Here it is, December 18 and still no creative writing. Actually, I had to write two papers for my asian art history class and those took forever to think about and write. So I have been writing, just not writing my stories that's all. One of the papers was very creative though. I wrote a page from the diary of someone viewing the Taj Mahal in India right after it was completed. I pretended I was an indian man from the Kashatriya class, the farmer caste. Well, you can't expect a woman to be travelling alone at that time. I suppose I could have been the wife of some upper caste man but I didn't even think about that. Well here it is below, just to prove that I've been writing. God, I love asian art history. It makes me want to travel to see all this stuff. Too bad most of the great art are in countries where there's so much fighting going on.
**************************************
March 1649, Agra, Uttar Pradesh
My dearest family,
I have made this pilgrimage to see what everyone has said is the most beautiful palace in India. Their descriptions are no exaggeration It is hard to express in words the wonders and beauty of this place, but I will try. I wish you could have all traveled with me to see the Taj Mahal and it will be my lifelong goal to be able to bring all of you to experience this amazing place. The Taj Mahal is located on the banks of the river Yamuna and you can see the river on the on the other side of the Taj.
When you first arrive at the Taj Mahal, you are confronted with a massive red sandstone gateway. They say it is 150 feet wide and nearly 100 feet high and faces south. The gateway is beautifully decorated with precious stones and jewels in a way that I have never seen before in my life; you can even touch the walls and the large jewels. They are cold to the touch but they are so beautiful and so big that one does not think they are real. There are writings on the walls, which I am told are passages from Islamic book called the Holy Koran. There is also a heavy door which seems to be made of many metals and studded with many knobs. I am told there are many rooms and hallways within the gateway but no one is allowed to view them. When you look up, there is a marvelous archway. From the gateway, you can see the beautiful tomb that Shah Jehan constructed for his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. It seems so small when you stand in the gateway and you have no idea how large it is till you are standing in front of it. They say that the whole complex is on 42 acres of land.
As you leave the gateway, a large garden runs from here to the tomb. The garden itself is divided into four sections by two marble canals. Along the canals are fountains and the two canals cross in the center to “The Al-Kawthar” or “The Celestial Pool of Abundance.” Cypress trees have been planted around the edges of the grounds and along side the canals. They say that the cypress trees represent death but they will be beautiful to behold when they are grown. Each quadrant of the garden has been divided into sixteen flowerbeds. As it is spring, one can smell the scent of the flowers everywhere since they are just starting to bloom. I should like to turn some of our precious farmland into a garden like this. As a member of the Kashatriya class, even I am moved by this wonderful display of nature. In the great pool, one can see the reflection of the Taj. I have walked all around this wonderful garden and the way it is designed; you have an unobstructed view of the Taj Mahal.
From the gateway to the great white tomb, I believe there is a distance of about 900 feet. As one walks from the entrance towards the Taj, it looms larger and larger. I have been told that the Taj Mahal itself is almost 200 feet in height. The whole tomb has been carved from white marble that seems to change color when the light changes. Again, precious jewels and stones such as agate and jasper have been inlaid into the walls of this wonderful tomb in the design of flowers. The tomb itself consists of a huge white domed building flanked by four smaller domes. At each corner of the domed building are four slender towers. The main archway has been painted with passages from the Islamic book the Holy Koran. On the inside of the tomb, one sees the same type of decorations. Even the floors below are beautifully decorated in black and white marble tile.
On either side of the Taj Mahal are two buildings made of red sandstone. One is a mosque with three domes, which faces towards Mecca and is used for prayer. Four towers are on each corner of the mosque. On the inside of the mosque, the walls are decorated with calligraphy and passages from the Holy Koran. People here have told me that 539 prayer carpets have been marked out on the floor. There is also a small reflecting pool between the mosque and the tomb. The other building is called the “jawab” or “answer”. It looks like the mosque but it walls are decorated with flower designs on the inside instead.
This is such a beautiful place and as a humble Hindu farmer and landowner, I can appreciate that this structure was built with a husband’s undying love and devotion. I wonder if Lord Krishna will bestow on me such a love. I think even Lord Krishna himself would look favorably at this Mughal monument of love and I think that only in our great land of India could such a monument be built. Such exquisite craftsmanship could only have come from artisans who were descended from the Indian artists who created our great temples. Such a tradition of excellence in art, sculpture and decoration must have been handed down from generation to generation.
I don’t think it matters that it was built by the Mughals and not the Hindus for in end we are all Indians. Surely our Lord Krishna and his consort Radha and their love for each other must have inspired this Mughal emperor. I wonder what future generations will think of this place. If it is still standing hundreds of years from now, I am sure that a man visiting it today as I am will have the same reaction. And what will future generations think of the country that has produced such a building. Surely, they will look favorably upon us. The Vedas says beauty and love are timeless and eternal and this Taj Mahal is certainly living proof of these ideas.
I cannot but help feel a sense of pride that such a place exists in our country. To be forever associated with this kind of eternal love is perhaps not such a bad thing. The day has been long and I am longing for sleep. I will perhaps be here another day or two and will write another letter before I return for home.
Your loving son, Sujantra Ghose
******************************
I have a friend name Sujantra. He lectures around the world under the name SG McKeever. Nice guy, very tall and very good looking with beautiful blue eyes, SF native, SI boy, grand dad helped to build the GG Bridge, grew up in St Francisco Woods. He was living in San Diego the last time I saw him, but that was years ago now, so who knows if he's still there. I hope he doesn't mind I used his name for my story.
Tuesday, December 18, 2001
Wednesday, December 05, 2001
I thought I would keep writing after I finished the Nanowrimo but something inside of me has rebelled and I have been forced to take a writing vacation. I sort of feel guilty but I know it will be only be a short vacation since I am anxious to write. This one of those lessons I learned from doing this 30-day writing challenge; after reaching a goal, you need to recuperate before going on to your next project otherwise you'll get burnt out.
I did write an 850 word piece on my vision of hope for the new year for the church that I go to and I actually had fun writing it. The piece is emotional and maudlin and I don't think it''s very well written. I had to submit it to a committee to let them decide if they want to do something with it. They'll probably give me the big Ceasar thumbs down. In the piece, I said I support the US war efforts in Afghanistan, and in oh-so-left-of-center San Francisco, that's almost like telling people I'm a Nazi or an ax-murderer. A friend told me he's so over the flag-waving patriotism thing. And I think some people in California are definitely over it.
But I guess I'm not over it. I think I will be angry for a long time over what happened at the WTC and the Pentagon on September 11 and then the subsequent reaction of the radical left in the SF Bay Area, who said the US deserved it. No one deserves to die, not like that, without warning. Maybe I'm getting too conservative for San Francisco. Well, at least for the groups I've been associating with here. Conservative groups exists and despite what the media says, there are more middle of the road people here in San Francisco than there are left wing radicals. Don't believe the media hype.
During the 2000 election, I found out that the neighborhood I live in is 30% republican and I even saw signs for Bush/Cheney on my regular walking route through the neighborhood. The media would have the rest of the world believe that we are all left wing radical liberals, but that's so not true.
I heard an interview on the Pete Wilson show by this think thank in DC that's run like a new economy venture capital company. Two people from that think tank wrote a book called "The Radical Center: The Future of American Politics". I think this is where I am as far as my politics. I'm a centrist democrat and not a closet republican as I have been so often accused. Maybe it's because for a part of my working life I worked as part of corporate management and I had to learn to be pragmatic about making decisions. Maybe because I sat around in too many meetings where all people did was complain and complain how bad the system was but when asked how they thought they could make it better, they had nothing to say.
In my opinion, the inability of the liberal left to propose practical real world solutions to our every day problems is what has moved more towards the center. Sometimes when I listen to the liberal left, I scratch my head thinking what world do these people live in. I live in the real world. I don't live in academia. I'm a human being and I don't behave according to what the theorists say. I want solutions that work in the real world and won't bankrupt our government. Is that too much to ask? Fiscal responsibility combined with a caring but firm government. Not a big daddy government who bails you out when you get in trouble and keeps bailing you out so you never get a chance to learn. But a good parent government, who is there when you're at you're at your wit's end and who has the wisdom to know when not to help.
Most people around the country except on the coasts vote republican. Having listened to Rush Limbaugh on the radio a few times, I can understand why. Rush talks in plain simple language and he does it from a reasonable viewpoint. He says what he says in a logical manner and when he gives you his takes, they so appeal to your common sense. He seems to give you no nonsense common sense opinions. At least, that's what it seems like on the surfface until you really listen to what he's saying and when you do, only then do you realize that he's really out there. But he sounds so reasonable, so real world, so common sense.
When you listen to a radical left wing liberal, they sound so out there like they're on Mars or at least California. And what plays in California, doesn't always play outside the state.
My piece about my vision for the new year will probably be loved in any state in the US except California. I know that if I ever publish my writings, I will never be popular in the SF Bay Area. My stuff is just not hip enough, but then neither am I, so I guess it doesn't really matter. I know my writing will be appreciated, I just have to find my audience.
I did write an 850 word piece on my vision of hope for the new year for the church that I go to and I actually had fun writing it. The piece is emotional and maudlin and I don't think it''s very well written. I had to submit it to a committee to let them decide if they want to do something with it. They'll probably give me the big Ceasar thumbs down. In the piece, I said I support the US war efforts in Afghanistan, and in oh-so-left-of-center San Francisco, that's almost like telling people I'm a Nazi or an ax-murderer. A friend told me he's so over the flag-waving patriotism thing. And I think some people in California are definitely over it.
But I guess I'm not over it. I think I will be angry for a long time over what happened at the WTC and the Pentagon on September 11 and then the subsequent reaction of the radical left in the SF Bay Area, who said the US deserved it. No one deserves to die, not like that, without warning. Maybe I'm getting too conservative for San Francisco. Well, at least for the groups I've been associating with here. Conservative groups exists and despite what the media says, there are more middle of the road people here in San Francisco than there are left wing radicals. Don't believe the media hype.
During the 2000 election, I found out that the neighborhood I live in is 30% republican and I even saw signs for Bush/Cheney on my regular walking route through the neighborhood. The media would have the rest of the world believe that we are all left wing radical liberals, but that's so not true.
I heard an interview on the Pete Wilson show by this think thank in DC that's run like a new economy venture capital company. Two people from that think tank wrote a book called "The Radical Center: The Future of American Politics". I think this is where I am as far as my politics. I'm a centrist democrat and not a closet republican as I have been so often accused. Maybe it's because for a part of my working life I worked as part of corporate management and I had to learn to be pragmatic about making decisions. Maybe because I sat around in too many meetings where all people did was complain and complain how bad the system was but when asked how they thought they could make it better, they had nothing to say.
In my opinion, the inability of the liberal left to propose practical real world solutions to our every day problems is what has moved more towards the center. Sometimes when I listen to the liberal left, I scratch my head thinking what world do these people live in. I live in the real world. I don't live in academia. I'm a human being and I don't behave according to what the theorists say. I want solutions that work in the real world and won't bankrupt our government. Is that too much to ask? Fiscal responsibility combined with a caring but firm government. Not a big daddy government who bails you out when you get in trouble and keeps bailing you out so you never get a chance to learn. But a good parent government, who is there when you're at you're at your wit's end and who has the wisdom to know when not to help.
Most people around the country except on the coasts vote republican. Having listened to Rush Limbaugh on the radio a few times, I can understand why. Rush talks in plain simple language and he does it from a reasonable viewpoint. He says what he says in a logical manner and when he gives you his takes, they so appeal to your common sense. He seems to give you no nonsense common sense opinions. At least, that's what it seems like on the surfface until you really listen to what he's saying and when you do, only then do you realize that he's really out there. But he sounds so reasonable, so real world, so common sense.
When you listen to a radical left wing liberal, they sound so out there like they're on Mars or at least California. And what plays in California, doesn't always play outside the state.
My piece about my vision for the new year will probably be loved in any state in the US except California. I know that if I ever publish my writings, I will never be popular in the SF Bay Area. My stuff is just not hip enough, but then neither am I, so I guess it doesn't really matter. I know my writing will be appreciated, I just have to find my audience.
Friday, November 30, 2001
George Harrison died today and although I was too young to really know anything about the Beatles, I really loved their music and feel sad that he died. My older sisters were just starting high schhol when the Beatles came to America so their music was always playing in our house, so I know their music but I don't really know them.
Nanowrimo finished today and I made my goal and wrote 50,150 words. My novel is 25% complete and I think I will finiish it by July if I work on writing it three days a week. At least, that's my schedule for now. While I love the freedom of writing a novel, I miss the snapshot in time storytelling of a short story. With a short story, you capture one moment in time like a snapshot and for me it's more a more intense kind of writing. I have so many stories I want to write and I didn't let myself write any of them in November. Now I want to work on my novel part time and work on the my short stories the rest of the time. We'll see. Perhaps the call of writing my novel will win out in the end. I still want to keep to the 1,667 words a day schedule because that amount was definitely doable for me.
Below is another excerpt from my novel. This is the ending scene for the 50,000 words I wrote. Again it's rough so beware.
*****************
“Do I want to be Jake’s love slave?” Did I? The thought was exciting and dangerous. Part of me wanted to get up and rip the tie blindfold from my eyes and get the hell out of Jake’s condo and never look back. The other part was dying to become Jake’s love slave. And as so often happens in real life, the passionate side of you, the danger loving secret part of you always wins out. And who knows why?
Maybe it’s simply because you’ve been ignoring these impulses all these years and when they see an opportunity to come out, they take it and get out, regardless of the consequences. Maybe it’s because it’s like Allie says, that everyone has a secret death wish and that each moment you either choose life or death. Most of the time, you choose life but every once in awhile you choose death. Allie’s theory certainly explained why certain people go off the deep end. And it’s always the normal ones too; the ones who lead quiet lives, never hurting anybody, never calling attention to themselves. These people usually have families and children and parents who love them. Then one day, something happens, a choice is presented before them and they choose death and next thing you know they’re an item on the 6’o clock news with the lead headline; man shoots whole family and then himself.
Was I at a precipice facing a choice between life and death? God, I sounded like such a drama queen right now. But it really felt like that. I had the distinct feeling I was standing at the edge of a precipice with the wind howling through my hair and the air freezing cold. My shoes were half off the cliff and one false move and I would be plunging head long into the rocky crag below. I tried to look down and I couldn’t even see down to the bottom. Was Jake my metaphorical death? I had a vision of myself slowly stepping back from the edge and getting down on my hands and knees, trying to peer down into the bottom of the gorge. I couldn’t see anything but I could a voice even through the rustling noises made by the wind saying softly, “Come on in, it’s fine. You have nothing to worry out. Jump. You never know what’s going to happen till you jump”. The voice was Jake’s.
I could hear other voices crying my name and when I turned around, I saw my girlfriends in the distance begging me to come back. I was wondering why they couldn’t come any closer and then I saw that someone was blocking their way. Two people actually me. The first person looked a little like Jake and was dressed in a black suit, with a white shirt, black tie and sunglasses. The other person sort of looked like me and she was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie and sunglasses, only her skirt was thigh high and she was wearing over the knee black suede boots.
I could hear and see them calling out to me but they seemed so far away and their voices were garbled and faint. The two guards stood there holding them back, firm and unyielding. I could see Allie’s face and she was crying and shaking her head. My poor Allie. Out of all of my friends, Allie was my favorite. She was so emotional and wore her heart on her sleeve, you couldn’t help but totally love her.
Then I saw a shadow fall across me and when I looked up, it was Jake. He was standing there looking down at me with the most beautiful smile on his face. But he wasn’t alone. Behind him was an older gentleman with a cane and what looked like crooked foot. I got up and brushed the dirt off my clothes. It was weird because Jake and I were wearing clothes, yet we weren’t wearing clothes. Our clothes looked and felt like imaginary ghosts wrapped around our body.
The older gentleman was peering at me from behind a weathered face. He had his white hair cropped closed to his head and a black bowler’s hat on. He kind of looked like a painting I’d seen in a museum especially with his black bowler hat, gray pin striped vest and old fashioned Edwardian jacket. When I looked down at his crooked foot, I felt a sudden wave of compassion because of his deformity. When I looked into eyes however, my compassion faded. The old man’s eyes were cold, icy and dark. There was no welcoming smile on his face. Instead he looked over my insolently inspecting my wares and stripping my clothes off with his eyes. I looked back at Jake but I saw nothing odd about him and I wondered who the old man might be. Warning bells were going off in my head but like my girlfriend’s voices, the sounds were far away and muffled. I wanted to ask Jake who his friend was but when I tried to open my mouth and speak, no sound came out. Strangely I wasn’t freaked out by this and just closed my mouth again.
Jake held a hand out to me and I stared at it because it was the biggest hand I’d ever seen in my life, kind of like one of those giant cartoon hands. I looked up at Jake and his wonderfully radiant smile was beaming at me like the sun had suddenly risen in his face. The light emanating from his whole face dazzled me. And it was ordinary sunlight either but something stronger, like an artificial searchlight. My eyes hurt and I kept blinking them because his light was burning my eyes and they felt raw.
I looked down again at Jake’s hand and saw that it had shrunk to normal. His hand looked so welcoming and looked like the only normal thing in this weird vision I was having. I put my hand in his and felt Jake’s fingers close around mine in a vice like grip, which oddly did not hurt. I mean, I thought that I should be feeling pain because I could see my hands turning white but no pain sensations were registering in my brain.
Jake turned toward the edge of the cliff and started slowly walking towards the edge. I had no choice but to follow him since he was holding my hand so tightly. I noticed that the creepy old man had stepped ahead of Jake and was now in front of him. We got to the edge of the precipice with the old man in front, then Jake then me. The old man turned around, tipped his hat off to me, then to Jake and then jumped into the void still holding his cane. I watched in horror as the old man disappeared into the mists below. I knew Jake was going to do the same and that he was going to take me with him.
Jake stepped to the edge of the cliff and made me stand along side of him. We both stood there and looking out across the voice at the mountains on the other end. Jake turned his head towards and I looked and heard him say. “Don’t be afraid Jennifer. It’s just dark down there. Just follow me and you’ll be okay,.” Jake sounded so achingly sweet and so comforting. What did I have to lose by jumping with him into the dark? I knew he would take care of me. I smiled at Jake and he smiled back and then he motioned with his eyes that we should jump. Then we jumped and all I saw was black.
“Jen?”. I heard Jake’s voice cutting through my reverie.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Jake was whispering in my ear and nibbling. My ears were very sensitive to breaths, kisses and nibbles and Jake was sending shivers up my spine.
“Yes, master.”
*************************
Nanowrimo finished today and I made my goal and wrote 50,150 words. My novel is 25% complete and I think I will finiish it by July if I work on writing it three days a week. At least, that's my schedule for now. While I love the freedom of writing a novel, I miss the snapshot in time storytelling of a short story. With a short story, you capture one moment in time like a snapshot and for me it's more a more intense kind of writing. I have so many stories I want to write and I didn't let myself write any of them in November. Now I want to work on my novel part time and work on the my short stories the rest of the time. We'll see. Perhaps the call of writing my novel will win out in the end. I still want to keep to the 1,667 words a day schedule because that amount was definitely doable for me.
Below is another excerpt from my novel. This is the ending scene for the 50,000 words I wrote. Again it's rough so beware.
*****************
“Do I want to be Jake’s love slave?” Did I? The thought was exciting and dangerous. Part of me wanted to get up and rip the tie blindfold from my eyes and get the hell out of Jake’s condo and never look back. The other part was dying to become Jake’s love slave. And as so often happens in real life, the passionate side of you, the danger loving secret part of you always wins out. And who knows why?
Maybe it’s simply because you’ve been ignoring these impulses all these years and when they see an opportunity to come out, they take it and get out, regardless of the consequences. Maybe it’s because it’s like Allie says, that everyone has a secret death wish and that each moment you either choose life or death. Most of the time, you choose life but every once in awhile you choose death. Allie’s theory certainly explained why certain people go off the deep end. And it’s always the normal ones too; the ones who lead quiet lives, never hurting anybody, never calling attention to themselves. These people usually have families and children and parents who love them. Then one day, something happens, a choice is presented before them and they choose death and next thing you know they’re an item on the 6’o clock news with the lead headline; man shoots whole family and then himself.
Was I at a precipice facing a choice between life and death? God, I sounded like such a drama queen right now. But it really felt like that. I had the distinct feeling I was standing at the edge of a precipice with the wind howling through my hair and the air freezing cold. My shoes were half off the cliff and one false move and I would be plunging head long into the rocky crag below. I tried to look down and I couldn’t even see down to the bottom. Was Jake my metaphorical death? I had a vision of myself slowly stepping back from the edge and getting down on my hands and knees, trying to peer down into the bottom of the gorge. I couldn’t see anything but I could a voice even through the rustling noises made by the wind saying softly, “Come on in, it’s fine. You have nothing to worry out. Jump. You never know what’s going to happen till you jump”. The voice was Jake’s.
I could hear other voices crying my name and when I turned around, I saw my girlfriends in the distance begging me to come back. I was wondering why they couldn’t come any closer and then I saw that someone was blocking their way. Two people actually me. The first person looked a little like Jake and was dressed in a black suit, with a white shirt, black tie and sunglasses. The other person sort of looked like me and she was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie and sunglasses, only her skirt was thigh high and she was wearing over the knee black suede boots.
I could hear and see them calling out to me but they seemed so far away and their voices were garbled and faint. The two guards stood there holding them back, firm and unyielding. I could see Allie’s face and she was crying and shaking her head. My poor Allie. Out of all of my friends, Allie was my favorite. She was so emotional and wore her heart on her sleeve, you couldn’t help but totally love her.
Then I saw a shadow fall across me and when I looked up, it was Jake. He was standing there looking down at me with the most beautiful smile on his face. But he wasn’t alone. Behind him was an older gentleman with a cane and what looked like crooked foot. I got up and brushed the dirt off my clothes. It was weird because Jake and I were wearing clothes, yet we weren’t wearing clothes. Our clothes looked and felt like imaginary ghosts wrapped around our body.
The older gentleman was peering at me from behind a weathered face. He had his white hair cropped closed to his head and a black bowler’s hat on. He kind of looked like a painting I’d seen in a museum especially with his black bowler hat, gray pin striped vest and old fashioned Edwardian jacket. When I looked down at his crooked foot, I felt a sudden wave of compassion because of his deformity. When I looked into eyes however, my compassion faded. The old man’s eyes were cold, icy and dark. There was no welcoming smile on his face. Instead he looked over my insolently inspecting my wares and stripping my clothes off with his eyes. I looked back at Jake but I saw nothing odd about him and I wondered who the old man might be. Warning bells were going off in my head but like my girlfriend’s voices, the sounds were far away and muffled. I wanted to ask Jake who his friend was but when I tried to open my mouth and speak, no sound came out. Strangely I wasn’t freaked out by this and just closed my mouth again.
Jake held a hand out to me and I stared at it because it was the biggest hand I’d ever seen in my life, kind of like one of those giant cartoon hands. I looked up at Jake and his wonderfully radiant smile was beaming at me like the sun had suddenly risen in his face. The light emanating from his whole face dazzled me. And it was ordinary sunlight either but something stronger, like an artificial searchlight. My eyes hurt and I kept blinking them because his light was burning my eyes and they felt raw.
I looked down again at Jake’s hand and saw that it had shrunk to normal. His hand looked so welcoming and looked like the only normal thing in this weird vision I was having. I put my hand in his and felt Jake’s fingers close around mine in a vice like grip, which oddly did not hurt. I mean, I thought that I should be feeling pain because I could see my hands turning white but no pain sensations were registering in my brain.
Jake turned toward the edge of the cliff and started slowly walking towards the edge. I had no choice but to follow him since he was holding my hand so tightly. I noticed that the creepy old man had stepped ahead of Jake and was now in front of him. We got to the edge of the precipice with the old man in front, then Jake then me. The old man turned around, tipped his hat off to me, then to Jake and then jumped into the void still holding his cane. I watched in horror as the old man disappeared into the mists below. I knew Jake was going to do the same and that he was going to take me with him.
Jake stepped to the edge of the cliff and made me stand along side of him. We both stood there and looking out across the voice at the mountains on the other end. Jake turned his head towards and I looked and heard him say. “Don’t be afraid Jennifer. It’s just dark down there. Just follow me and you’ll be okay,.” Jake sounded so achingly sweet and so comforting. What did I have to lose by jumping with him into the dark? I knew he would take care of me. I smiled at Jake and he smiled back and then he motioned with his eyes that we should jump. Then we jumped and all I saw was black.
“Jen?”. I heard Jake’s voice cutting through my reverie.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Jake was whispering in my ear and nibbling. My ears were very sensitive to breaths, kisses and nibbles and Jake was sending shivers up my spine.
“Yes, master.”
*************************
Wednesday, November 21, 2001
Below is a portion of my novel. This is a first draff and as such very rough and wordy.
***********************
Torture. It’s such an odd little word for me. It’s a subject I’ve been obsessed about for a long time and something I keep secret. I mean, none of my friends even know about it, not even Allie. And it’s not that I don’t trust or anything like that. And it’s not like I think she would think I was some kind of nut or something because she’s told me some S&M and stories of her own. But that’s where she and I differ. To Allie and I think to most people, torture, S&M is something you do when you’re bored with regular sex. It’s different and it’s exciting because it’s so forbotten in our christian culture to want to be hurt or give hurt. But that’s not how I think about torture.
I think it all started because my mother was such a catholic nut and made me go to church with her several times a week. I mean, you can only look at the statue of Christ nailed on the cross with the blood trickling down his hands and his feet so many times, without wondering what that felt like. And then if you’re an imaginative young girl like me, you get into the whole catholic thing of wanting to suffer with Christ and hearing stories about stigmata. According to my American Heritage dictionary, and I should know because this definition has been reverberating in my brain since I was eight years old, stigmata is the mark or sores corresponding to and resembling the crucifixion wounds of Jesus, sometimes occurring during religious ecstasy or hysteria.
Maybe it was the part about religious ecstasy or even religious hysteria that I liked. All I know is that at eight years old, I prayed for stigmata to appear in my hands and feet. I wanted to be like Christ and I especially wanted to suffer with him. I wanted to be called to Christ like the Catholic nuns said they were in Sunday school. I wanted Christ to call me to suffer with him and make stigmata appear in my hands. My favorite time of the year was Easter because every Friday we went to Stations of the Cross Mass where you relive Christ’s journey to the cross. Every catholic church has scenes of this journey, fourteen of them in all, so the parishioners can suffer weekly with Christ in the weeks leading up to Easter every Friday after Ash Wednesday.
Looking back on it now, I think the Catholic Church does it to whip up hysteria so when Easter finally arrives you’re so glad that Jesus has resurrected because you’ve been racked by guilt every Friday during the Stations of the Cross mass. Of course, the Stations of the Cross mass is only attended by the very devotional like my mother and their children who they drag along because unless you have family or older children, Friday night is the worse night to get a babysitter. But even if my mother could get a babysitter, I think she’d still drag me along with her every Friday thinking it was part of my Catholic education. Perhaps it was her way of making up for the fact that she never wanted me to go Catholic school like all my other friends at church.
Mama always said that girls who went to Catholic school went in as innocent young girls and came out as chain smoking sluts who wore too much makeup. Mama went to a catholic school so I guess she knew about that. She said she was determined that I would never suffer the same fate, so I attended public school where I grew very cynical about the Catholic church and all of its teachings and doctrines.
But when I was eight, I was innocent and very catholic and I cried during every station, especially during station 11 when Jesus is nailed to the cross. I could imagine the force of every hit of the hammer as the nail went into first his right hand, then his left. The nail crushing through the skin, the tendons and into the bones and finally coming out the other side. And then the same procedure repeated on the left hand and then finally the nailing of the feet so he didn’t just hang off the cross by his hands.
Sometimes someone in the mass, almost always a woman, would wail and cry as if it was actually happening to her or as if she was actually there. And when I looked around, I sometimes saw other women with tears silently flowing down their faces through their black veils. My mother never cried. Her face was always the same, stoic and I often wondered whether she felt anything like what I did. I guess, she must have because we attended Stations of the Cross every Friday during Lent until I left home for college. Funny for a religious family, we never talked much about religion so I never really knew what she thought about the Stations. Except for than one time I asked her about Stations when I was fifteen years old and had stopped wanting to go to church with her on Fridays for Stations; one of very few of episodes of my teenage rebellion. My mother looked at me in the kitchen and said, “The purpose of the Stations of the Cross young lady, is to remind us of the effects of sin and salvation won for us through the suffering and resurrection of Jesus. You are supposed go to mass so you can think about your sins during each stations and then renounce them and Jesus to be your lord and savior so he can forgive your sins.”
“But mom, I’ve already accepted Jesus as my lord and savior when I got confirmed. Why do I have to every Friday night?”
“Because you are not sinless and neither am I?” I kept arguing but I knew it was useless; I could never talk my mother out of sin argument. My mother had a memory like a computer when it came to my wrongdoings and whenever I tried to get out of going to church, she would throw in my face every sin she thought I committed. After about half an hour of listening to a litany of my sins, I just gave up.
Of course, stigmata never appeared in my hands that Easter or any Easter after that. But I never forgot how I longed for the feeling of pain and stigmata and to be called by Christ. When I got older, I used to dream of being a nun like all good catholic girls, because that would mean that Christ had chosen me to “a bride of Christ”. Maybe he wouldn’t give stigmata, but at least he would ask me to his bride and suffer and shave my head and wear those hot and ugly outfits the nuns wore.
But like the stigmata, the call never came and instead boys and sex became my religion. The only other time that torture came up in my youth was in my ninth grade english class was when I had to read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book “The Scarlett Letter. The Reverend Arthur Dimsdale used whip himself for his sin of having an affair with Hester Pryne. It was then that I found out that whipping was an acceptable form of self punishment for a catholic as well as a christian. It’s funny how that never came up in Sunday school. Maybe you had to go catholic school to learn that and that’s why my mother never wanted me to go to one.
When I researched it at the library, I found out that catholics and christians throughout the centuries used to whip themselves for their sins and do all sort of other sorts of self punishments to atone for their sins. After the whipping or other self-punishment, the person felt absolved and some might say achieved some sort of religious ecstasy through the process. After that I tried to whip myself once with my own belt, but I couldn’t quite hit my back and when I finally succeeded, it hurt too much. Self-punishment was definitely not for me. No, if I was going to be tortured I would have to someone whip me or make me feel physical pain in some way. I could never do it myself like Reverend Dimsdale and those early christians.
After freshman year in high school, I never really thought much about my feelings about torture. I mean, sometimes it would come up when I was having sex with a boyfriend but it just a sexual game like being blindfolded or being tied to the bed with ropes or having anal sex as some of my friends would say. But it was never anything serious; it was always just for fun. With Jake, I knew it would be different but I just didn’t know how. And part of me, maybe that part of me that’s still eight and still loved stigmata and wanted to know what it was like, really liked Jake for that very reason.
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Torture. It’s such an odd little word for me. It’s a subject I’ve been obsessed about for a long time and something I keep secret. I mean, none of my friends even know about it, not even Allie. And it’s not that I don’t trust or anything like that. And it’s not like I think she would think I was some kind of nut or something because she’s told me some S&M and stories of her own. But that’s where she and I differ. To Allie and I think to most people, torture, S&M is something you do when you’re bored with regular sex. It’s different and it’s exciting because it’s so forbotten in our christian culture to want to be hurt or give hurt. But that’s not how I think about torture.
I think it all started because my mother was such a catholic nut and made me go to church with her several times a week. I mean, you can only look at the statue of Christ nailed on the cross with the blood trickling down his hands and his feet so many times, without wondering what that felt like. And then if you’re an imaginative young girl like me, you get into the whole catholic thing of wanting to suffer with Christ and hearing stories about stigmata. According to my American Heritage dictionary, and I should know because this definition has been reverberating in my brain since I was eight years old, stigmata is the mark or sores corresponding to and resembling the crucifixion wounds of Jesus, sometimes occurring during religious ecstasy or hysteria.
Maybe it was the part about religious ecstasy or even religious hysteria that I liked. All I know is that at eight years old, I prayed for stigmata to appear in my hands and feet. I wanted to be like Christ and I especially wanted to suffer with him. I wanted to be called to Christ like the Catholic nuns said they were in Sunday school. I wanted Christ to call me to suffer with him and make stigmata appear in my hands. My favorite time of the year was Easter because every Friday we went to Stations of the Cross Mass where you relive Christ’s journey to the cross. Every catholic church has scenes of this journey, fourteen of them in all, so the parishioners can suffer weekly with Christ in the weeks leading up to Easter every Friday after Ash Wednesday.
Looking back on it now, I think the Catholic Church does it to whip up hysteria so when Easter finally arrives you’re so glad that Jesus has resurrected because you’ve been racked by guilt every Friday during the Stations of the Cross mass. Of course, the Stations of the Cross mass is only attended by the very devotional like my mother and their children who they drag along because unless you have family or older children, Friday night is the worse night to get a babysitter. But even if my mother could get a babysitter, I think she’d still drag me along with her every Friday thinking it was part of my Catholic education. Perhaps it was her way of making up for the fact that she never wanted me to go Catholic school like all my other friends at church.
Mama always said that girls who went to Catholic school went in as innocent young girls and came out as chain smoking sluts who wore too much makeup. Mama went to a catholic school so I guess she knew about that. She said she was determined that I would never suffer the same fate, so I attended public school where I grew very cynical about the Catholic church and all of its teachings and doctrines.
But when I was eight, I was innocent and very catholic and I cried during every station, especially during station 11 when Jesus is nailed to the cross. I could imagine the force of every hit of the hammer as the nail went into first his right hand, then his left. The nail crushing through the skin, the tendons and into the bones and finally coming out the other side. And then the same procedure repeated on the left hand and then finally the nailing of the feet so he didn’t just hang off the cross by his hands.
Sometimes someone in the mass, almost always a woman, would wail and cry as if it was actually happening to her or as if she was actually there. And when I looked around, I sometimes saw other women with tears silently flowing down their faces through their black veils. My mother never cried. Her face was always the same, stoic and I often wondered whether she felt anything like what I did. I guess, she must have because we attended Stations of the Cross every Friday during Lent until I left home for college. Funny for a religious family, we never talked much about religion so I never really knew what she thought about the Stations. Except for than one time I asked her about Stations when I was fifteen years old and had stopped wanting to go to church with her on Fridays for Stations; one of very few of episodes of my teenage rebellion. My mother looked at me in the kitchen and said, “The purpose of the Stations of the Cross young lady, is to remind us of the effects of sin and salvation won for us through the suffering and resurrection of Jesus. You are supposed go to mass so you can think about your sins during each stations and then renounce them and Jesus to be your lord and savior so he can forgive your sins.”
“But mom, I’ve already accepted Jesus as my lord and savior when I got confirmed. Why do I have to every Friday night?”
“Because you are not sinless and neither am I?” I kept arguing but I knew it was useless; I could never talk my mother out of sin argument. My mother had a memory like a computer when it came to my wrongdoings and whenever I tried to get out of going to church, she would throw in my face every sin she thought I committed. After about half an hour of listening to a litany of my sins, I just gave up.
Of course, stigmata never appeared in my hands that Easter or any Easter after that. But I never forgot how I longed for the feeling of pain and stigmata and to be called by Christ. When I got older, I used to dream of being a nun like all good catholic girls, because that would mean that Christ had chosen me to “a bride of Christ”. Maybe he wouldn’t give stigmata, but at least he would ask me to his bride and suffer and shave my head and wear those hot and ugly outfits the nuns wore.
But like the stigmata, the call never came and instead boys and sex became my religion. The only other time that torture came up in my youth was in my ninth grade english class was when I had to read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book “The Scarlett Letter. The Reverend Arthur Dimsdale used whip himself for his sin of having an affair with Hester Pryne. It was then that I found out that whipping was an acceptable form of self punishment for a catholic as well as a christian. It’s funny how that never came up in Sunday school. Maybe you had to go catholic school to learn that and that’s why my mother never wanted me to go to one.
When I researched it at the library, I found out that catholics and christians throughout the centuries used to whip themselves for their sins and do all sort of other sorts of self punishments to atone for their sins. After the whipping or other self-punishment, the person felt absolved and some might say achieved some sort of religious ecstasy through the process. After that I tried to whip myself once with my own belt, but I couldn’t quite hit my back and when I finally succeeded, it hurt too much. Self-punishment was definitely not for me. No, if I was going to be tortured I would have to someone whip me or make me feel physical pain in some way. I could never do it myself like Reverend Dimsdale and those early christians.
After freshman year in high school, I never really thought much about my feelings about torture. I mean, sometimes it would come up when I was having sex with a boyfriend but it just a sexual game like being blindfolded or being tied to the bed with ropes or having anal sex as some of my friends would say. But it was never anything serious; it was always just for fun. With Jake, I knew it would be different but I just didn’t know how. And part of me, maybe that part of me that’s still eight and still loved stigmata and wanted to know what it was like, really liked Jake for that very reason.
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