there were wrecks and wrecks, the keeper said

clifflayer / poet / Carrie Lorig / teen witch queen bitch / Marie in Gold Marie in Tar / ample standbeest / quizzical carrier of tacos / resident bone vase / email: carrie.lorig@gmail.com

/ is a nest an animal too?

How I Feel / Towards Women / Our Portals / The Realities of Physical + Verbal Abuse / Perpetuated

Our literature community and its support was my shadow school / my relief / my home throughout a great deal of the more difficult and horrific parts of graduate school, and that’s what I want it to feel like for other young women. A blossom haven. A thing that has the potential to free you.

However, I think I sometimes forget how tangible / bloody it is that though poetry taught me how to finally speak, it also showed me, vividly, how I would be killed / how so many bodies are killed. As artists / humans who believe in the totality of language’s possibilities and are no strangers to the notion of language as an explosive, fluctuating medium / tool, we have to believe there are real parts in language and real parts in practitioners / teachers / communities of language that have consistent potential to fester / harm / damage / kill.

I’m buying the Emily Dickinson Tarot Card deck today and writing more because I want to believe we can divine, shed, ribbon, glitter, howl, burn, converse through this as slowly and painfully as we need to. The edge of danger is always looking different and endless to me, and I am always afraid / aloud / turning to you.

Undercurrent: I found out I won’t be paid for adjuncting until I have worked for ten unpaid weeks. And then, I will only be paid for four. I’m tired / sad in ways I’m not sure how to cope with / unravel (even now, I’m saying to myself: you sound whiny, you sound ungrateful, what if phD schools read this.) I’m teaching two classes Lidia Yuknavitch’s “Explicit Violence” on Wednesday, and I’m v. scared. What many of you have been saying has been one of the only things keeping me brave. I don’t know. Red vibes. Red sand. Thank you for working yourself into me.  

belishabeacons:

The rape culture continues because you let it
When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didn’t admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact I’d had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an ‘insanely good’ sex life.I didn’t hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong.The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.
And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me.Every now and then, though, I’d come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and I’m transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didn’t know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse.But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. “Grey sex” only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. “No,” I said softly. “Come on,” he said. “No,” I said more forcefully. “It’s my birthday video,” he muttered. I relented.He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying “no, no, no.”Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, I’d ask. No, I’d plead. More ‘you’re fat’ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:
"Why aren’t you enjoying this? God dammnit, why aren’t you enjoying this?"All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isn’t rape. What happened to me wasn’t rape.What happened to me wasn’t abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again.It was my fault. It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I asked. He smiled, always. “Because you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?”I tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. It’s my fault that I obsess about it.And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldn’t obsess about that either. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me they’d look after me and make sure he didn’t come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, “I think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.”I tell myself it’s my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didn’t know if I had the strength to exist without him. And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough.I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost.My words to him made me lose.So what are my words now?

belishabeacons:

The rape culture continues because you let it

When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didn’t admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. 

No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact I’d had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an ‘insanely good’ sex life.

I didn’t hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong.

The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.

And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me.

Every now and then, though, I’d come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and I’m transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didn’t know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse.

But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. “Grey sex” only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. “No,” I said softly. “Come on,” he said. “No,” I said more forcefully. “It’s my birthday video,” he muttered. I relented.

He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying “no, no, no.”

Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, I’d ask. No, I’d plead. More ‘you’re fat’ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:

"Why aren’t you enjoying this? God dammnit, why aren’t you enjoying this?"

All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isn’t rape. What happened to me wasn’t rape.

What happened to me wasn’t abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again.

It was my fault. 

It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I asked. He smiled, always. “Because you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?”

I tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. It’s my fault that I obsess about it.

And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldn’t obsess about that either. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me they’d look after me and make sure he didn’t come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, “I think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.”

I tell myself it’s my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didn’t know if I had the strength to exist without him. 

And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough.

I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost.

My words to him made me lose.

So what are my words now?

(via hollerinfeelings)

themason:

sarahjeanalex:

About a month ago, Sophia Katz told me she was raped by a former friend and roommate of mine when she visited New York this past May. Yesterday, she published a piece chronicling the sexual abuse she experienced that week, using a pseudonym for her rapist. I shared the piece on multiple platforms and commended her bravery. I said, “This is very important, everyone should read this.” I said “We need to protect and support rape victims, defend young girls in the indie lit community against predatorial, privileged men.” Other people liked the post, shared it, added more supportive comments. But by the end of the day, there was no further discussion about it. No one asked who he is, even though he is an editor within a community we all participate in.

And then I realized, I hadn’t either.

I had felt afraid of ‘starting that war’ against him. I realized that maybe people were afraid to ask who he was because they already knew. Maybe he was someone they considered a friend. Maybe identifying him as a rapist made them uncomfortable and sad. Maybe they didn’t believe it.

I lived with this person for a year. I listened to the way he spoke about his exgirlfriend after she broke up with him. I listened when he told me he “didn’t see the point of hanging out with any of his female friends” because at the end of the day he doesn’t get to fuck them. I pulled my piece from his magazine that he had solicited me for because I no longer wanted to support the career of a casual misogynist.

We shouldn’t be afraid to discuss this publicly when Sophia has been brave enough to call out her abuser in a community where he has immense support and friendship. Stephen Tully Dierks should not be shielded because he is or was our friend. We should hold our friends as accountable as we hold everyone else, if not more.

Having to cajole someone into sleeping with you doesn’t mean you had consent. Especially if you had power over them (the ability to kick them to the curb in an unfamiliar city, for example).

To all the men out there: Read Katz’s story. Don’t just admonish Stephen, push yourself further. Think about your own past. Think about what consent has meant to you in the past and what it means to you now. Look at the standards you’ve set for yourself — were they enough? Are they enough? Do you need to hold yourself and others to a higher standard?

I’m tired of being brave

venusofnatalie:

This happens all the time. I’m upset that it happens. I’m upset that the men who do this don’t even realize what they are doing is rape. It would mean you have gone from a man to a rapist and this is to be resisted for as long as desire and silence breathe in the same space as disgust and silence. Our actions do define us sometimes, even and especially when you would believe they wouldn’t, couldn’t.

I went on my first OkCupid date in 2009 with a man whom I had briefly encountered months earlier at a party. I believed that this first date would certainly be a safe first date. He was responsible, well-liked, wore designer glasses, spoke Mandarin, looked like a movie star. And when I was no longer held down by booze or his body I left and it was 5 AM and I vomited in a garbage can and this dirty man on the street called me a thing I forget how to repeat because of how repetitive this thing I am appears in eyes of men and when I got on the train with his stuff still drying on my stomach and when I could not go back to sleep and let myself say to the walls “I let him do that” and when I could not go back to sleep he texted me to say he had a great night and if I had interest in dinner. If he could not see the wrong that was done then certainly, I thought, no wrong was done to me. I had a crisp notion that my body was again a thing to be entered and so what was the harm. I didn’t go on a second date with him. I ignored his texts and eventually he went to China.

I wanted to say something else when I started putting words down about this. There is a disconnect in perception to what happens when we find ourselves in intimate quarters with somebody else. This membraneous skin forms over these types of sexual encounters so that when one person exhibits signs of discomfort and when the other person only views this discomfort as potential rejection, this is to be resisted for as long as it takes to remove the potential rejection from the equation. As if fucking is the sole balm against present insecurities. My way of dealing with these bad memories has always been to intellectualize them, which now I see is one more form of repression. I’ve settled for a long on this notion that I should be compassionate towards those who have done me harm because how they perceive what they did to my body and how I perceive what was done to my body are vastly different, pleasure and harm on opposite ends of a spectrum, never touching, never grazing. So then I/we settle again on words fed by the patriarchy like “overblown,” “dramatized,” even “attention-seeking.” They move to China, they invite you to their wedding, they send you Linked In emails. But then Tiffany but then Sophia, they say Yes This Happened and Yes It Was Wrong and Here They Are, They Who Did This. I don’t give a fuck about being brave. I care about speaking. These strong women, they spoke the very hard language of their damage. They spoke to their communities, to several communities, and thank fucking god people are listening.

"In the context of these influences, what allows women to become free of concerns about the reactions they or their work will provoke? I’ve found that the fundamental shift for women happens when we internalize the fact that all substantive work brings both praise and criticism. Many women carry the unconscious belief that good work will be met mostly — if not exclusively — with praise. Yet in our careers, the terrain is very different: Distinctive work, innovative thinking and controversial decisions garner supporters and critics, especially for women. We need to retrain our minds to expect and accept this."

— YES to everything Tara Mohr writes in this op-ed. To figure out which criticism is worth listening to, reference The Disapproval Matrix. (via annfriedman)

"i know you don’t care that much about money / but i’m gonna make some / take you out." 

(Source: Spotify)

radioactivemoat:

Stonepoems by Carrie Lorig & Sara Woods

NOW AVAILABLE FROM SOLAR LUXURIANCE

SL026, edition of 50 + 10
32 pages, 8.5” x 5.5”
$10.00 + s/h



Carrie Lorig is the author of the chapbook NODS. (Magic Helicopter Press) and several collaborative chapbooks, including Labor Day (Forklift, OH) with Nick Sturm and rootpoems (Radioactive Moat) with Sara Woods. A full length book, The Pulp vs. The Throne (Artifice Books) will be out in 2015.

Sara Woods is a transgender poet, artist & graphic designer living in Portland, OR. She is author of the books Sara or the Existence of Fire (Horse Less Press fall 2014) and Wolf Doctors (Artifice Books spring 2014). Find her online at moonbears.biz.

(Source: buffys, via soldier-on)

"Poetic knowledge is born in the great silence of scientific knowledge"

— Aime Cesaire (via iqblog)

(via curdspluswhey)