Poem: Tetris as a Relationship Analogy

This is a poem written for Towel Day/Geek Pride Day.

3… 2… 1…
In the early days it was easy
We slotted together so perfectly
For my every quirk
You had the reverse
Like an enzyme – a key to fit every lock
And together we broke everything down
We erased every block on the screen
And we were free
Just you and me.

Those falling blocks seemed gifted from the heavens
We were on a never-ending winning streak
Riding the wave of good fortune
Perfect fit after perfect fit
And we laughed – wide-eyed – that we were getting away with murder
Couldn’t believe how many last-minute changes
We could make work

We had lazy days – on autopilot – where everything just went to plan
We didn’t even have a plan
But our Zs and Ns stacked to the left and right in neat little piles
Os in the middle tessellated into neat lego-brick walls and melted away
And even though we were only half awake, everything fit perfectly, without a thought
We were entranced together, while that tune hummed around and around
Those blocks swimming before my eyes even when you weren’t there.

And I’ve heard you can actually win at this game
That with a high enough score a rocket appears
And you just fly off into happily ever after
And I don’t know if that’s true or not
I’ve only ever heard rumours and fairytales
But if I ever was going to make it –
I just know it’d be this game. With you.

But then we hit pause. Just for a minute. Some real life stuff got in the way.
(Dinner time.)
But when we came back nothing was the same
Our winning streak was gone
It started with one little gap –
I’d said L
You could’ve matched my L
You act soppier than me and you’re leaving a 2-block gap here
Would it really kill you to say you L me too?

And it wasn’t great, but we’d fix it later
But that later never came.

We stacked our tetrominoes around it, higher and higher
But the gaps grew with every layer
Seriously, what were you thinking putting that T there like that?
Or leaving your Top Gear magazines and dirty socks all over my floor?
You were all Zs and Ns misaligned
And I was waiting for the I
I’d lost where I fit in
Seriously where’s that fucking I? It could solve everything

But our screen is filling up too fast
And the last-minute changes no longer work
We don’t get away with murder anymore
We don’t get away with anything
And now the world is piling in on us
And there isn’t the room turn around
Because we’re moving too fast to fix
There isn’t even time to roll your Is
Because it’s moving in split seconds
Faster and faster and then

In bullet-time slow motion detail I see
The final tetrominoes entomb our screen

For you and me, it’s:

Game over.

We had a good run.

Poem: Permission

An International Women’s Day Poem. Cross-posted from my web-publishing site The Whippersnapper Press.

Permission

This is for the women who don’t ask permission
To be themselves.
This is for the women who are done with working on their contentment
And started working on their lot.

This is for the women whose posture says
“Fuck you, punk. I got this covered.
Maybe I’ll call you. Maybe.”
This is for the women who’ve come too damn far
To waste their time worrying whether you approve.
This is for the women who wear what they want, swear how they want,
Drink and fuck and love and fight and wring every ounce like it’s only their business.
Because it is.
And they’ve realised.

This is for the girl in class who’s done with playing dumb-
Yes, she knows the answer-
Yes no one else has put their hand up for the last ten minutes-
Yes the teacher is looking past her raised hand asking-
“Does anyone know the answer? Anyone… else?”
But she’ll be damned if she’s gonna hide her own light.

This is for the gaybar barmaids who know their regulars inside and out
And wear those memories proud, like diamonds.
This is for the sweet little old lady
With the dirtiest laugh in the nursing home.
This is for my Godmother Sara – terminal, regal,
And educating her doctors about the munchies.

This is for the liberated women who worked past violence and ridicule
To ensure their daughters never needed to be liberated-
Their daughters were never enslaved.

This is for the tough old birds and the earnest youngsters
Who know that life is too personal, too precious, too Goddamn important
To let the magazines take a slice.

This is for the women who’ve stopped counting calories
And started counting stars.

This is for Dorothy Parker’s forked tongue
Patti Smith’s horses
Boudicca’s chariots
And Rosa Parks’ tired feet.
This is for the women we could be, can be, will be
Just as soon as we stop asking permission
To be.

© Hannah Eiseman-Renyard 2013

Book Review: Dorian

Dorian by Will Self

I Liked this Better Than the Original

A literary re-write is a difficult thing to do well, but Will Self does it. I think Self works better within the restraints of this form, (versus his bloated books The Butt or The Book of Dave) and the new twists Self adds to the tale work wonders.

There is no one picture – there is a modern art installation of multiple videos of Dorian – and he has to track down and hide each and every one – adding to the drama which was missing in the original. The debauched, druggy Lords and Ladies work brilliantly in a mid-80s setting, as does the masterstroke of using the HIV epidemic to hasten the aging process for all other characters. This also adds to the suspicion around Dorian’s miraculous escape from such a fate.

In retrospect – I realise a little more about what was implied in the original The Picture of Dorian Gray – why Dorian’s implied sleeping about was just so dangerous and evil (syphilis epidemic, anyone?) but, through no fault of Wilde’s, he couldn’t state those things emphatically, and I think the original is weaker for not being able to really get down and nitty gritty with those themes.

This modern retelling is slightly lighter on the quotable quips, but I think the novel is stronger for it. Quips are great fun, but with Wilde’s original they can completely dominate scenes, whereas in this they merely give an impression of the characters. Henry is funny, acidic and mean, yes – but he doesn’t set the tone for every single scene. He remains a character who narrator Self pulls the strings on – not vice versa.

Book Review: Picture of Dorian Gray

Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Luscious and Badly Paced

Beautiful descriptions, beautiful quips, next to no editing going on here. Two whole pages dedicated to lists of the pretty things Dorian buys himself is definitely self-indulgent – but then what else could we expect of the great Oscar Wilde?

I loved this novel for its concept and for its myriad witticisms, though I didn’t find it had much going for it in suspense or horror. I haven’t read enough else from around this era to know if it’s just of its time, or if it’s just not Wilde’s strong point. Either way, it is a shame. Also, I think Wilde missed a trick in neither making Gray that scary a character (amoral, of course, but never really that menacing to the audience), nor showing more of the world from Gray’s point of view – which could have been fun.

The character of the theatre owner is where Wilde really lets himself down as a narrator. All Wilde can do to convey how unpleasant this man is, is talk about how revolting and Jewish he is. Reading this as a Jewish person (with what I hope will evolve to be a Wildean wit) – I found this more than a bit crap. Sure, anti-Semitism was of its time – suppose I can’t hold that one against His Oscar of Wildeness, but dude, seriously, find another adjective: The theatre owner was horrible because of his horrible Jew-like eyes, and his horrible Jew-like fingers, and his horrible Jewish smirk and…. I started thinking of Randy Newman’s Short People “They got little hands, little eyes/They walk around tellin’ great big lies.” Not your finest hour, Oscar. As a writer or otherwise.

Generally, this novel is a badly-paced combination of luscious, adjective-laden prose like you won’t get anywhere outside of romance fiction these days (believe it or not I mean that in a good way) and some brilliant one-liners. A fair few of them you’ve probably seen printed in collections of terribly clever quotes, and therefore they will have lost their sheen a bit, but there’s also plenty that you probably haven’t heard, and they’re damn good too.

I’m not quite sure what Wilde was aiming for in his overarching theme which appears to be beauty = evil, but at the same time, he hardly makes a case for unattractive = good (I refer you to our Jewish theatre owner). The more I’ve learnt of Wilde’s life the more all the characters fall into place as real people, which is an interesting twist. Wooton is definitely Wilde himself – firecracker-quick with the quips, and all about the decadence and enjoying ‘corrupting’ others (in ways which will have to be inferred), while the ambiguous, unknowable Dorian was (I’d venture to guess) Lord Alfred Douglas (or “Bosie”) – the beautiful aristocratic kiddo who’s father started all the trials which landed Wilde in ignominy and prison. Bosie never once wrote to Wilde when he was in prison – despite receiving many letters from him, the young shit. Not to mention Wilde’s keeping company with so many rent-boys which he described as like “dining with panthers” – dangerous, but thrilling. I’d say it’s safe to venture that this novel is Wilde himself wrestling with the contradictions of what one who appears so angelic is yet capable of – but it doesn’t make for the tightest plot. The portrait in the attic is a strong and enduring image, but don’t dig too deep on the whys and hows. The plot’s not got much more depth than the canvas.

Good canvas, though.

Book Review: An Adult Evening of Shel Silverstein

An Adult Evening of Shel Silverstein by Shel Silverstein

A Forgotten Classic

I am forever grateful to my university’s drama society for putting on An Adult Evening of Shel Silverstein, and opening my eyes to the wonder of Uncle Shelby’s adult stuff.

Quick word of warning: this is a lot closer to Freakin’ at the Freakers’ Ball than The Giving Tree.

It’s a series of dramatic shorts, each one riffing around two or three characters interacting in a dark, twisted, well observed, and often hilarious situation. Yes, it’s a script, and I don’t normally read scripts in my spare time, but this is what writing should be, and you’d be a fool to pass it up.

As is often the way with a collection – the quality does vary a little from skit to skit – but when Shel Silverstein is not at his best it’s only ‘not superlative’, and when he’s good: it’s so good you’ll be stopping friends, family and passers-by to read it out to them – because you want to see that look on someone else’s face as these beauties hit them for the first time.

This book has no production values whatsoever, no Amazon reviews and very little in the way of Google-hits, but I beg you – for your sake and for the greater good of humanity: give this book a go and spread the word.

Book Review: Scar Tissue

Scar Tissue – by Anthony Kiedis

Cliff Notes to Anecdotes

I’m about halfway through and I’m reconsidering how much I like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Their front man is such a douche.

Anthony Kiedis did a lot of wild/asshole things, but as he re-tells them he runs through each anecdote at a bored, breakneck speed – only sketching the barest of facts: “I did this substance and I did that substance, I caused X bit of destruction in Y place and then I cheated on my girlfriend with this sweet, dark-haired girl. I like dark haired girls. Then my girlfriend was mad at me…” all with no emotional engagement with the facts.

I’m not saying I want him to be wearing sackcloth and ashes, it’s just that he really never gets outside his own actions, or – indeed - inside his own head. As a reader you’re never there with him, you’re being taken on a guided tour of his past and Kiedis has run through all these anecdotes so many times that he’s on autopilot.

It’s a worn-out script. He’s a douche. And if he’s this bored retelling it, then that same boredom rubs off on the audience.

Oh, and he thinks his grandmother being some small fraction Native American explains why he’s so spiritual. Excuse me while I snigger.

Street Harassment or ‘How I Learned to Stop Loving Cat Noises When They Come from Creepy Dudes’

This post originally appeared in Bad Reputation – a feminist pop-culture adventure – on 5 December 2012

I was walking home recently, across a busy bit of central London, after dark, when some dude made kissy noises at me, like he was trying to tempt a cat. He was two feet away, staring straight at me and smirking like an icky weasel.

Without thinking I responded in kind with a big, angry, I-will-slash-you hiss.

DESIST

He looked pretty taken aback.

I carried on my way and mused that I appear to speak feline like a mothertongue, but also I got to thinking: what the ever-loving crap?! Seriously, what on earth was he expecting from that encounter? What would a positive result have been? Surely that’s never worked for anyone, right?

Ah, street harassment. It’s been a few months. Usually my experience of you is relegated to when I’m wearing a summer dress (gender norms for the lose) but it sucks whenever it happens. It’s also antithetical to ever actually getting my interest because – no matter how many mad cat-lady vibes I’ve got going on – no one who thinks they can approach me like a pet is getting the time of day.

This particular encounter didn’t throw me much because I actually had a comeback – I walked away pleased with myself for thinking fast – but how you deflect it shouldn’t be the first point of call. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS?

Far more often it’s crap shouted from cars – which I find rubbish twice over because they’ve gone before you can say or do anything in response. (Come back right now, dudebro. I have a LOT to say about what you just did.)

A friend of mine recently had some jerk shout “nice tits!” at her from a car. She was (understandably) angry and upset for the rest of the day, but the guy shouting it might have told himself it was a compliment – some interviews with street harassers have revealed what is either complete ignorance or willing ignorance of the effect it has on women. Many of the men, when asked why they do it, say it’s a compliment and it makes women feel nice.

Maybe it is a compliment for a very small percentage of people – I cannot claim to speak for everybody – but I am yet to meet or hear of one person who’s had a catcall, wolf-whistle or similar and felt good about it. The thing about street harassment is, it’s not flirting. Street harassment doesn’t make a person feel good because it isn’t about a person: it’s boiling them down to their physical attributes (‘nice tits’, ‘nice ass’) and funnily enough that doesn’t feel great..

“News of your interest in my ‘nice butt’ has not made my day in any way.”

The other thing is, it’s almost never a conversation: mostly ’cause the objects of the harassment aren’t interested and want to get on with their day, and also because often it’s at a remove – stuff shouted from cars, or (to use the cliché) from scaffolding. The people doing the shouting don’t actually expect a response. This isn’t a tool used to chat up women: it’s used to silence them. Under the guise of a compliment it’s a one-way street of objectification.

And Objectification Street is a crappy street. Seriously, I looked at a flat there once. There were rats all over the place and it smelled bad.

Of course, if people are physically closer to the harassers it doesn’t exactly get better. The wonderful (and award-winning) Anti-Street Harassment UK campaign (ASH UK) was set up after its founder was harassed by a group of men who were initially shouting at her from a car, threatened to rape her, then got out of the car and followed her into a tube station where they assaulted her. The police (who did intervene) then blamed her for responding to them and said “boys will be boys.” SO. MUCH. FAIL.

Um… *cough* male readers – this is essentially Met officers saying your entire gender are all hopeless gropey asshats. Erm… *cough* I wouldn’t take that.

So -what can you do?

Well, the first step is breaking down the idea that it’s either normal or OK. It’s neither, and we need to spread the word. Thou shalt not take shit, and (not that our readers should need telling) thou shalt not dish it out, either.

Read up on it – from the likes of stopstreetharassment.org to this brilliant video on street harassment and women of colour

Check out Jezebel’s ongoing street harassment category, and call catcalling out for the asshattery it is.

Those who want some background on why people are often hostile to approaches on the street would do very well to read this blog post ‘Schrodinger’s Rapist’. (Heavy but a thousand times worth it.)

And in the meantime, don’t let that ‘compliment’ strawman argument derail you on your quest for gender justice.

And, since you’ve been such a good class of gender justice warriors today, I’m going to let you finish early and watch a video:

“Sweetheart, please stop perpetuating the patriarchial dividend – it’s so over” should be on a t-shirt. I would buy that shirt.

And that’s a wrap. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go back to more important things – like buying cat food for my wonderful kitty – because some cat-calls are nice. The ones that come from an actual cat.*

*Not Schrodinger’s cat. Schrodinger is a meanie.