing if not honest. I wished, for one brief moment, that the envelope I opened would tell me my time was drawing near. Selfish you may say? Yes. It is. It's not that I don't have happiness. I do. And would not change much of my life. But it' a safe one. For once, I'd like to live a little "un" safely. Alive. In the moment of only right now, where my heart is. Hop on that plane. Hold that forbidden lover in my arms. Skinny dip for hours without worry. Take a train without knowing where my long, extended leg's foot will touch. Never wear lipstick again. Visit and talk with people I have no language in common with. Sip wine and not worry about its cost. Stand on the top of a mountain, alone, and breathe in the air. Jump off a cliff. Spend my money. Look in the mirror and not utter a single, negative thought. Touch a rainbow.
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Fear is a terrible thing. But it’s part of who I am and how I was raised. For once, yes, I’d like to just not care…I'd like to live, selfishly in one blissful moment of only right now, and see my life play as I often watch it in my mind. But I know, the truth is, I can't touch a rainbow. But the thought alone has made me smile. And for that, I am happy.

We often like to put our parents on pedestals...

I’m always looking for a good television series to sink my teeth into, much like the books I read (and write for that matter), stories that are slow burns, that last, that reveal bits of characters and their pasts piece by piece, slowly. I don’t like short stories very much or quick-to-rise, rushed action. Some people do and that’s fine, but it’s not my taste to read or write that way. I often find myself upset, lost, and sad when a series I love ends, regardless of which medium it’s being told in.

When I begin a television series, it’s easy to give up on the first couple episodes. People rave about it, while I’m at a lost to like it. However, I find that really good series are slow to catch and the same is true for the novels I love. Of course, some never catch, the flame burning out to gray ash before it can be inhaled, and you decide to move on; it’s not worth it. Life is too short, and fiction and creative stories too plentiful to waste time on, time that is so elusive as it is. But I always give my novels 100 pages and my shows three full episodes before I give up. Oftentimes, I’m so very glad I did as they turn out to be some of the most thought-provoking and provocative of tales, tales that make me think and question and reflect.
Bloodline, a series I started, is one such show. A slow burn for sure, Bloodline lights that fire, revealing bits and pieces in glimpses of the myriad hues of yellow, orange and red, the crackle loud at times, and others, soft and nuanced, where we mostly see things in a third-person, limited fashion, through the eyes of the protagonist, John. It gets interesting when he and his siblings lose their father, and we start to learn their pasts as the memory of their father, their hero, starts to unravel. They start to realize they really didn’t know their father at all. It made me think of my parents and the glimpses they let me see of them, but made me question, like these characters, if I really knew them at all. I began to see that my perception of them is very much that of Mom and Dad, a narrow, myopic view, like many roles or hats we wear in life. The sister or the writer or the teacher, but that those things don’t begin to explain who we are, not truly, not the essence of our spirit or being, but only labels.

I’ve realized that though I had glimpses into my Mom’s past and her extremely tragic and difficult childhood, I didn’t really know it or understand it much; certainly, I never gave it much credence or weight. She was my mom. The stoic. Likewise, my dad, too, though I knew of his tough upbringing, a mother that didn’t want a boy, who relegated his sleeping to an attic without heat, causing health issues to plague him throughout his life from severe illnesses he had developed, he was my dad, my rock, my hero, whose threshold for pain is probably one of the reasons he died so young. Had he been diagnosed earlier who knows. But he was used to pain. And I realize there is so much I didn’t know about either of them. Glimpses only go so deep.

And the show has also opened up some memories that I had buried, that I hadn’t thought about in years and years, much like the characters themselves had. I talk of my dad a lot, how he was my hero, and he was. But make no mistake, he, too, was flawed; he was no saint. He may have seemed that way with me, but he had a dark side, and it’s interesting how this show has somehow caused certain memories to resurface, things I had forgotten, by choice or otherwise, I’m not sure.

​We often like to put our parents on pedestals, especially when they pass, remembering only the good in them, trying to engrave their legacy into our minds in a way we think they’d want or how we want to immortalize them. But they were people long before they were our parents with stories and dreams of their own, some realized and some not, triumphs and failures. It is those things who “make” people who they are, who they become, and it’s disconcerting to think how little we actually get to know of them. 

We read. We watch visual representations in the form of movies and television shows. And we choose those we relate to. We do so because it’s what makes us vitally connected as humans. Not as our professions or our roles in life, but as people first, people connecting and thinking and hopefully reflecting. I can only hope my readers can feel the slow burn of my stories, not giving up early on, but watching the fire grow with each turn of the page to discover that things are not always what they seem, where the pasts of my characters are exposed to be as much a part of their present and their future…just like our pasts are.

What If I Fail...?

​Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t tried? Too scared? Or is it that you have no talent in it? Is it too risky? People always say silly idioms like: You only live once; or take a chance; or you’ll never know if you don’t try. Someone once wrote: What if I fail? Oh, but darling, what if you fly?

Will I Visit Mary Jane This Summer? (Massachusetts Marijuana Laws Contemplated)

On a hot, summer day this coming July at my family lake cabin, you might find me taking a hit of a joint, back firmly placed against the peeling wood of a floating dock, eyes closed, knees slightly bent, a contented smile hard to hide, the sun caressing my half-naked body as it welcomes the slight sunburn it knows it will garner, having been covered in layers of wool and cotton for too many New England months. Pink is such a pretty color. Perhaps I’ll roll over onto my tummy, hold my chin in the fists of my hands, elbows firmly placed on the wood to get comfortable. My legs might even cross behind me at the ankles to sway, and you might even hear me hum a tune, something like Weezer’s, “And it feels like summer,” as I take long, slow inhales and exhales, watching the smoke disappear up into the clouds like my stress. (‘course, I romanticize. You realize there is no way to get a joint out to a dock without, most likely, ruining it.

Jealousy...that Green-Eyed Monster

​Today I ponder jealousy. Have you ever been jealous? Duh. Of course you have! All of us have. It’s as natural as breathing. Right? We’re human, and with that comes myriad emotions. And jealousy comes in many forms, but I’m talking more “romanticly-infused” jealousy.  In fact, jealousy has almost even been romanticized, especially in literature. In our writing and/or reading, depending on which camp you’re in, we love bouts of jealousy with our characters. Don’t we? My books are filled with them! Love triangles we call them. We root for our heroine to get “her man” back from the snarling grips of some nemesis. Or we revel in the angsty ups and downs of the romance trope, the break-ups, the make-ups, “I hate you, I love you,” as Taylor Swift croons. Without tension and build up and conflict, why read the story, right? Rollercoaster of emotions if you will. Thrilling, but safe from the confines of our safe and comfy beds, under covers, lamp lit as we lick our finger to turn the page or swipe our across the tablet screen. But in real life, it’s not always so neatly resolved. Sometimes it’s nothing: We might get twinges of envy that fade quickly, shaken off with a wave of the hand that says: This is silly. Stop it. Other times, it can be downright debilitating, causing our actions to be ridiculous, irrational even, especially in matters of the heart. And then there is every nuanced hue in between.
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Jealousy needn’t always be a bad thing either. It helps us, maybe, to keep things in perspective, to never take what we have or want for granted, to never become complacent. It can even keep a relationship fresh and exciting. Without any at all, it might even become stale or boring. No jealousy ever, and you wonder if your lover has any emotion in him. But if unchecked, it can be a monster, yes that “green-eyed monster which doth mock/The meat it feeds on.” Love triangles and the like happen in real life, they’re not so fun, are they? Yes. There are some people who thrive on this kind of drama, who almost always seem to find themselves in the middle of things they shouldn’t be over and over. But they are not common. At least I like to hope they’re not. But some of us have been there, without trying, without even knowing sometimes. And it gets ugly. Fast. It can even turn obsessive, and that’s not good. Are you constantly “checking up” on someone? Scrolling their status or trying to see who/what/when/why/how they’ve interacted with someone? Extreme jealousy stems from extreme insecurity and that is where we must pause and self reflect. That is simply not healthy.

What’s really horrible is when you are on the end of jealousy. Someone is somehow jealous of you, and you have no idea why. Perhaps it causes them to lash out in both visible ways and duplicitous ways. Remember John Knowles’ A Separate Peace? Gene was so jealous, he “jounced the limb” of his best friend, which ultimately led to his death. Yes. Jealousy can do that. Sometimes around social media, we even see it among authors. The 1-star review perhaps or the “drama” and bashing I can see. We, too,  even see it between friends, like the characters from A Separate Peace, the biggest cut of all. “I was beginning to see that Phineas could get away with anything. I couldn’t help envying him a little, which was perfectly normal. There was no harm in envying even your best friend a little...” When you become the victim of someone else’s unchecked jealousy, it can lead to devastating consequences. Blame is placed on you for things out of your control. Someone’s boyfriend flirts with you or “likes” you, and somehow it's your fault. I never understand, speaking from the female perspective, but of course, it can be any combination, how when someone’s "eye roams," it’s the “girl’s” fault, never the man’s. That somehow it doesn’t take two to tango and falls on the sole shoulder of the woman the man decided to show attention to. One plus one equals two. Basic math here folks. One plus one does not equal one.
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So I leave you with this. I challenge us as human beings to stop and think about where our jealousy comes from. If you’re an overly jealous person, your actions probably reflect that. It’s not attractive. And it stems from deep insecurities, most assuredly past experiences that have colored you this way. But we must live in the present. We need to be the best possible version of ourselves we can be right now. And while we may love the color green as a dress on our bodies or a pair of Converse on our feet, it’s the not the only color in the universe. If it is, perhaps it’s time to open the 120 colors of your crayon box again. After all, life it too short to limit ourselves to one shade of color. We’re much more colorful than that. And we owe it to ourselves and others to paint our worlds with who we know we can be. 

We All Have A Little Dark in Our Light...

I’m pondering, today, like many days, life and death and relationships and the rush of trying to accomplish everything in 24 hours and for what, besides a tear in our nylons? (Okay. I don't wear nylons, but I do wear tights! I'm being metaphoric here. ;) ) What are we exactly rushing about for? How many of you can relate to THAT?
 
While in the grocery store checkout line, my mind drifted to my mom and a poem poured out of me and onto the note pad on my phone.
 
And after I wrote it, I thought back to an older post I wrote, about the way I’ve always been compelled to write this way, this stream-of-consciousness way, even in the weirdest of places: I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: the woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind; the shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous;  or the plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention. I was always looking for a “story.” And though I don’t carry a notebook anymore, my phone has replaced it. Easier even to record ideas, thoughts, snippets.
 
The truth is, I wrote a lot about my mom too. I had a complicated relationship with her. Can any of you relate? I wonder if it’s more common among mother/daughter and father/son relationships. That dynamic. Those high expectations. I wrote about this before: (loveand-all-its-idiosyncrasies.html).

You see, my mom had a tough life, dreams ripped from her more than a few times, and she was what one may call a pessimist as a result. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother?
 
But what I realized in that checkout line, now that my mother has passed, all those things I used to do for her when she was ill, that I sometimes internally complained about, produced an bit of an epiphany in me…and hence, the poem.
 
The tick tock is deafening.
Muscles ache from strain.
Rising sun.
Feet on cold oak.
Passing cars, honking horns, angry fists
of move over
and fuck yellow lights.
Undress.
Dress.
Leotard.
Bun just right.
Spray in place.
Grab an apple.
Keys?
Don't forget the milk for Mom.
Dash to the express checkout
and curse and hiss
Into the back head
of the too-chatty, blue hair,
fumbling in her too-big purse,
fingers not quick enough.
Pour a quick glass of red
to match cursory letters
on black and white
Times New Roman font
In teacher's ink.
Speed-dial family.
Snapchat friends
and try to breathe.
It's what you've waited for.
Except now,
the silenced whirring rush
tramples the solace
because you realize
that the only way
to stop
is to admit: Not anymore.
And you look to see
Irony
holding Time's hand
with a grim grin.
Every year.
One fewer thing to do.
One minute.
One second.
Closer to death.

It might seem a little dark from Rosemary, the romantic. I have a lot of them. These kinds of poems. And they probably don’t make sense to anyone but me. But they’re there. Often. And just below the surface. Always. It's okay. We all have a little dark in our light. I'm just grateful I have this little thing called writing to allow me to see them. It makes me whole.

Tattoos Have Come A Long Way

Tattoos were once thought of as marks of the troubled, the degenerate, the troubIe makers. Employers shunned those with tattoos and lies and myths about them were widespread and full of misconceptions, exaggerations, and lies even. Times have changed, like most things based on fiction and lack of knowledge or understanding. And tattoos are more common and accepted than ever, even consider works of art.

I have one small tattoo that I got in college on a whim, and though not profound or "serious" in its outward appearance, I do love it. I got it at a time when I was truly discovering myself and my sexuality, where I could finally accept that calling myself a feminist and having submissive sexual tendencies didn't have to be opposing forces. Thank you, college, for that!

I'm pondering getting one more, either on my shoulder or lower hip, right on the bone, or on the underside of a breast. Something also small. I'm not a fan of ostentatious tattoos. My body just isn't big enough for that, and it's just not something I find attractive, personally. Plus, I like skin. ;) I want it to be a quote, and I would have gotten one already, except that I'm not sure which one! Of course, Shakespeare comes to mind, and I've narrowed it down But lately, I've been pondering my own quote, one I penned myself. Is that too self-indulgent? I was thinking about "Ruin My Lipstick" to mark and forever remind me that I published my first poetry book, something I never thought I'd have the courage to do, but I'm not sure at 80, I'd be happy with that choice! And then again, why not? It's another turning point in my life, another mark of accomplishment, a growth, a reckoning. “Ruin My Lipstick” is the title poem of the collection, but it has layered meaning for me in many ways. Literally, there is this:

“I liked to wear lipstick
and nothing else
and found myself fascinated
with the shape
of my lips
and the different colors
I could make them.”
 
But it’s also very symbolic and figurative. We all have insecurities, and as I was compiling my poems to include, I realized the theme of facade runs through much of my work. In fact, most of my writing does, even my novels, those fronts we all put up in real life: who we are expected to be, which is sometimes in direct competition with WHO we really are.
​“Ruin My Lipstick,” therefore, is that idea. I look “put together.” Or I look proper. Or I look the part of whatever role I must play in the moment I am in it, but just under the surface, there is always this brimming sexuality or sensuality that is as much a part of me as breathing. And so secretly, I guess the idea of “ruin my lipstick,” puts those two ideas together as one, and allows me to be flawed, to accept those flaws, and to be loved because of them. In “Nude of Her Tights,” I talk about that symbolically and literally. Here’s a bit of it:
 
Insecure.
She lifts a leg,
one at a time,
rolls the nylon up over
painted pointed toes,
across straight knees,
up higher
over the spot charged with electricity
because of him,
and at last rests them around her waist
with an elastic snap.
She stands,
exposed,
but for the nude of her tights,
and runs her fingers down her body
one last time.
The legs that were never long enough
are suddenly just right. So frankly, perhaps I want this tattoo to be less frivolous, less rebellious really mean something to me, more of a reflection of the person I am now today, not the college student in the beginning of self discovery and rebellion, but the older version of myself that I am happy I am becoming, albeit, slowly. 

To get a copy of Ruin My Lipstick, click here:  NEW RELEASES

Are Ghosts Real?

Do you believe in ghosts? Why or why not? Has something personally happened to you that makes you feel the way you do? And if you do believe, what exactly do you think ghosts are?

I watched a fascinating film last night: “A Ghost Story.” Has anyone seen it? It takes a very interesting approach to the idea of ghosts in a traditional visual but quite an existential non-traditional way. Besides one of the best endings I’ve seen in cinematic times, the idea of time is explored. We think so linearly about time: beginning, middle, and end, that to ponder it this way is intriguing. The way the director creates this is brilliant. And like any really good movie, it has stuck with me, as in, I keep coming back to it, its idea and content. I recommend it.
In a fascinating article here by Live Science, they state: 
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“If ghosts are real, and are some sort of as-yet-unknown energy or entity, then their existence will (like all other scientific discoveries) be discovered and verified by scientists through controlled experiments — not by weekend ghost hunters wandering around abandoned houses in the dark late at night with cameras and flashlights… In the end (and despite mountains of ambiguous photos, sounds, and videos) the evidence for ghosts is no better today than it was a year ago, a decade ago, or a century ago.”

For the whole article, which is quite beautifully objective for a change, visit here: www.livescience.com/26697-are-ghosts-real.html

My mother used to espouse the existence of ghosts. She had two stories. One is too personal to share. But one she would tell us as kids was about the house in which she grew up. Each night, she said, a little old lady took her hand and walked her to bed. Every. Night. She said she later discovered who he woman was through research and pictures. Nothing horrific or terrifying. Just a woman who lived there a hundred years ago. Could my mother have seen pictures somewhere she didn’t remember? Had she heard a story in her youth? Or was there in fact a ghost.


I, myself, had a strange experience with a Ouija board. But the details are fuzzy, and I wonder to this day what really happened. Sometimes I wonder if I created the story from a real experience that, through embellishment and fabrication over the years, has blurred the truth of it. I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think I embellished at all. But to think otherwise, leaves me so baffled, I know of no other way. Even writing about it here frightens me.
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I invite anyone to share their views with me. Personal stories. Stories shared with you. But I guess the big question is: Does it even matter? For either they exist or they don’t. And really, what does knowing do to change that? ​