Strip Tease (revisiting old work)

I feel like for the longest time, I've been in the weirdest state of writers block, which feels so insanely counterintuitive and contradicting, that it's hard to make sense of. The thing is, I wake up every morning wanting to write, and I have things to write about, but it feels like there are so many things bouncing around my head, and each is so undeveloped. They're all like a ball of yarn, except the ball is not a single thread, but comprised of ten thousand, and they're all tangled in a horrible knot; this has become a recurring image in my writing because I feel like it's the closest I can come to making sense of the contortion in my mind. Every once in a while, one of the threads will come loose and I'll be able to get something out on the page, but most of the time I find myself rereading old work, finding it comforting to remember that I do have something in me.

I've found myself, so many times, sat in front of my laptop or notebook either pulling my hair back or rubbing my eyes until they're bloodshot red, because my thoughts are absolutely restless but it's as if I don't have access to them. As if I can't fully understand the person I am; I won't allow myself to see me bare enough to write about. It's odd, I'm somebody who prides themselves on being quite open and able to talk about myself with no holdbacks, yet when it comes to actually sitting down with myself I shrivel up. After suffering through a year and a half dry spell, around this time last year I wrote the poem April. I thought maybe that was the end, but after being unable to once again write anything, I found myself coming back to it; reading, rereading, rewriting, revisiting, et cetera, the poem for months.

Today was one of those days, and I came back to a poem I wrote in October 2019. Not knowing where to even begin, or what I was wanting to do. I had a newspaper in front of me, and with no intention or idea I decided to write some of it on there.

I then went back to the full poem and rewrote it 3 times on a piece of paper. I reread it, and recognised that this is the way I sound when I know I want to write about something, but the images and words aren't quite connected in my head, and I struggle to string them together. The structure and order didn't quite make sense, it was wordy, and didn't have a clear sense of a speaker. The idea of revisiting it and altering it felt almost as daunting as starting to write something new; what if I ruin it? Detach Yourself.

When I look at the old version of the first stanza, I think the thing that bothered me the most about it was all of the questions; it seemed too forced and unnatural. As if the idea and image were there, but not the words to say it. It sounded messy.

I remember the poem started from a gif I saw, funnily enough, where a woman strips and turns into a skeleton.

I always try to lay a part of myself in the things I write, whether it's poems, short stories or blog posts. Sometimes it's just hard to separate and rummage through my thoughts and understand which part it is I am ready to unravel.

I pictured myself a performer, back on stage, stripping, and the audience comprised of everybody I had ever known; loved or briefly crossed paths with. Not stripping in the literal sense of the word, but rather becoming completely vulnerable; like a total encapsulation of everything personal I had ever written or said. I wanted to recreate the feeling I had every time I stepped on stage, the silence before the first words.

Moving on, I felt like if I was portraying a performance, the performer (or poem's speaker) needs to be somehow introduced. Simply jumping in wasn't enough 'grandiose', and creates a confusing distinction between the announcer, in the first stanza, and the performer, in the remainder of the poem. The stanza lines weren't too long, and the words were sparse, but somehow it still sounded wordy; probably because some of the words were kind of unnecessary; it seemed like they were thrown in with no intent. For example: the clarification of the "balancing act" after I already said I was balancing, as well as describing the rabbit hole as my "favourite", when there's nothing to distinguish it from any other.

In the revised version, I wanted to address the feeling of stillness and silence, almost as in slow motion, when a performer steps on stage. Also following up from my revision notes, I both introduce the speaker by having them step out on stage, and address the audience "you", as opposed to jumping into the 'performance'. I guess in this way I was trying to replicate and reiterate the feeling and atmosphere, versus simply describing an action.

Around the time when I wrote this, I had a pretty tough phone call with somebody, as I tried to make them understand how horrible I was feeling, my mental health deteriorating, and me unable to keep up with the pace of the world around me, losing grasp. Maybe one of the reasons, despite claiming to be open, I hold back is when it's most important, I find it almost impossible to reiterate my feelings. Whether the fault is in the way I'm saying something, or the listener, I feel like they just don't understand. The poem draws on images of frailness and breaking, I remember wanting to scream at the top of my lungs I am not okay, can you please just understand that I am not okay.

Whenever I write something, I always try to include little easter eggs which someone might read and think I know what she's referring to, only Nona could've written that, like the reference to the rabbit hole. I also try to reflect a sense of theatrical, something grand while using simple language. I always want to create a sense of drama without sounding too pompous, so sometimes when a poem is too wordy or sounds like rambling, I feel great unease with what I've written. Like this poem, I knew the image and idea were there, but I hated the way it looked on the page; something felt off.

Nothing I ever write will really feel like a finished product, at least not until it's published or posted, but I've taught myself to be patient and allow myself detachment to come back to things, and alter them. Even if it's six months later. This is what I've got for the time being:

Strip Tease

Ladies and Gentlemen, I kindly ask you to take your places,

If you are unsure of your assigned seat, don't hesitate to ask, why,

Phones off, chins leaning on the palms of your hands, eyes up.

This is a one-time performance, you'll want to catch every second,

Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for the big striptease!

Nobody claps, the room fills with drowning silence and darkness.

I step out into the hideous spotlight and stand before you, inhale,

Exhale, I begin to undress myself, starting in no particular order.

I pull my shirt off and throw it to the side, undo the button on my trousers,

Undo my bra, undo myself.

All while balancing on a tightrope, on its last strings.

I slip out of my trousers and watch them fall down the rabbit hole below,

While my bra and my neck play a balancing act of their own with my my shoulders;

My head with my neck. I wipe my face, bare, and crack my knuckles,

Bring the walls down and snap my wrists

I look out into the terrifying audience; empty faced, comprised of nobody

And everybody I had ever loved all at the same time.

With my broken hands I reach into my head and like a magician,

I pull out one thousand ribbons,

Tangled into a single knot, all different shades of the same colour.

Nobody was random, everybody's seat carefully selected and allocated,

I catch my father blank faced but teary eyed, front and centre.

I stop and wave hi dad, are you enjoying my performance?

Are you proud of me, daddy? You were there too, watching

Me finally undress and undo, pick at my skin

Until I was bare: a moving skeleton corpse I move my skeleton hands

Across every inch of my naked skeleton being,

Picking at the flaws like the skin of an easy peeler.

I know your view from the back is obstructed, but

Mommy, did you see that part? I hate myself too!

Now for the finale, Ladies and Gentlemen, I stand before you

Shattered, broken, naked and ugly, the most Me I have ever been.

With the orange peels carefully spread around me like confetti;

for the vain theatrical and the grandiose,

I myself jump down the rabbit hole.