How To Orchestrate A Feminine Upheaval?

Writing Prompt:

Anybody who knows anything of history knows that great social changes are impossible without feminine upheaval. Social progress can be measured exactly by the social position of the fair sex, the ugly ones included. – Karl Marx

Incidentally, Karl Marx and I share a birthday, May 5, born 159 years apart.


(Timed 20 minutes)

She pursed her full lips, then pressed her index finger against them, a wide silver ring at its base. Words of a foreign language spiraled her jewelry, spiraled against her mouth. When she did that gesture the world clamped shut. We knew what it meant. We were willing.

Her other hand she raised towards us, fingers deliberately flared. Then she pointed one in the air. Again all the fingers flared, again the single digit. We understood.

Hooded she remained in the “Silence” position, a mystery still since her arrival. An emissary she described herself as, but from where she wouldn’t say. All she wanted was an audience with Chancellor Merkel and Queen Noor, which was immediately granted. What she told each woman was incredible in its proposal and simplistic in its delivery. Her message was about shutting down established systems of power, of returning civilization to a community-focused one, of reintroducing matriarchal systems of governance to modern society. She was offering a means to regain control from the patriarchy, by shutting them down with a feather touch.

It was an excellent proposal. To coincide with existing traditions, she set the start time to sundown. It was easy then; everyone winding down from the day, busying with dinner, with gym visits, with clocking in at the second job. No one really notices a woman not speaking at night.

It is morning on Day One.

The bus driver does not speak.

The cashier does not speak.

The teacher does not speak.

The caregiver does not speak.

The newscaster does not speak.

The politician does not speak.

None of them do. For sixty days, the entire planet’s female population will not open its mouth other than to breathe and nourish oneself. Silent. Let the non-words sting the ears. Let the looks of protest steer the discomfort in the room. Let the heavy stares of noncompliance unravel the fragile nerves of those expecting to hear from their counterpart, their lover, their parent, their friend.

Nothing is more disarming than a woman’s silent treatment.

The counter to narcissism is silence. Pay attention, but pay no compliments. Pay no criticisms either. Just observe, then walk away. You want to watch a person become completely unglued, intentionally don’t talk to him. Be in his life, but utter no words.

At first, this will be considered a boon. Men who have the lust for dominion will feel like champions, shutting down the voices they don’t like to hear anyways. They’ll clap and cheer, they’ll high-five each other. A win they will celebrate. Day One, it’ll pass as a nonevent. Day Three they’ll suspect an end. Day Seven, they’ll be psychologically distraught. They’ll be confused: what would cause a woman to not speak at all? To me?

Psychologically, it takes him into a shadowy space. Disapproval. What are men without their constant reminders of approval? If he can’t get it from the one trusted beacon of light in his life, where can he get it? If his mother is not speaking to him, what about his girlfriends? His coworkers? His flirt buddies at the gym? If he can’t receive constant adoration from the feminine population, would he be able to obtain it from his masculine counterparts? Will he feel just as special, despite the global Silent Treatment? Can he stir up that sense of adoration like a single serving of coffee? Will it appeal in the same manner as that instant cup, prepackaged, with that predetermined measurement? Maybe for a little while. Just a little while.

You want to kill a narcissist? Look him deep in his eyes. Utter not a single word. See who breaks first. (Spoiler: not the woman).

 

 

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The Freedom to Write

I have a writer’s callous.

Very few people in the 21st century maintain a writer’s callous, the telltale indentation on your dominant hand where you normally rest a pen.  Composition after composition, frustrated hand and head viciously working together against time, all the answers having to come out of your tired phalanges. And yet, even as I type on Chappie with my tablet and my smartphone both in range, I still freewrite by hand. Zealot for abuse? Nah. Just a sign I’m still alive.

And free to write.

 

 

We do take advantage of that free-om, us Americans. We put all kinds of nonsense out in the 0s and 1s and it is protected (for the most part) by our Bill of Rights. But I know not every person with Internet access has the free-om to type their authentic opinions. We know from following international news that simply voicing an opinion can shut down a digital nation. Look at what all occurred with Twitter during the Arab Spring. Jobs and lives were lost simply by Tweeting. Tweeting!

I celebrate a personal free-om today: the ability to write what I feel, in the comfort of jim jams, folded legs on the couch. This was not my position last year. I was not allotted a journal. I was on a strict schedule. I was not allowed to leave a building for seven days. The absence of a pen and paper was much more disabling than the locked doors.

To those who write despite despair, I honor you. May you continue wielding words as weapons. 

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FOMO on NaNo

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Feeling a little split on participation this year..

The distinct smell of National Novel Writing Month is in the air, wafting curls of pumpkin spice-flavored coffee, donuts, and fear dancing in the four winds. All of November, local coffee shops morph into coliseums, where literary warriors compete against the clock and indirectly with each other.  It is a feat of near mythical challenge: find a way, everyday, to pour out the novel of your dreams from head to hard drive. Only the best of the best compete, but very few complete the challenge. Myself, a three-time winner of this global event, I gotta tell ya…

…I think I’m sitting this one out.

Normally I excel in short deadline situations, but after this last hospital stay, I’ve finally learned to not take life too seriously. And I think the essence of it is, the right mix of passion and mystery is just not in me right now.

But I will miss the gatherings (“I hate people, but I love gatherings!”)♤. I’ll miss the interactivity on social media during NaNo; I’ve made several friends all over the globe these past times.

Perhaps I’ll visit the write-ins, be a cheerleader or something. Yeah! My contribution this year will be words of encouragement. I shall motivate by slamming my hand loudly on the table top you rested your head on, then scream, Kinison-style, “GET BACK TO WORK!!!” into your earlobe.

Yes. I will be a NaNo cheero. No, I will not novel. And that is okay.

♤: Name that movie!

Timed Writing Prompt: “There’s A Shirtlessness To This Guy…”

Credit: funnyjunk.com
Credit: funnyjunk.com

What an accomplishment! Three miles on the treadmill and a half mile in the pool! I bike eight miles to Five Guys for my double cheeseburger reward.

The mass of moo-ey goodness is sweating liquid fat and spices, cheese, dripping off the sides with a come-hither shine, the grilled ‘shrooms and onions resting like Tiffany diamonds upon a New Money bust. “Here we go!” I proclaim as I mash the delectable lady to my face. Why I’ve anthropomorphized my food into a female is inexplicable, yet feels right. I sigh as I swallow then tilt my head back, eyes all aflutter, hearing the calories I just burned off pile back on with every gregarious lip smack.

Screw a napkin. I wipe her essence – spread over my nose, cheeks, mouth and chin – against my sweaty sleeve. As I drag lips towards my shoulder I catch a whiff of healthy odour. Hoooo weeee!

Right then, out the window, I catch a view of a couple sitting in their parked vehicle in the lot across from my table. She’s narrow-eyed and flitty-handed in the passenger seat, while he wears a glum, defeated face. She points with a pink talon towards my hallowed restaurant; in response he opens his door, exits the truck, and strolls into the Guys.

He fascinates me: spine and shoulders so straight despite his bent smile. His eyes are hidden under a ball cap, offering an air of sweet mystery. Sculpted calves and tanned thighs indicate Mr. Fuckable’s an athlete, maybe even, a model. Yes, there’s a shirtlessness to this guy. Perhaps a footballer or volleyballer…something having to do with big balls.

My soppy girl slips out my hands as I hear him order in practiced English with a Portuguese accent. I’m destined to see him naked, I am sure! I glare back to my competition, the expensive hamburger patty in the passenger seat duck-lipping several selfies, adjusting her pneumatic boobs after every angle. As if the gods so declared it, he sits next to me to wait on his meal. At that moment I wince knowing my cumragged arm faces him. My true love has to meet his queen in such form? Fiddlesticks!Ī

He smears an agitated hand from chin to forehead, tipping back his cap, revealing natural blonde hair and soft brown eyes. He. Is. Beautiful. A distinct plume of sandalwood escapes his cap as he fans it over his face before returning it home. Mmm, I smile to myself, letting the smell of our sex pheromones intertwine.

“Is it good?”

Yes, I exhale as we switch positions, now me on top.

“Is it…delicious…is the word?”

Our hips mash rhythmically, “Yasss!” I moan towards the ceiling.

“Is this the wrong word, ‘delicious’?”

Oh shit. So busy fucking pretend cock I ignore Real Cock talking to me!

His caramel body is facing mine, his shiny eyes are facing mine, his blonde wisps spike my way. The best I can manage is a “hermmuhhmyeahhh.”

The Guys call his order, he waves as he rises, grabs his bag then leaves.

I look down at my whore, all asplay against the table, laughing at me.

“Fiddlesticks!!!”

ĪWe were writing at Parkside Cafe. The booth behind us was full of Midwesterners trying to remember a restaurant’s name by CONSTANTLY repeating it to each other in question form: “Is it Fiddlesticks?” “Fiddlesticks maybe?” “It can’t be Fiddlesticks…is it?” Oh if only I had my mace…

Time To Switch Gears

What up homie! Long time no speak. I know, I know, but the Internet works both ways!

Me? Oh, been up to all kinds of things. See that picture? Those glasses are not ironic; I really can’t see! But man, are they clearer than my last pair.

Good timing that my Michael Kors-wrapped Coke bottles came in right before we left to North Carolina. Seen the pics I posted during the trip? All shot with my Galaxy S5 embedded camera. I know, right?? Got more to share, but there’s been a hitch in my giddy-up, hence why you haven’t experienced any of my money one-liners and blatherings as of late.

Now, don’t get upset but…the Scribe is dying. Yup, my faithful Samsung is on its last electronic relays. In order to get ‘work’ done, I have to maximize the 20 minutes he’ll give me before blacking out. Every application started, every web page opened, is like flaking off tiny morsels of the last of the cookies I shouldn’t have been scarfing down in the first place. This moment with you now, I savor like the last chunk of chocolate chip covered in warm dough.

There’s also been a development, mental health wise, to the positive. My intuitiveness has peaked interests in my local spiritual scientist community, so I’m going off-road, treatment-wise, to explore empathic intuition. What does that mean? you ask. Well, I don’t know yet. I’m gonna work on that. Then I’ll come back and tell you all about it, cool?

This Memorial Day weekend, I’m preparing two write-ups: a share on WriteBitch and a picture story of my time in the mountains. No stone tablets yet, but awesome nonetheless.

While Scribe enters hospice and I create his progeny, follow me @VonSimeon on Twitter for my latest mad antics!

Yup. This is still happening. It'll be a year in July.
Yup. This is still happening. It’ll be a year in July.

Indie Artist? Time To Shine!

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Full text from Facebook

Plans… What Plans…?

First poem of 2015:

Today
is my last day
of vacay.

I have no plans. I really have no goals to achieve in the immediate future. My calendar shows a series of blank fields. Unprecedented!

Here’s the thing: every year of my adult life I’ve needed a focal point. By 1 December, I would have had a prepared list of things to do in the coming year, by quarters, with approximate time tables for project completion. This year? All I did was wake up and show up.

I did pack my laptop and wireless keyboard and mouse under the pretense of getting my prose and poetry organized. The devices spent more time occupying the bend of a sitting room couch than in action!

I did a little exercise of writing technique. For the first few days of my visit, I used my morning pages to compose a fairy tale, about the Queen of Saturnalia leaving her coastal lands for the dark and cold North, ruled by The Dark Prince. Probably five entries in, did the story go from fantastical alternate world scape to sequential erotica! How is it? Well, reading it over analytically, I have a solid grasp of the activity, but the anticipatory factor, that build-up the Midwest moms really need, is very weak. To borrow a publisher’s comment, it ain’t bad, but it ain’t great!

I still haven’t done my book unveiling yet, it was my planned New Years Day event, but then decided I wanted it to be a private affair.

No more irrational pressure. If I can I will. If it’s not in me, it’s not gonna happen. Sourcing that pressure, I know it to come from a culture demanding accountability, when, in and of itself, the culture is conditioned to act irresponsibly. This year, any pressure I embody will be self-developed for my own personal gains. This, my crone emphasized, is enhancement. Those who adhere to cues from Society call it selfishness. Just bear in mind, School of Latter Thought, the trophies for self-sacrifice are almost always awarded posthumously. My intention is to be relevent now by first acknowledging the Now.

Switching gears, I want to talk about you in your face! I am absolutely flattered by the diversity of readers engaged in my madness. Based on skillful trolling, my recent new readers average their early 20s and are artistically driven. This puts me in a vantage of mentorship, but not in the typical, “I’m older than you therefore I am better than you” way; rather, I’d like to approach my proselytizing like who I am in real life: your cool aunt who passes the ganja around while she shares tales of shenanigans, with a pinch of morality thrown in! Experience, not age, is how one achieves Wisdom.
For 2015, I’m going to enhance my blogging experience by sharing more, which isn’t easy for me, but I know if I unlatch a bit of armor, you’d appreciate associating with me more. The challenge is to be more revealing about my existence.
So let’s start with this piece… CLANK! There goes the left gauntlet to the floor.

Hi. My name is Ivonne, with an I not a Y, it’s pronounced with a hard eee, not a yuh or an eye. For the sake of monosyllablism, let’s go with Von.
And you are…?

Lucky for me, I have two benevolent people in my life who embody the values of Love and Wisdom in a manner I deeply desire. I met Love, protective and gentle, and Wisdom, reflective and balancing, about the same time last year, and since meeting them, the delusions of archetypal conditioning have started to melt away. Entering into 2015, I no longer feel starved of these self-actualizing components. Rather, I’m experiencing real-life affects of their abundant energy.

As I pack up Queen of Saturnalia’s caravan for a later departure back to the bright coastal waters of her queendom, I feel spiritually, physically, and emotionally sated. I will enter my home, settle in Bobby, and look out to the lake and marine wildlife in my backyard. I’ll plug in my newer tablet to fully charge.

In the morning, after my morning pages and coffee, I will do my book unveiling ceremony.

Or not.

That’s the plan.

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Name this airport!