POV I: The Girl

"She looks like a mannequin. / As if by law of nature, a stripped woman's body / looks like a mannequin..."

-Aural Heather

I count calories blown and calories spurned.
I run each day and count calories burned.
Each calorie lost is a calorie earned.
To enjoy the hunger- this I have learned.
I keep notes and journals, tallies and logs
about losses and gains, crunches and jogs.
My ass and my arms, my stomach, my thighs:
A few of the parts of me that I despise.
I may eat Mom's cooking, but I purge it away
even if it's all I've tasted today.
Every hour I check to see how much I weigh-
I restrict for a week for each ounce that I gain.
My hip bones are showing, but the fat still hangs on;
it sags from my sides where it doesn't belong.
My obsession is measuring how much is gone.
I starve and I struggle, but always stay strong.

The Beowulf That They Don't Teach in Schools

Grendel, suspicious of Beowulf's intentions with Hrothgar, set out to spy on the men. "It is not well," he thought, "when one's enemies receive reinforcement from the sea, nor when men value life so little." His efforts to evict the interlopers from his ancestral land have thus far proven ineffective. They are willing to give more life than he is willing to take. His mother knows little of their presence, and nothing of his campaign against them.

Sigrún

Glad that Grendel was gone _ absent from Grethe
Had wandered into the world _ and would not return
Until the sky-spirit _ began to nod,
Sigrún prepared the palace _ to make proud
Her beloved son _ that bright boy
Her only child _ who she cherished
More dearly than any miser _ more greedily than Midas
Relished in his riches. _ That son of Rasmus
Was the song in her heart _ and spring in her step.
She cleared floors _ and filled rooms
With glowing globes _ glorious fire from her fingertips
Driving out shadows _ that might dare to disturb
The gaieties to come _ with their lengthening
Fingers grasping at guests _ and teasing Time's hands
_ _ To a more fleeting tempo.
She hummed a tune _ as she hammer-headed nails
That sprouted up _ from the ancient floor
Like the thorns _ of a creeping briar
Ready to tear _ at tender feet,
As she honed Hjördís _ to a handsome edge
A singing sharpness _ that was Sigrún's song.
A dance floor cannot _ be dangerous to down-steppers
Nor a dull blade botch _ a beat in a syncopated battle
Even a stone-soled spectator _ and tone deaf friar
Know that so things are _ so they have been
And so they will stay. _ The security in uncertainty
The comfort in conflict _ and the cares of queens
Who keep their castles _ as if entire kingdoms.
Thus she prepared her home _ for that honored hour
When she and countless _ other creatures of the deep
Would spin about _ the light-soaked space
Boasting bright garb _ and feasting bountifully
On the wild riches _ found in her realm.
Each turret and tower _ teeming with friends
Each wall and window _ echoing with lifejoy
Such as comes _ solely from creatures
Without wickedness _ or sorrow weighty
Upon their hearts. _ Happy in life
And careful not to squander _ that coveted gift.
She prepared her home _ for that honored hour
When she and that _ shining horde
Would spar with words _ and also weapons
Carefully building their minds _ as well as their bodies
In strength and agility _ in tribute to their wonder
_ _ And in merriment.
She threw wide the windows _ and wove wildflowers
Into awesome arrangements _ their aroma borne
By a current _ which came cool and calm
And danced with the light _ that leapt about
From glistening crystal _ to glittering gold
Of a castle constructed _ of countless treasures:
Looking glass walls _ laced with webs
Of gold speckled _ with spidergems and stardust.
It was an ancient place _ of another age
Of souls long at slumber _ and songs long since sung.
The stars that shone _ upon those spires
When first they rose _ reaching ever upwards
Were not those _ which would throw down their light
On the night anticipated _ by Sigrún, anxious.
She readied her realm _ and rallied guests
To make revelry _ and when the time came
Give praising voices _ to glory-born Grendel
Who had seen _ his seventeenth September sun.


Grendel, aware of Beowulf's arrival and receipt by Hrothgar, goes to Herot to uncover their scheme. Wearing a disguise, he loiters outside the hall's main entrance, carefully collecting intelligence.

The Plot Against Grendel

They awoke with heads _ heavy from mead
And purses light _ from the lavish bacchanal
Of the bygone night. _ Those noble warriors
Those pillars among men _ who muttered of righteousness
During daylight hours _ not daring to offend
The eye of God _ but who gargled of misdeeds
Boasted of brutality _ and bore shame on banners
When that beautiful orb _ blinked, casting
The world into darkness _ and the Danes into sin
And with them the Gaets _ were as glorious by day
And as wicked by night _ as any warped man
_ _ Of Hrothgar's guard, court, or country.
These shamers of mankind _ malady upon the land
And upon the people _ and upon peace
Awoke with heavy heads _ and hearts hoping
To lessen a lord _ of the land that was
Rightfully his, _ yet wanted by Hrothgar.
Their tongues beat _ like booming war-drums
And their eyes glinted _ with dreams of gold
And of bloody scenes, _ shimmered at the thought
Of weeping wounds _ wrapped around the form
Of a majestic youth. _ A monster, said they
Unto the peasants. _ A demon, unto the priests.
Lies carefully concocted _ to crust the minds
Of men who may _ remember and respect
The truth of Grendel _ and his great ancestors.
All this he _ heard, and hated
His vehemence waxing _ with every word,
Spoken or soundless, _ that slithered
From foul tongues _ and fermented minds.
His anger festered _ and his heart feared,
The lord in him _ livid about this scheming
And the mortal _ mightily mindful of death:
A prince of peace _ perceiving war
In all its terror _ for his first time.
"Surely," thought he, _ "something can be said
Words can be woven _ with which we
Can curtail conflict. _ Cruel as they are
Their blood is also red _ their bones also break
They live and love _ and so, life-loving,
Cannot care _ to create death.
Let us talk together _ as men of thought.
Let me join them _ that we may joust
With words rather _ than with weapons."
And so speaking _ he swung wide
The double doors _ upon a drinking hall
Seasoned with sworded enemies _ and suddenly silent.

*This work inspired by characters and events from the Beowulf epic.

Love yourself, because

This is a revised and expanded version of the thoughts inspired by Kirstyn M. Harmon, my dear friend and ally. If you would like to see where it all started, the thoughts of hers that ignited thoughts of mine and what I had to say in the beginning before the light was nearly as bright, read her blog "Real versus Fake." Also, thanks to Davis Goodnight for encouraging late night/early morning productive thought and Caroline Schmitt for putting the spark in my head. No less thanks to all you other wonderful, beautiful people that I know.

From the theological standpoint: God made man in his image, right? So altering your appearance in any way would be worse than "touching up" the Mona Lisa. Worse, because we're divine self-portraits. I'm not advocating such extreem measures as never cutting one's hair or fingernails, there's hygeine involved, but cosmetic proceedures such as liposuction and collagen injections should never be undertaken. Not only do they involve health risks, but they're unneccesary. You're beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From a humanist view: It really depends on who you want to be. If you want to be just another Barbie or Ken with no feature to distinguish you from the next overdone, underfed Joe or Jane in line at the gasoline pump, then by all means skip that meal! buy that blush! work those abs! get that surgery! But if you want a face and figure that won't blur into the margins of any lineup of your peers, then embrace every inch of your natural self from your complexion to your thighs. If you have self-respect, others will see it and in turn respect you. You're beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From a materialistic assessment: Coin collectors. You probably know at least one. Ask him or her if a flaw in the minting process doesn't make currency more valuable. Don't fanatics worldwide scamper to gain possession of the nickel with the buffalo that has only three legs? The penny with the double-impression of Lincoln's profile? Why, then, should you settle for some pillar of perfection that is so over-scaled that achieving its summit is virtually meaningless? Ask your collector whether a coin with indelible grime and grit is worth as much in mint condition. You know that answer already. Why, then, devaluate yourself with proceedures like permanent makeup and laser hair removal? You're beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From a moralist's take: Each day we add 265,000 babies, lose 75,000 acres of rainforest, add 46,000 acres of desert, lose 71 million topns of topsoil, add 15 million tons of carbon, and lose about 70 species. Every three seconds a child dies of poverty. Every six seconds tobacco use causes someone's death. Every fifteen seconds a woman is beaten. Every thirty seconds someone is hit by a drunk driver. And you want to spend $3,500 on a forehead lift? $5,000 on an eyelid tuck? $10,000 on liposuction? I suppose that if you want to be the master of your own appearance in a world otherwise filled with chaos, then your priorities are perfectly in order, otherwise... You are beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From an artistic angle: Look at the statue Venus di Milo. Michelangelo's David. Peci's Reclining Male Nude. Manet's Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe or Femme nue se coiffant. Any of the works of Vermeer. Of Lisa Yuskavage. Hell, look at most of the people you pass on the street! Are human beings not beautiful enough on their own, without plastic, ink, powder, and pills? The masters thought so. I think so. Don't you?

I love myself, and you, and everyone, for who we are without the makeup and pretense. Please try to do the same.

Pipe UP

Imagine how much more interesting the logging industry would be if trees could pull up their roots and move about as they pleased.
People could make a sport of tracking down and killing oaks and redbuds and hollies just as they do bears and foxes and deer.
"Forget that fifty pound bass that you hooked, you shoulda seen the size of the maple that I felled last month!"
Paper would take on a much more sinister identity, like leather or fur.
Coalitions would form to stop the brutal slaughter of these majestic creatures. People would organize, rally, riot. Clear cutting would be viewed as equal to the massacre of the American Buffalo during early frontier days.
But as things are, trees stand still and silent. Climbing away from Earth towards Heaven with dauntless perseverance. Waiting, perhaps even willing (like the apple tree of fable), to be cleared in the name of progress. They go silently, and so there is no great glory in their deaths. They go silently, and so there is no mass decry. They go silently.
Don't ever go in silence.