But, then again, I don't know if anyone is reading this thing or not.
I'l been busy with trying to to keep my head above water. Not just financially, but philosophically. My mind has been interfering with my writing, as well as other aspects of my life. I spend so much time thinking about what to write while shaking off an occasional existential crisis that I tend to forget that the only practical response is to... (drum roll, please)... get some damn writing done.
So that's what I'm attempting to do again. Get some blogs posted, and spend a little more time just writing at the typer. Even if it's bad writing (most of it has been).
Meanwhile, money has been tight, and the rejection letters keep flowing in.
When I used to get stuck and find myself unable to produce a single predicate, I tended to write about writing. I have since stopped doing that. I have too much awesome and useless knowledge swimming around in my brain that I have since begun focusing on a topic and writing about that. Last night, I did exactly that and was happy with the results. I wrote about Bridget Bishop, who was the first woman hanged during the infamous Salem Witch Trials. She's a heroine of mine who shrugged off social norms and ended up being murdered by savages who thought they were doing god's work (funny, I thought religion was supposed to be peaceful; and god was supposed to be loving).
I posted the poem below.
Writing these couple of paragraphs and publishing it without taking the time to edit felt good. Now, I need coffee and to walk the dog.
Thanks for reading.
~Torres
______________________________________
Bridget Bishop Was Born Innocent
Your last memory
was being pulled by your hair
to Gallow’s Hill
on a beautiful June day
for the crime of making a man
out of your womanhood.
They screamed Exodus in your face
as you waved a silent flag
of heretic pride.
As the noose,
as tight as a promise
was thrown over
a gnarled tree.
I went to see your town
on my honeymoon.
I made love down the street
from your place of worship.
My dear,
this is what you get when no man
can tame you.
Do you know how sexy
that would make you look
today?
How much ankle did you show
back in 1692?
I ate dinner in your house.
And sent you an invite
you never RSVP’d to.
How about a Ménage a trois
the night after my wedding?
I could see you
in the heavy air of Salem.
Swinging in the breeze
like strange fruit,
and weeping.
They screamed Exodus in your face.
Because they feared strong women.
Their god feared women.
They praised misogynistic fables
of oppression
and called it mercy.
I fear you out of love.
I have a weakness for redheads,
and a predilection
for unavailable women.
I cannot suffer a witch to die.
