Aimee Herman's Blog, page 45

shopping for facial hair.

(photographs by/of Ana Mendieta)

We sit on a saturday in a part of brooklyn where farmers gather and, with coffee and crushed-up pretzels on our breath, we shop for facial hair. You wonder what it will be like when yours grows in; I wonder what it will feel like against me.

There are men with six o’clock shadows at noon and there are men with beards long enough to braid or bunch up into knots called dreadlocks. There are men with grey stuck to their dark. There are short ones and red ones. There are beard/moustache combinations. There are intricate moustaches that curl up and those which curl downward.

I gaze at the hairs you’ve got, the ones I’ve named, the ones I’ve poem’d about.

We sit on a bed sheet in the middle of brooklyn bridge park on a thursday where humans wait for outdoor movie to begin and, with ice cream and curried popcorn on our breath, we shop for facial hair. You wonder if yours will have interruptions of silver like you’ve got against your scalp; I wonder what it will be like to kiss you with new texture against your skin.

There are thick ones and beards like confetti sprinkled over cheeks. There are hipster beards and shadows of ones still growing. Facial hair becomes like cloud formations for us, as we search for images we see in each one.

I shop for chests. Wonder what it could be like to have a shirt that fits me exactly the way I long for–without intrusion of curve below collarbone. Men take off their shirts this time of year and we lust after the shape we desire on ourselves.

We point to the ones with slight musculature. I notice variations of nipples and ones with hair like a standing ovation all over chest. I tell you that maybe one day I’d like to have that one or that one. You tell me that however my body exists, I’ll be just as handsomely beautiful.

We sit on a concrete bench not too far from the chanting Hare Krishnas on a wednesday in manhattan and, with pickles and no-sugar-added sour cherry juice on our breath, we shop for our gender, ripening against our bones. You tell me that tomorrow, if I decided to wear a dress, you’d look at me just the same.

With our painted toe nails from that time we sugared our tongues with rainbow ices beside neighbor’s garden, we search the crowd for others like us. The ones experimenting with all the ways in which one could exist.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Ana Mendieta, body, facial hair, gender, hair, love, pen pal, trans body, transgender

(an) interpretation.

when reading any
poem, take veins from lined letters
into palm
to starve away the shakes. 
Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", hands, interpreting words, poem, poetry

sometimes we forget the ways in which we dent this earth

For Dan.

The Cuban-American performance artist, Ana Mendieta thrust her  bones into the earth to see what shapes she could make with the weight of her.

I often think about indents. I think about the ways in which we impact others or others impact us. How often do we actually speak up and share the ways in which our shape is changed by others.

When I am deeply moved by another, I tend to fill my lungs with silence. I exhale seizured language (shaky and discombobulated).

At a recent open mic, I was moved by the openness of a poet that seemed as though they literally dug into the crumbles of their scars and transcribed and transcribed. I opened my green notebook and began haunting the lines with language influenced by another. I should have told them how they moved me. How I wanted to turn off the microphone after they read because I just didn’t want the reverberations from their sound to be interrupted by another. I should have mentioned to them that it is so difficult to say how impact arrives.

It kind of feels like a dent. Like a gasp of life, bruising.

If you call yourself creative, then it’s fair to say that you’ve gotten roughed up a bit in life. It is in these spots of pain that often creates the surges of inspiration within someone.

This is why it is so necessary to say to another: you move(d) me. Thank you for existing with ink in your fingers and loose paper by your side. 

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Ana Mendieta, inspiration, poem, poetic inspiration

pass’ing.

These days, I wonder if I pass for poet. Some days, I wonder if I pass as teacher. Do I pass as woman. Can I pass for chef or writer. Can I pass as listening. Some days I pretend I pass as male. These days, I (hope I) pass as human. Do I pass as healthy or whole. Do I pass as literate. I want to pass as queer. Do I pass as homo. I wonder if I pass as hungry. These days I want to pass as open. As giving. Some days, I wonder if I pass as survivor. Do I pass as put-together. I want to pass as monogamous not monotonous. Do I pass as smart. Can I pass as loved or loving. One day, I’d like to pass as something other than this.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, gender, love, passing, poem, queer

continue on.

“Life was meant to be lived, and curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life.”

― Eleanor Roosevelt

So, you wake and want to wring your fists against door handles…find a way out through rust and bone.

So, you think you’ve reached your point as all the callouses on your skin call out stop signs and search out potholes to slither toward.

So, your tongue has numbed and your teeth have lost their ability to forgive you and who ever thinks about aging when skin still appears tight enough to trampoline on.

So, you found a grey hair in an area of your body no one was ever meant to see anyway.

So, you leave it there.

So, it reminds you you’re still around.

So, it represents the worries–the kind that no longer get you.

So, sometimes the ash between black and white or fade of color that used to be bright only means that you’ve remained one more morning.

So, you might as well continue on. This curious pattern of aging can be worn in more ways than just sad.

 

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", aging, Eleanor Roosevelt, inspirational., life, poem, remaining, sadness, strength

existence of gratitude

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

― Eleanor Roosevelt, You Learn by Living: Eleven Keys for a More Fulfilling Life

 

Dear Dad,
You inspire me to remain. To acknowledge that sometimes we inhale breaths that are sour. That are tattered and raw. You tell me that there is a reason for all this…that definitions sometimes arrive long after we learn the words. You called me a writer far longer than I could pronounce that word myself. You remind me to give away my words. Remind me to keep carrying ink even on the days I feel like there is nothing to drip out. Thank you for existing. Thank you for continuing to exist.
 
[happy birthday]
Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", birthday, dad, Eleanor Roosevelt, inspiration, poem, strength and remaining

where voices come from

You were not aware your voice could slur like that and harmonize with the bend of your neck. You had no idea that notebooks could smoke cigarettes even though you gave nicotine up more than a year ago but bergamot can easily be rubbed into the spine to eliminate the odor of addiction. You were unclear on the ways in which love could swing against you like a hammock built from bones and maps. No one ever told you that paper could be used as bandages, wrapped like gauze around the parts that have a difficult time healing. And instead of ointment, ink. And instead of sound, footnoted gasps explaining the music of this effusive way of living.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, elephant, life, love, poem

i am the one who waits

there is a reflection of yesterday in tomorrow and two days from now it will be cold enough to remember the hush of wool’s embrace

how much does it cost to collect love affairs and can they be traded up like baseball cards

there is something to be said for a late night peanut butter sandwich on a sunday, alone, allowing the drip of peanuts to coast down chin without napkin swipe and don’t things taste better without the interruption of another

no

human hunches over staircase, bends body to digest lunch while stranger in white truck whistles as though human is beautiful (as though this human wants this kind of attention)…not everyone is in need of a catcall

be alive in the moments that shatter against the easier ones

speak up to the illusions of breath control to make sure that what you are getting is what you want

you can tailor your oxygen intake to include more protein or metaphors

did you hear the one about the redhead who shaved all her hair off, hoping there would be a rainbow hidden beneath the knots

all that was found: two dents and a teardrop for what was missing

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, love, musing, poetry, reflection