crumpet on tri-x film pushed, in mamiya tlr
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.
~Muriel Rukeyser (found on this blog, upon which I am currently crushing.)
I often consider the concept of threshold, perhaps because I am drawn to dance alongside it. I wonder about the paradox of a thing, and about the point beyond which the pendulum swings the other way. Things like . . .
breaking point breakdown conception suicide insanity orgasm death critical mass critical condition trigger release love affair hibernation hope for salvation loss of balance fucked up childhood one or the other friendly or flirty funny or crude aloof enlightened condescending wise light dark fear pain belief ecstasy lithium saturation
the level of calcium in a cell of cardiac tissue that, when reached, causes the heart to contract.
the crescendo of a feeling or desire that is secret or repressed or denied or ignored and the little thing that breaks the shell, allowing it to wreak havoc on any pathetic attempt at pretense.
. . . and such.
(ahem)
It is this bottom of the stairwell, head in hands, on the threshold of insanity feeling that inspired this following little ditty a few months ago, and in turn, I decided to write Motherhood, The Musical. (I’m totally kidding, of course, but it has a certain ring, doesn’t it?) It seems the depths of winter are inspiring quite a few of these moments in quite a few of my friends. I wish I could sing this for you, because I crack myself up, but I can’t figure out how to effectively upload music files. Anyway. It’s a waltz:
I’m deep in the bowels of / Motherhood / I’m fertile and sexed and it / Doesn’t feel good / I’ll take all these children / And feed them to wolves / Or I’ll eat them myself / If the damned dogs are full.
Tell me that doesn’t just scream Broadway hit.
Ohmigod. Please don’t call Social Services. I’m just kidding. About the wolves. Thing.
