Aurelia Lorca began writing as a violinist/lyricist in a punk rock cover band called Unfortunate Mustaches with the legendary Roxi Christmas,...read more but was promptly kicked out upon having laser electrolysis. She then worked part time as a secretary for the Evil Dark Overlord of The Zen Baby Federation, but was eventually let go because she just couldn't wield a staple gun that quickly. She now free lances for free for anyone who offers clown magic.
But, I want to go back to being that five year old me who aspired to read every book in the Monterey Public Library and wrote her own books instead.
I want to go back to being that five year old me who insisted everything had to be pink and wore dresses and had scabs and bruises on my knees that were badges of my adventures.
I want to go back to being that five year old me who would make any boy on the playground eat sand if he dared to say "pink stinks."
I want to go back to being that five year old me who fearlessly stood up on the see-saw and lost my two front teeth and still shamelessly grinned for every photo even though they said my smile would be ruined.
“I am no man,” Éowyn says before defeating the Witch King, the Nazgûl whom no man could defeat. Sometimes I gotta keep that one on repeat. The world has become a whorehouse. The world has always been a whorehouse. ISIS sex slaves parallel the sex slaves tech workers look for on the SF Bay Area Craig’s List Casual Encounters. And this city voted largely for Hillary. Never mind what’s in our culture. From Christian Grey, to the mail order bride who is our first lady, to the Maquiladoras killed along the border. Woman bodies are always a commodity for sale. Rape is violence. A woman’s body is a thing to violence, over-use, over-work, pound down.
The world is a giant whorehouse. Don’t try and tell me it has ever been any different. I am not convinced. To some, we are not human. Just objects. With too big tits. Where is the revolution in this? It is not in chastity, in the saintliness of celibacy. It is in something else. What I do not know. They will always see us as objects. They are conditioned to do so. It is in their rulebooks.
(When I was a teenager, I remember one guy used to ask, “how’s the weight,” and if inquire if I were taking my pills. Take those pills, baby. Take those pills. We are not human. We are not human.)
I emancipate myself from this rulebook. I will use my body as something more.
Narrative liberation is removing myself from commercials, from food, from anything physical but we need the physical, we need the rose petals, the cat fur, the velvet cat, the velvet sofa, the velvet mary-jane high heels. We need that touch that taste that delight in order to find root. Or do we? What is the purpose, what is the point? What is the spiritual? Where is the spiritual? I am in an absence of it all. Pope Francis is another well orchestrated plan. Where is the spiritual when ISIS rapes, when Donald Trump rapes, when Bill Clinton smokes cigars, when boyfriends rape.
The flames are rising again. They never went away, no matter who is at the helm. And this time? This time, the flames are high. He might be able to force the Rockettes, force their bodies, but he will never have story. He will never have narrative. He will never have poem. This woman’s poem. This woman’s mouth.
(The only necessary walls are the walls around the graveyard of my heart where the dead live.)
I am no man. I am no man. Where are the good men dead in the heart or in the head? I don’t need to hear the killing moon – it is always the same story – the same Martin Blank, the same role, same character, different John Cusack.
And here we are at the edge of it all, of land, and culture’s decay – it has become a string of colored splendor. I think about this in my bright pink car, not so amazed at how January’s wolf moon has shrunk into a menacing smear. (Is it really that different: We are the state with a made-up name, but the wolf moon is the same everywhere.)
The circle has closed, there are more mad vigilantes than madmen. Where is the language that describes the death rattle of the west wind? (Only Bobo, old man of the sea, is safe at the bottom of the Monterey Bay Marine Sanctuary.) We are now in the closed net Jeffers said would happen – not in his time, or his children’s time.
The net has closed, and you can hear the wild God of the world crying whenever a hawk speaks.
And I am sick of writing about dick. I want to write about the political situation, patriarchy, sexism, but they are all the same damn thing.
Nonetheless, what does it mean to create light when there is no light to create from?
What does it mean to recognize that we are part of the solution because we are also part of the problem?
What does it mean to use the word “hope” in a sentence?
What does happiness mean?
What does being an American mean?
What does being a human being mean?
What does it mean to be an American and a human being?
What does it mean to be an American or a human being?
What does democracy mean?
What does democracy mean?
It comes back to this:
I have too many battles to fight and I like a fight.
I like the way the blade tears through flesh, the sound of a fist through glass.
I need my sweat. I need my heart to race.
I need to not care about things like reputation, and never let go of the purest of heartaches.
This is 2017. You bitch-faced stupid man, the only saint I pray to is Santa Sucia. And maybe it’s wrong to think, but, damn that dude in his black suit was FINE. F-I-N-E in a way that transcends superficiality. He wasn’t thinking about how much play he could get for being that sexy, he was thinking about avenging the women who died, rather than being invaded. Supposedly ISIS makes their sex slaves take birth control shots, while men try to make laws around the notion that a fertilized egg is the same thing as a human life.
What I want most is to be loved by someone who isn’t dead. Violence needs accountability and healing. I have been violence. I have been violenced. My classmates from high school like to post on Facebook about their children and their $800 robot vacuums. I think how of many pairs of Fluevog boots and extra Plan-B’s $800 would buy me, and how grateful I am for cat hair that keeps me honest.
All I have left to say is more eyeliner, because boys do cry and I wanna see it run, running in streaks, in streaks.