Crabs
[admin / May 3rd, 2011 / Young Bright Things ]
Today is Tuesday and I transmit from a trailer in a trailer park on the southeast of town. The sun shines. The wind has tapered down. Weather’s about to turn for the warmer. I love warm. And my trailer is awesome. Did I mention that? This is home now. Republican country. I’m surrounded by Christians. Me, a liberal atheist, but if I keep my mouth shut in most people’s company, it’s fine. Lots of nice people around here.
I attended a luncheon today and heard this beautiful woman speak about how she’s beautiful. All comes down to attitude. Yeah, she’s physically beautiful and works out and is mindful of nutrition, but this woman exudes a spirit that dazzled me. Toward the end of her presentation this woman mentioned ”crab mentality.”  Have you heard of this? Apparently, if you put crabs in the same bucket and leave them then come back the next day, all the crabs will have remained in the bucket. Although, upon further investigation, you’ll notice a few crabs are missing legs. Apparently, when any one crab tries to climb out the bucket, the other crabs grab hold and pull him back in, sometimes so hard they rip his damned leg off. Like, where you going? You’re staying here with us.
This is a beautiful metaphor for how people drag each other down. I love it, how poignant it is. We’re all crabs in a bucket. It’s terrible. Even people who mean well will drag you the fuck down sometimes. All of a sudden, your sunshiny glow is wane. Which is what they wanted after all, even if they didn’t realize it.
Writers understand this better than most. We’re a population of people who are super sensitive to innuendo and nuance, but we’re also accustomed to a lack of empathy for what we do. In fact, what we do is a threat to other people sometimes because we’re tenacious and focused about it, so devoted we are to the task of writing, the process. It’s all consuming. We live for it. Like oxygen. I’m getting the fuck out of the bucket. Limbs or no limbs. Bye! Writing is my religion. Weird to people who don’t write; perhaps even blasphemy. But I have a passion, you see, a passion for something specific, something that demands time and energy, and some people wish I had that passion for something else. Years ago, I lived with this guy who told me  I loved writing more than him. Every time I sat down to write he said this. “You love writing more than me.” Eventually, it was true. Don’t get in my way is all I’m saying.
This morning I forgot why I take birth control pills. I don’t take them for thier intended use. I know that. So I had to think. Then I remembered. Estrogen minimizes my acne. Then I remembered the last time I had sex. That was 2008 in San Diego, a hotel room with my lover at the time who’d flown me to San Diego for a Stone Temple Pilots concert. Nothing turned me on more at the time than Scott Weiland, the lead singer for the Stone Temple Pilots, and my lover knew that. Such romance. He gave me Scott Weiland as foreplay and then we rocked the mattress half-way off the bed later. Priceless.
An old friend of mine just started reading my column here and sent me a message on Facebook about how she was a shocked by how blunt I am as a writer. Yeah. Well. This is the only forum in which I’m allowed to say what I want, what I think and feel. Otherwise, you know how many times a day I bite my tongue? Oh Jesus. A hundred times. In fact, today someone I know said, “I wish I could tell so-and-so exactly what I think,” and I was like, “Yes. Yes! YES.”
But who’s really going to say what they think? As honest and butt-ass naked as I’m willing to get here sometimes, I never say everything I want to say. If I was incognito, sure. I’d let some shit fly. There’s something to be said for writing a column not as yourself but as a super alter-ego. Yeah? A pen name. Yeah! Except, if I wouldn’t say it here as myself should I be saying it? Good question. I think as writers we have this responsibility to speak up and it’s always easier when we couch it as fiction. For instance, right now I’m reading Normally Special by xTx, and one story begins, ”It is difficult to masturbate about your father, but not impossible, as it turns out.” Who says that? I mean, really? Who the hell says that? A writer using a pen name writing fiction through an imaginary person’s eyes. That’s who. Listen. I LOVE xTx. You hear me? I love you. The story in question addresses the complicated and twisted psyche of a girl who’s father fucked her as a child. Man. I mean. Oh, man. Thank you. Sometimes fiction speaks more volumes of truth than non-fiction ever can. For one thing, truth in non-fiction causes all kinds of grief.
Example. Yesterday on Facebook, Shanna Germain shared an experience she’d had as a writer. About what happens when we write non-fiction as ourselves. No cover, not even a silk scarf. Several months ago, Shanna wrote this incredible essay for a website called F-Stop. The entire concept for F-Stop was brilliant. Writers bare their skin, bare their souls. Shanna’s essay was the first to go live and soon as I read it I knew, all over again, why I’m so in love with Shanna Germain. You hear me? I love you, Shanna, and I’m lucky to call you friend. The essay involved Shanna’s family. Consequently, a member of Shanna’s family discovered the essay, read it, then took offense. Which brings into question all sorts of things writers deal with, doesn’t it? For instance, I started to think about my own writing, what I’ve written here. The scabs I’ve pulled off and the blood I’ve let you taste. I still contend with a wounded child. She’s here in me, crying, and yet, she’s also a willful, prideful girl lashing out; she’s selfish.
At some point we all have to say, I’m responsible for the decisions I make, the actions I take. It’s not a lynch mob. I’m not burning anyone at the stake. I don’t write from a mean or spiteful place; I’m not vindictive. This isn’t Mommy Dearest. And neither was Shanna Germain’s essay. Still, when we write non-fiction, we take a risk, which brings me back to the whole using a pen name and saying everything I’d like to say. The fact I don’t use a pen name for my column, or my fiction for that matter, but mainly my column, keeps me honest. I speak only for me. Every writer will feel differently, obviously. But for me, using a pen name might free me from personal responsibility. Maybe. What I mean is, every really good piece of memoir implicates the author more than anyone else. It’s us, taking the shots for being human. That’s what I mean. Why memoirists are like Jesus.
Body of Christ. Cup of salvation. And a bucket of crabs. Amen.
Brilliant! Three cheers to the writer who bares his or her soul for the world to see. Bravo to the truth tellers! Bravo to the people with real guts! Bravo to you!
Shit hot column, Alana.
I think as writers we have this responsibility to speak up and it’s always easier when we couch it as fiction.
“This is the slyness of art: If you tell enough lies, you’re bound to say something true.†– William Meredith
As always, I love this and I love you, A. I have a necklace that says Truth x Word. You embody that.
I always write an essay in response to your writing, Alana, and then delete it.
: )
great and beautifully written column, although I disagree on several points.
Very well said. Loved reading this.
Alana, there’s so much about this that I love, but maybe this the most, maybe because I’m the same:
“Yeah, I still contend with the wounded child. She’s here in me, crying, truly, deeply wounded, and yet, she’s also a willful, prideful girl lashing out; she’s selfish.”
I’ve declared that least 3449759 times. SCK was here
Free Generators, Cheats, Social Empires hack.
It would also explain his beef with Joe and Pun. Granted, he did tracks with Ross, but he couldve just been fearful of criminal prosecution.
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