[iippo]: 207.Human-People.Everyday Lies

The Featured Writing on 5th June, 2006

Everyday Lies

By Human-People

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My husband is a surgeon. Last night he worked all night, trying to save the life of a seven-year-old girl who was shot by her older brother with daddy's gun. Yes, we live in America. We don't have a car because fuel has become so expensive, so after he finished work, I went to meet him there so we could ride the bus together, so he could safely rest with me by his side on the long bus journey back home. But sometimes people, lonely and bitter people, don't like it when Human-People publicly show affection to the ones they love. People don't want to see love on the streets, but they watch trashy soap-operas where characters they don't know love and leave each other. OR maybe they like the soaps because of the leaving. Knowing that the left will feel as miserable as they do. A man in the bus was miserable like that, and started disrespecting us, verbally abusing my kindness for my husband, making it sound dirty and cheap. I'm so happy my husband was sleeping tightly so he didn't have to deal with that asshole.

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I hate cars. They pollute and cause accidents when immature men are not happy about the size of their dong. I quite happily brand myself as a pedestrian. I like walking a lot. Especially in the city. You can't experience the city unless you walk in it. Walking makes you healthy, but people who drive cars don't want you or themselves to be happy nor healthy. I don't mean they'll intentionally hit you, no. But they do intimidate you and they enjoy it, because those people are sadistic bastards. But even they are afraid of the law - these days getting sued is the worst nightmare of everyone. So one day I was crossing a busy road and the pedestrian crossing light was green. And this jackass in a Jaguar thought it would be quite funny to see a lady get startled, so he made the car growl, you know, accelerate with a large gear on or however you do that. And I did get startled - but I also did much more. I acted as if I had just been scared out of my wits so I stopped completely, stared into emptyness, cluthed my bag and had that whole deer caught in headlights -thing going on, just to mess with him. So I just stood there, "immobilised by fear" and the light changed green to them, but obviously he couldn't run me over, and there was a queu forming up behind the Jaguar, the very behind ones not able to see what was going on so they were honking... I loved every moment of it.

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I hide in my boyfriend's room when I visit him. Basically it is because I am afraid of his friends who live with him (also of the ones that don't live there). I can tell they don't like me. Sometimes it upsets me that I can't hang out normally with him and his friends, but I can't help it. I have an irrational phobia of them. Or maybe I'm paranoid. I just hate it when ever they are in the house at the same time as me, and it makes me really want to leave. I can't really explain this to my boyfriend because I would sound like one of those possessive bitches who'll make him choose between his girlfriend and his other friends. I don't want to be that. But I do get jealous when he spends time with them instead of me, especially if I have a rare free moment at the same time as he would be having free. I do think he knows of this, at least has a gut-feeling, for he has ceased to try make everyone spend time together. When we actually tried to spend time all together, I always ended up offending or making someone akward. So it is better I hide away from them. But sometimes that is not enough. I may hear them outside the room and it makes me cringe. If I during sex come to know about their existance -- if they play music very loudly or flush the toilet -- I completely lose all focus and it will all be useless. To keep sane, I try to keep in mind the day when he doesn't live with them but with me.

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I really love the way Christian - especially Catholic - churches are like. They are so beautiful, so peaceful, so echo-ful. And so much effort has been put into them. Unlike some 'natural sacred places', you know, those that were places of worship before Christianity. They're just a bunch of trees or a rock or something like that. I don't find holiness in nature, nature is cruel. It's just being born, living without any meaning or purpose, then dying a horrible painful death in the claws of another meaningless natural creature. A sacred oak could not care less wether or not you dance butt-naked in front of it, nor wether or not you die doing it. The only action of a person that it might give a fuck about would be if the person was about to chop it down.

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When I got older and independent, I learnt many things the hard way, "through the heel" like we say in Finland. Simple things that you just forget to think about. Like the importance of a medicine cabinet. It is useless if you are alright and can be a hazard if you have children who might eat the drugs, but when you get sick, you don't want to go out to buy the medicine you need; sometimes it would be too late for any chemist's to be open anyway. I've also noticed that I've built routines for general little sicknesses that aren't bad enough to go to the doctor's. I just get as comfortable as I can, and try to make myself feel safe or prepared for another fit of the illness. Many times that includes moving to the bathroom with a pillow and a book, or wearing a skirt without underwear. But I don't like meeting friends or loved ones while I'm sick, even if I'm not contagious. I feel bad when I'm ill; I don't want them to feel bad as well. That idea actually goes for most of my life. I don't care whether I feel bad or not, as long as my loved ones feel good. And when I die, I want my funeral to be a happy occasion with music and dancing and good food. It's my party and I'd feel embarrassed if everyone was all sulky and sad in my party.

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I try to be completely normal every day.
I go to the supermarket, I sing in the shower but not on the street, where I avert my eyes. I don't look at shop windows. I read books recommended by the critics and dislike them (both the books and the critics). I don't argue when given the wrong amount of change, and I give pennies to charities. I do my best in small talk situations, although it might be that I had been keeping a vow of silence for weeks before that moment. I wish to become one of the great invisibles - maybe that way my voice would be heard. I don't want people to look at me, it makes me feel like I have failed. There is only one gaze I enjoy being the target of, only one whose eyes I never refuse to meet. He stands alone in the city centre. He sees all that pass, yet none, or at least very few, see him, and there is no place for words in our meetings. I think there must have been a man living in this town that once looked like him, doing something or another that made him memorable, made him receive that approval of the masses that people seek. He was lifted to the great heights where he is now, and one day I wish to join him.

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Ever since I was little, I never cut my hair. I always had long, beautiful, soft and a little curled blonde hair. In my teens, though, I got a crush on a punk boy. He was interesting but intimidated, and I was tired of being the introvert. His hair was green and stood up at least 30 centimeters. His jacket was full of metal and rude words. He had a smoky laugh, one that I used to dream of in the nights; one that made my golden locks fall and be replaced by a mohawk. We were young and fast and free; too young, too fast and certainly too free. Soon all that was left was mixed tapes of classic punk and scar tattoos on knees and elbows, declaring the death of anarchy. As the closet door closed for the leather jacket and Doc Martenses, the academic door opened for wine-red rimmed spectacles, intelligent silences and books. The locks grew back, airy and light, yet heavy after a time of having my scalp show. Soon it felt like an in-fringe-ment on my eyes, so I attacked it with my scissors. My hair fell to the ground with soft yet heavy thumps. As I picked up my loose locks from the floor, I found it a treasure. A real treasure. It was pure gold. Every lock of my hair I cut off was made of the most precious metal; anything between a heavy bar of gold and a grid of the thinnest threads of gold. And only after both trashing around with fast-consuming energy as well as scholarly silence and concentration I found my treasure. Neither pirate nor alchemist will ever achieve what I did; no one who is focused on one aspect of life only. And none of them could keep it a secret either, as I did.

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I'm a girl.
You don't know what I mean when I say that. You think I'm a female, but you are wrong. Female is a word for sex, and real girls like me don't have it - in neither meaning of the word. There are females in the world who think or say that they are girls, but they are not like me. Oh, sure, they'd like to be. But they are just posers. They say they don't poo because they want to be like me. They wish they didn't have their periods because they wish to be like me. They wish to be graceful like me; they have as much grace as the pigs they eat for lunch! If you put shit in your mouths, dearies, shit will also come out. But they know it. They know they can never be like me. And that's why they hate me and call me names, say mean things. "Stick figure... Ana-bitch... go eat a cookie..."
But I'm a real girl.

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I love my fiance in every possible way. I just want to keep her happy and safe. She is very intelligent, beautiful, funny, deep, smart... And I love her for all of that. But it is in the moments when she seems weak and insecure that I love her the most. That "strong independent woman" -thing bothers me occasionally. I just want her to admit that she needs and admires me - just like I do her. She is so cute when she is lost or confused, when she makes a mistake. I don't gloat or point fingers when she screws up, I just hold her and make it all better, reminding her that all's fine as long as we're together. Sometimes she tries too hard, is too hard on herself, feels too hard. She should be soft; women are soft and they make men hard. That's how it works. And it makes me so hard when I see her all sweet and vulnerable, caught off guard, like singing in the shower or changing her clothes. I think she realises that as well, for she is always so submissive when she wants something, be it a ride to work, sex or the last cookie. She even calls me her "knight in shining armour". Maybe I have a weak spot for damsels in distress, but I can't say I don't enjoy sometimes putting them there too. I don't mean physically - I don't hit women - but occasionally she uses her hard-bitch -act to challenge me that forces me to flex my muscles to show her. I think it is perfectly natural, it happens in the animal world too: The male peacock has to fan his feathers. I still love her over everything. I still want her to be happy forever.

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