Kern Carter's Blog, page 56

Flames of Futility

Stop!

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“Mourning Morning”

A poem

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In Search of the Woman Inside Me

The goddess inside every manPortrait of Louisa Leveson Gower as Spes (Goddess of Hope) by Angelica Kauffman

It’s funny that I cannot think of her very much at any one time. So I think about her often, but little at a time. It’s like the inhalation of my breath grounds me to reality, making me worry about all the mundane stuff of life. But with every exhale, her remembrance hits me. I feel the existence of a void inside me, the void that I didn’t know existed, just like her memory whose realness I cannot prove.

These memories of her are like the thoughts of a former existence to a reincarnated spirit. Faded when I’m awake, but grips me tight while I’m asleep. Just as Eve was created from a rib of Adam, so would she come into existence from the limbs of my soul. All the while I’m completely asleep.

Dante’s Beatrice

Her beauty is something that doesn’t belong to this world. It’s something transcendent, something beyond this realm. This reminds me of my fellow comrade Dante. As he followed Beatrice through the gates of heaven and onto the throne of God, there she was, together with the Trinity and the angelic forms. God manifested as love, love manifested as beauty, beauty manifested as Beatrice. Now I become Dante, and she is the alluring Beatrice. Guiding me up the steps of heaven while Jacob holds the ladder at the bottom. Now I know that it’s all love. All must be love. Nothing must interfere: love conquers all.

Dante meets Beatrice

If you haven’t met her yet, I cannot introduce her to you with mere words. As Heinrich Zimmer once said:

The best things can’t be told. They are transcendent, inexpressible truths. The second-best are misunderstood: myths, which are metaphoric attempts to point the way toward the first. And the third-best have to do with history, science, biography, and so on. The only kind of talking that can be understood is this last kind. When you want to talk about the first kind, that which can’t be said, you use the third kind as communication to the first. But people read it as referring to the third directly; the image is no longer transparent to the transcendent.

Her Eternal Presence

But still, I shall try to be of some use. With these vulgar words, I will tell you how it feels to be in her presence. She gives me the gratification of being alive. Her warmth permeates through my unconscious body lying in that dark room. And my conscious body, which I am in my dreams, longs to become one with her. Everything else seems remote and insignificant in comparison with this woman. She is the eternal manifested. And before her, all other affairs in existence is just a blip in a negligible space of endless time.

If somehow she had the appearance of any particular woman I had known in waking hours, I would abandon myself altogether to the sole quest of her; just like a soldier in search of his home where his beloved awaits his return. But alas! she isn’t a particular woman. Rather, I see fractions of her in almost all women I’ve known in my life. And the greatest of her soul, I see in my mother.

My words won’t be able to carry the weight of the feeling I have towards my mother. So here I quote a passage by Marcel Proust:

My sole consolation when I went upstairs for the night was that Mamma would come in and kiss me after I was in bed. But this good night lasted for so short a time: she went down again so soon that the moment in which I heard her climb the stairs, and then caught the sound of her garden dress of blue muslin, from which hung little tassels of plaited straw, rustling along the double-doored corridor, was for me a moment of the keenest sorrow. So much did I love that good night that I reached the stage of hoping that it would come as late as possible, so as to prolong the time of respite during which Mamma would not yet have appeared. Sometimes when, after kissing me, she opened the door to go, I longed to call her back, to say to her “Kiss me just once again,” but I knew that then she would at once look displeased, for the concession which she made to my wretchedness and agitation in coming up to me with this kiss of peace always annoyed my father, who thought such ceremonies absurd, and she would have liked to try to induce me to outgrow the need, the custom of having her there at all, which was a very different thing from letting the custom grow up of my asking her for an additional kiss when she was already crossing the threshold.

Now I must part ways with you. I will leave you here feeling incomplete. Feeling the sense of wanting more. I envy you. I envy you all who haven’t seen her in your dreams or waking hours. I envy you because you are spared from longingness and desperation. I envy you for being oblivious of her.

Yet, I also pity you. I pity all you men who haven’t met your inner goddess. Those who have met her once have taken a bite of the apple from the forbidden tree and now they are expelled from the garden. But those who are oblivious of her, haven’t even had a glimpse of the tree yet.

Ignorance is truly blissful. But knowing her is something beyond that.

I would say: transcendently blissful.

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In Search of the Woman Inside Me was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Optimysticism

©2022 Juliet Altmann

I’m happy, are you happy?

Are you smiling yet?

You said something was wrong but I seemed to forget,

I told you to be optimistic, I really insisted,

So tell me, are you doing it?

Are you switching things up?

Are you being proactive?

Meditating, resting, and getting active?

You really have power over how you feel,

If you’d stop moping around you’d see that it’s real!

•••

I’m trying, I’m trying

Why can’t you see?

Maybe it isn’t so easy for me.

Maybe I am making changes,

And doing my best,

But I’m not acting “healed” so you can’t see it yet.

How could you tell me to just pick my chin up?

You don’t know what I’ve been through, it was really messed up.

Seems like you’re blaming me, seems kind of twisted,

And you have the nerve to call it optimistic

•••

For a very long time, I was very sad.

I wanted to end it, to leave here, real bad.

I didn’t have anyone to pick me up then.

So positive affirmations became my best friends.

I remind myself of the power of perspective by saying — be positive,

And even when it’s really hard I try to muster up a grin.

I tell myself to be grateful for all that I have,

Counting those things to be grateful for gives me hope when I’m sad.

I struggle with intrusive thoughts and feelings from time to time.

I’ve done a lot of inner work.

It’s taught me that healing is no straight line.

I still would like to enjoy life despite my flawed design.

I remind myself to be optimistic because it helps me find my mind.

•••

That’s very interesting,

I think I understand.

Though we are at different parts of different journeys,

I do appreciate your outstretched hand.

I cannot yet perceive how the power of positivity could be real for me,

But when I’m at that part of the process.

Perhaps I’ll see what you mean.

Right now I’m in the feeling stage.

I can’t afford to skip it.

It’s a critical integration time.

Honoring my feelings heals my spirit.

I’m holding space for myself, I’m taking my time to just be,

But I’m grateful that should the time come,

Optimism will be there for me.

©2022 Juliet Altmann

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Optimysticism was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Strong Enough

I am sure that at some time in your life you have come across some ill-intentioned person, who did everything to make you feel that you…

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Men Made Women Out of Us

Who would we be without them?Photo by Fika Photo on Pexels

Growing into a woman is a difficult process.

For some of us, we woke up one day feeling different. Maybe it was the bloodstains in our panties or the painful nubs of our nascent breasts.

For others, it was a long transformation. We finally hatched and scattered around old pieces of ourselves.

That’s what I thought womanhood was. A painful but yearned for metamorphosis. A longing for something that ached inside ourselves. A blossoming that stung at the soul. A hurt that was shared, a secret.

Today, I was reading If Beale Street Could Talk. It’s an incredible novel by James Baldwin, one of my favorite authors.

There’s a lot to say about this story. The plot is heavy, the characters well-built, the prose beautiful and intricate. Many articles and essays could be written about this novel. I filled my notebook with quotes.

Yet, there’s one sentence that stirs my soul so profoundly I had to write about it. Here it is:

“(…) a woman is tremendously controlled by what the man’s imagination makes of her — literally, hour by hour, day by day; so she becomes a woman”

Then I realized:

Most — if not all — little girls do not grow into women. Men make women out of us.

That’s very scary to think about.

It means we are not in control of our growth, of our maturation. We are carved out of girlhood and pushed into womanhood by an external force that has its own idea of what a woman should be. And thus we become.

It doesn’t mean we are not powerful enough to overcome this reflection of womanhood, this myth. It means that the first time we see ourselves as women, we are only seeing what men said we were.

At some point in our lives, men look at us differently and decide we’re sexual, vicious, dangerous, and grown. Women.

We do not have a choice in this. We’re slaves to their fantasies.

It calls me back to the day I realized I was a woman myself.

I was 12, much older than some girls who were dragged into womanhood as early as 5 or 7 years old.

My mother and I were staying at my aunt’s house over a weekend. I was so happy to be there, to play with my cousins and hug my aunt. My uncle was away at a party.

At night, I eagerly waited for him while everyone else went to bed. I loved my aunt’s husband: he was very funny and confident, adventurous too, a rebel at heart. I thought him very handsome. He talked to me like my opinion mattered. He’s a great father, too.

So when I heard the door opening, I jumped to my feet and hid in the shadows. I wanted to surprise him.

As soon as he opened the door, I ran into his arms. He stumbled. I stepped back. He was red in the face and laughing too loud. He was drunk. An icy cold crept inside me.

I went back to the living room to watch TV. He followed me. He kept touching me. His hands were all over me, up and down my arms. The tip of his fingers ran along my neck, deep inside my hair. He kept asking for more, more. Stay, he’d plead, as if in need of 12-year-old me. Shame shot its flame inside my chest.

At some point, I couldn’t handle it anymore and headed upstairs, deaf to his complaints. My mother and aunt heard him and rushed downstairs. I lay in bed, muffling my sobs in my pillow so as not to wake up my cousins. In the living room, I heard my mother say: Don’t talk about her like that! She’s your niece!

Yet, the next day, she barely acknowledged his behavior.

That’s when I thought, I am woman.

I am woman because I now know that my body can arouse men; that my body is owned by their gaze.

I am woman because from now on, I won’t be able to touch my body or walk around without feeling invisible eyes burning holes through my skin.

I am woman because I don’t belong to myself, and perhaps I never have.

I am woman because my mind has been colonized.

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Upon a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur” — Margaret Atwood

It took me years to realize that womanhood was more than that. More than shame, fear, and guilt.

Womanhood is a rainbow of different things. It is joy, pride, dignity, strength, and beauty.

Women reclaimed their womanhood and detached themselves from the myth. They built themselves up all over again. Hour by hour, day by day.

Yet, I can’t swallow back the bile of knowing that a woman learns to be free with her own means.

It makes me wonder:

Who would we be without men?

I don’t have the answer. This article doesn’t even hint at a new idea.

It is a remembrance of what many girls have lost at birth.

Not innocence.

But freedom.

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Men Made Women Out of Us was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Call For Submissions — Shame

Call For Submissions — ShameImage by Gage Walker

What a loaded word. Reading the word shame triggers so many emotions for me personally. If you’ve read my pieces, you know I speak about the shame I felt as a teenage parent not being able to provide for my daughter the way I can now. And even though things are different, part of me can’t let that shame go.

My shame was wrapped up in my false understanding of what it meant to be a father. I thought it was all about the money, and while being able to provide financially is certainly vital, it’s not the only measure of a good parent. It took me years to recognize that.

Shame is like that, though. It can be brought on by your personal perception of yourself or by what some expectation that others place on you. For this week’s writing prompt, tell us about how shame has presented itself in your life.

Are you still dealing with it or have you overcome? Was it your own internal insecurities that caused this shame or was it a cultural expectation you failed to live up to?

Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]

Call For Submissions — Shame was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

She wanted people to like her so badly

Illustration by Winta Assefa

Remember last week when we told you that we’ll be sharing stories from teenagers? On a platform called Teens Love Lit? Well, our first story is out!

It’s written by Tianna Bailey, who is from the Jane and Finch neighbourhood of Toronto, Canada. Tianna is currently studying to be a Forensic Toxicologist and writes about the moment that changed her life and set her on the right path.

In Tianna’s own words:

“Time and time again, people in my community are killed by gun violence whether they were involved or just innocent bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most times, these crimes are never solved and there is never justice. The thought of me one day being able to solve these crimes, bring people to justice and ultimately give loved ones’ closure and peace of mind, is why I am pushing hard in pursuing a career in forensics.”

But Tianna wasn’t always this focused. She wanted to fit in with the kids from her neighbourhood and that led to her making some bad decisions.

“One situation that really sticks out at me was when I would always argue with my 5th-grade teacher. It was a constant back and forth every other day with us and one day it just went too far. It got really bad and by the end of it, I had called my teacher the b-word. As soon as I got sent to the office, I knew what I had done was disrespectful and wrong. As a consequence, I received a one-day suspension.”

That moment really turned Tianna’s life around, and that is the journey she describes in her story.

Read Tianna’s full story, From Fights To Forensics, on Teens Love Lit.

Subscribe to Teens Love Lit, a space where young people control their own narrative.

Teens Love Lit is brought to you in partnership with The Wealthsimple Foundation .

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She wanted people to like her so badly was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Boys on bikes in the fog

One scene surprised me while I was driving to work: some pupils went to school by bicycle immersed in the white morning fog, among the cars

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Kanye West is basically self-publishing — but there’s still a lesson to be learned

Kanye West is basically self-publishing — but there’s still a lesson to be learned

We had a different newsletter scheduled for today, but when a cultural moment like Kanye not placing his new album, Donda 2, on any popular streaming platform happens, it’s a perfect opportunity for us to fulfil our mission of connecting publishing to pop culture.

In case you haven’t heard, on February 18th, Kanye took to Instagram to say that his new album, scheduled for release on February 22, will not be made available on Spotify or Apple or any streaming platform. Instead, Kanye created what he calls a Stem Player, which looks like a small speaker and has his album downloaded. The cost of this Stem Player is $200.

The internet went crazy as it usually does when Kanye does something they deem significant, but let’s ignore the frenzy. Writers Are Superstars is about educating and elevating writers and this is an opportunity to do just that.

Kanye Isn’t Doing Anything New

It’s easy to look at what Kanye is doing as groundbreaking, but for us writers, this is basic territory. Essentially, Kanye is self-publishing. He’s saying that he wants to control every part of his music and not have to go through a label or common platform to do so.

It’s not much different than an author who chooses not to query agents and publishers and instead, takes full control of publishing their book. And when I say full control, I mean full control, meaning they’re finding their own printers and handling the distribution themselves. That’s the most accurate comparison.

But self-publishing isn’t anything new. I’ve self-published two books myself before securing a book deal. Many of you reading this know someone who has self-published or have done it, yourselves. This is normal for us, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a lesson to be learned by what Kanye is doing.

Here’s what you can learn from Kanye’s album release

There’s something Kanye is doing that I don’t want you to miss. Notice that I mentioned that he’s selling his album for $200 (technically, the Stem Player costs $200, but since that’s the only way to hear the album, you’re coughing up that amount regardless of wording).

What Kanye is essentially doing is drawing a line in the sand. He’s saying that his album is worth $200. He knows that number will scare a lot of casual fans off, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Kanye is putting a value on his work, on his art, and that $200 is the number he came up with.

Kanye is a platinum-selling artist, which means you can bet his albums will sell at least a million copies (his earlier albums sold much more than that). This is an assumption, but I don’t think Kanye expects a million people to buy this album (8,000 fans have already purchased the Donda 2 since Kanye’s post). But here’s the best part: he doesn’t need a million people to buy it.

This is the lesson, writers.

Let’s say 100,000 people purchase Donda 2. That figure represents 10% of the million people who typically buy his albums (we’re summarizing here). If that 100,000 figure holds up, Kanye would make $20 million from the sale of a single album.

Now I’m obviously not expecting you to make $20 million selling a single book or any other writing project. What I am saying is to think about value; your value. Really think about it. What is the value of your writing?

I listened to a Trapital podcast recently with Gina Bianchini, the head of a platform called Mighty Networks, which, among other things, facilitates subscription services for its creators. According to Bianchini, the average subscription price on Mighty Networks is $40/month.

Jane Friedman, a writer who helps other writers understand the publishing industry, publishes a paid weekly newsletter called The Hot Sheet. In one of her posts, Jane says she makes $75,000/year from the newsletter alone. I subscribe to The Hot Sheet and it’s totally worth the value.

Substack has become super popular now. Journalists and other writers are creating content and charging monthly subscriptions for readers to engage with their work. Just like you’re reading this now for free, these writers are saying the content they're creating has a different value. A value that they have set and if you want to be part of what they’re talking about, you need to pay.

Something else that caught my attention. I don’t remember where I heard this but it really stuck with me. Someone was analyzing why a journal, an empty journal book, costs more than many softcover novels. It’s a comparison I’ve never considered, and when I thought about it, the only difference is perceived value.

I’m not saying that your next book should be $100. I’m saying that there are different approaches to publishing, promoting, and selling your writing/book that doesn’t need to necessarily align with convention. As writers, we shouldn’t be afraid to explore territory that is less chartered, just to see what happens. As creative as we are in our craft, we need to be just as creative in the delivery of our creations.

I’m hoping we can all learn from this and APPLY it to our current path. Publishing connects to pop culture far more than we think, and Writers Are Superstars will continue to bring that to the forefront.

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Kanye West is basically self-publishing — but there’s still a lesson to be learned was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.