The F Word

Friday, June 3^rd 5:17pm, Somewhere in the West of Ireland, 2016

Dear Reader,

Sometimes I put pen to paper, and the pen just sits in my limp hand. It finally moves, only to scratch on the paper. I curse under my breath, and tourists’ heads swivel round, gawking at the girl in the grass who’s scribbling in her notebook and not staying inside the lines.

It’s nice to be home,

Especially now when the sun has actually come out in Ireland (which rarely happens), yet even now, when the heatwave that was promised to us weeks ago has finally arrived, I am cynical about the weather. I walk around the river wrapped in cardigans, refusing to wear sun cream, and hoping that the black fabric will save my skin from sunburn. I cross my fingers and hope that my skin will not sink into the warm Irish atmosphere. Just not this time. Any other time would suffice.

     It’s because I’m leaving again soon for work, for Italy, in two weeks.

 And I can’t wait.

I don’t like getting too comfortable at home.

Not now, please.

Being at home is perfect for when I have a job at home, or when I am studying in University at home, because then I’m doing something, but for the last month I’ve been unproductive, and I don’t do well at the whole ‘summer holidays’ thing. I know people who strive for this time, and fair play, I wish I could do that. But the summer break this time around is making me go slightly mad; Binge watching Pretty Little Liars in the house where I grew up, with a Full-Fridge Syndrome relapse so it’s like I’m a child again.

     I don’t want to arrive excited in Italy, only for my knees to buckle at the prospect of having to work again. I don’t want my Irish home to be my holiday; This 7 week hiatus between my French adventure and Italian voyage. But now I see that there are only two weeks left in my Irish… ‘rest’ (?), and I’ve wasted it on Netflix, and thinking about writing but then not actually writing. So what do I do now to make up for it?

I write.

At last I write, because my Irish summer turns to me with the version of myself who is unproductive and often unconfident in her own writing. I don’t like that girl. I thought I left her behind in my chronic pj-wearing school days.

     At last, I’ve just kicked myself in the face (not literally) and I’ve said to myself: ‘Get on with it, just write. Who cares if it’s terrible? Prove to yourself that Irish summers can be productive too.’

And thank Mother of Dragons, the second draft of my book has now seen the light of this beautiful Irish day, even if I really can’t stay inside the lines.

     I think this heat disturbs my sleep and makes me dream more often, about Paris. Isn’t it ironic; dreaming about Ireland when I was in France, and now dreaming about France when I’m in Ireland? Still, I’m glad it is so, because this way, I’m reminded of my hipster outings to Parisienne cafés where I wrote words by the thousands and it makes me say hey, I’m able to write and the only person standing in my way right now is me.

     My dreams always bring me back to Easter Sunday of this year in Shakespeare & Company, the famous book shop across the road from Notre Dame Cathedral; Scholars’ quotes, and notes of inspiration printed on the walls, with a piano & antique library waiting upstairs. It’s a cosy place, and it probably has too many shelves and not enough room for people to amble about, but every crevice is a safe haven for any writer riddled with self-doubt. That, combined with the old book smell is what gives the shop its merit, I think.

     It could also be so famous because it is home to the greatest secret of Paris. Well, maybe not the best secret of all time, but it certainly is the best in my eyes.

Every Sunday, in the old library upstairs, Panmelys, a lovely Welsh lady hosts a Mad Hatter’s tea party for budding poets, or else just anyone who likes to sit around drinking tea, eating biscuits, and listening to English poetry recitals. Hordes of people are ushered in every time and it gets a little crowded, but more people makes for more poetry and more anecdotes. And Panmelys calls them in, saying: ‘Come in, come in, it’s a Mad Hatter’s tea party and everyone is welcome!’

‘Come with a poem in your pocket, and a song in your heart’.

When Easter Sunday came around, I had already been to my fair share of tea parties, yet my feet tapped nervously through my metro commute. The poem I had prepared for this tea party was very dear to my heart, and I was worried that the tea partiers wouldn’t understand. It wouldn’t have bothered me if they didn’t like it, but I just needed them to know why I had bothered to write it in the first place. I mean, it had a point.

The usual pleasantries ensued in the book shop:

‘Come with a poem in your pocket, and a song in your heart’.

There was a woman with impossibly long hair and a gorgeous singing voice who sang a song half in English and half in Spanish. Then, Californian twins who looked like Wesley from The Princess Bride arrived, sitting down discretely at opposite sides of the room. This had Panmelys comically glancing left to right, left to right, confirming that they were identical twins.

     One of them did a perfect Frank Sinatra impression, and the other was a living, breathing Louis Armstrong. It was like those character quirks that I would write about, and I smiled thinking about the fact that they were not characters, but real people.

     

Finally, it came to me, and my voice quivered, and my words ran too fast but nonetheless I recited my poem. I introduced it first by its title: ‘The F Word’, and Panmelys grimaced in the most animated way, like she so often does when the tea goes cold, or when she can’t find a poem she thought was packed in her folder. I giggled, my nerves whittling away, and I told her that it was not the F word that she thought it was going to be. That was a good thing then, because Panmelys hates the F Word. And she mumbled to herself about the F Word; would it be ‘Father’? What would it be?

     So I read it aloud, and the tea partiers clapped. No one thought I was crazy or overreacting. A lot of people, women and men, related to what I had to say. All I could say was that it was such a shame that I had to worry about it in the first place, because this world’s ideals had programmed me to think

that I was being controversial,

when in reality, my poem was real.

It was our cruel reality.

     So during this heat wave of disturbed sleep, dreams of Paris and self-doubt, I can only hope to feel inspired again and again. When I’m sitting in the grass by the river with pen to paper and frustration laid bare in my scribblings, all I need to do is think of The F Word, and the warm response it received despite my feet tapping nervously through my metro commute, to that tea party on Easter Sunday of this year. Now, not only do I hope, but I know.

I know

that this second draft of my book will be written, certainly not in its entirety over the next two weeks, but it will be written.

I know it will,

 even if I can’t colour inside the lines.

*

The F Word

Late at night,

I walk home

with keys poking out

between my knuckles.

There’s a bottle opener

‘cause I’m a girl

who likes to drink wine.

A bronze Eiffel Tower

‘cause I’m a girl

with wings,

always flying the nest.

House keys,

and a master key

‘cause I’m a girl

who is also a teacher.

The master key is sharpest,

says a siren in my brain

to my rain-sodden converse,

to my doe-eyes peeking ‘round

for the shadows,

and to my pricked ears

listening out for the cat’s meow.

It probably won’t happen.

Not to me.

But it could.

Like the scoffing,

the jeering,

the cat calls.

Because one day,

somebody on the Spider-web

said that my body

wasn’t my own.

Hey house fly,

you’re a prude.

Hey fruit fly,

you’re a slut!

We are all flies,

swarming behind the screen

and always landing

in a strangle

with The Spider.

The Spider is everyone,

be it male or female

who lists Cinderella

as the Number 1

“Girl Power” movie

for children on Netflix.

Girls,

sing through your tears

and wish on the stars.

Magic can make your

dreams come true,

because face it:

There is nothing you can do

without a man.

Boys,

don’t be yourselves.

Be chivalrous and boring

and robotic and adoring,

because

my dear fool,

you are no man

without a woman.

Tut tut,

says The Spider,

real boys don’t cry.

Crying is for pretty girls;

Those dainty flies

for boys to find.

Spider legs

pull me tighter now;

My skin turning blue,

and my ears willing

to close up forever,

never again to hear

that I am an advocate

for the F word

and I should be ashamed.

That

apparently,

I’d like nothing more

than to burn bras with

jaded men-haters

when honestly,

I would much rather be

forever in the company

of feminist academics

who like wine.

So that one day,

when I have a daughter of my own,

she can safely walk home

with no keys

poking out

between her knuckles.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x