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Initiation
- Thread starter third man girl
- Start date
Stella Leanna
Member
third man girl said:What is this? Will you show me yours, if I show you mine?
Yes.. I was hoping you'd tell. Why won't you tell me??!!!
*cries*
third man girl
New Member
Old enough to be warned not to peek in cupboards, because it’s ‘nosy’.
Old enough to be told by teachers that it’s rude to ask questions.
Old enough to be left out of the dance group because you’re not ‘graceful’.
Old enough to be teased that you’re not ‘elegant’ enough in skating class (wearing hockey boots?).
Old enough to be stung when an English teacher tut-tuts, and says, ‘I told you to write about your best friend, not your dog’.
Old enough to recognise that the class clown is hiding the most pain.
Old enough to be taunted by short, heavy friends that you’re too tall, too slim (at 5’ 8”; 10st?), and to have been drip-fed, chiselled at, over the years, into believing it.
Old enough to have discovered, almost overnight, that the eyes that were born hazel, and which once migrated between browns and greens, are now, strangely, permanently green.
Old enough to watch American TV, and wonder how a person can stand, in front of an audience of millions, and shout ‘I love me!’, and not only shout it, but mean it.
Old enough to look back and realise that a compliment paid may have been genuine, and not a hopeful ticket to your knickers.
Old enough to remember when speeding earned you a wink and a ticking-off, not a ticket.
Old enough to be told you couldn’t be a fireman, a mounted-policeman, or a motorcycle racer, because you are female and – (don’t be ridiculous; why would you want to do those ‘men’ things anyway?).
Old enough to have driven a motorcycle, a fast car, an articulated truck, and a man crazy.
Old enough to be more intrigued by a limp or a scar, than Brad Pitt good-looks.
Old enough to be advised not to use your initiative in the laboratory, when trying to find more productive methods.
Old enough to drive a forklift, and hoist a cow aloft while its head is severed from its body, and learn to bite back vomit as you watch a torrent of blood spew onto the concrete.
Old enough to remind yourself that you chose this job, naïvely, because you wanted to ‘help animals’.
Old enough to wish you’d become a librarian, and immersed yourself in a musty, dusty collection of hardbacks, instead of becoming a scientist, surrounded by pipettes and Petri plates and Pasteurella.
Old enough to know that your faithful Chambers Dictionaries, the bright, new poppy-red, and the old blood-red Sellotape-clad, thrill you more than a cold, cream computer ever will.
Old enough to have lived with parents who didn’t cuddle, or show affection, or say ‘I love you’, until your father spoke the words, in his dying moments, and made you cry.
Old enough to remember when it was improper to ask a woman’s age, (or is that a Brit avoidance (?) for the question has come only from ‘foreigners’, not from Phil, the Englishman, for whom you are expected (as a Scot) to brandish a chip on your shoulder, and refuse to, because your father was English, and you are, therefore, technically, a crossbreed).
Old enough to cringe at the previous sentence, because it has too many commas, too many brackets.
Old enough to question the concept that animals aren’t allowed into Heaven; yet you hear him when the thunder rumbles – his deep, grumbling, echoing bark.
Old enough to wonder if you should have tried the drink-drugs-driving experience when your friends did; old enough to have lost one to an overdose, several to the wheels of automobiles.
Old enough to know, too late, that the longest love-letter in the ship’s history, meant everything to him, and that you didn’t have to clutch for the spoken word when he came home, because your lips spoke to him in other ways.
Old enough to have worked the hay, all day, in a way that made a man say, ‘you can work the hay as well as any man’, and know that he meant it, and wasn’t flirting or flattering for a roll in that hay; and yet you had rolled anyway, in that same hay that you’d worked with, together, all day.
Old enough to love and be loved in a warm, secure, endless love; and also to have loved and been loved, for a special time, in a passionate, intense, wild boy-girl love
Old enough to celebrate your engagement, and be asked, politely, to leave the pub, because your fiancé wore leathers.
Old enough to give birth to a child and be reprimanded for speaking to him with adult words, when you should say, ‘doggy, baa baa, ta-ta’; and old enough to see him grow to be the most eloquent in his class, when his mother is tongue-tied and reclusive.
Old enough to know that intimacy is not (only) about sex, but about losing the reclusiveness, the tongue-tiedness, and about being able to whisper and listen and whisper and listen, for hours.
Old enough to have met two types of people: those who kick; those who kick harder.
Old enough to worry that somebody will query the last sentence with an inquisitive mind, but hope that s/he reads deeply, and appreciates that a kick can be a nudge, a goad, a gentle prod of encouragement (although the sentence, to be fair, was not written with those sentiments in mind).
Old enough to read and smile and understand when Harper Lee, who killed the mocking bird, wrote that one of her hobbies was ‘being alone’.
Old enough to sit in awe of teenagers from the Book Forum who write expressively, and knowledgeably, in a second language, while you struggle, desperately, with your own.
Old enough to feel humbled when Martin thanks you for ‘broadening his horizon’ when your own horizon can be seen from the smallest, highest window in the house, and lies beyond the dipping fields, above the canopy of the trees, across a slate sea, to an island, behind which, in the evening, an orange sun floats and sinks. A horizon within sight, but outwith reach.
Old enough to wish you could have studied and understood language, like Ashlea; and not be bamboozled by Shakespeare and Burns who made no sense to you then, and less now.
Old enough to tremble in fear when sweet Stella Leanna says she wants to compare you: the fear being the fear of comparison, which requires judgement, and you cannot take more judgement.
Old enough to wonder if BobbyBurns is armed and dangerous; and wish you had the courage to tell him that his poetry makes more sense than his postings, because it does, to you.
Old enough to wonder if Litany is always witty and amusing, the life and soul, or sometimes blue . . .
Old enough to wonder if Wabbit is the Jekyll and Hyde of the forum, with his soft, silky sentences and his sporadic, intermittent rantings of rage.
Old enough to wonder if Piedro is the only man on this forum to share your morals.
Old enough to imagine Darren and Ell in colour, and yet battle, fiercely, with Mile-O, in Black & White.
Old enough to wonder at the crunch and clarity of her messages, as they sparkle across your screen, her writing style as sharp and fresh as an icicle, as their owner: Watercrystal.
Old enough to wonder if RaVeN was really the only person with the wisdom to sift through your words, and appreciate that you are Female. FEMALE. Female.
Old enough to wonder that if you had the chance to meet these elusive people, in a candlelit hall, around a heavy oak table, with tall goblets of wine, and soaring chicken-drumsticks, would you be lightning-struck or lead-ballooned?
Old enough to understand that defending your goal is as important as scoring one.
Third Man Girl
Old enough to be told by teachers that it’s rude to ask questions.
Old enough to be left out of the dance group because you’re not ‘graceful’.
Old enough to be teased that you’re not ‘elegant’ enough in skating class (wearing hockey boots?).
Old enough to be stung when an English teacher tut-tuts, and says, ‘I told you to write about your best friend, not your dog’.
Old enough to recognise that the class clown is hiding the most pain.
Old enough to be taunted by short, heavy friends that you’re too tall, too slim (at 5’ 8”; 10st?), and to have been drip-fed, chiselled at, over the years, into believing it.
Old enough to have discovered, almost overnight, that the eyes that were born hazel, and which once migrated between browns and greens, are now, strangely, permanently green.
Old enough to watch American TV, and wonder how a person can stand, in front of an audience of millions, and shout ‘I love me!’, and not only shout it, but mean it.
Old enough to look back and realise that a compliment paid may have been genuine, and not a hopeful ticket to your knickers.
Old enough to remember when speeding earned you a wink and a ticking-off, not a ticket.
Old enough to be told you couldn’t be a fireman, a mounted-policeman, or a motorcycle racer, because you are female and – (don’t be ridiculous; why would you want to do those ‘men’ things anyway?).
Old enough to have driven a motorcycle, a fast car, an articulated truck, and a man crazy.
Old enough to be more intrigued by a limp or a scar, than Brad Pitt good-looks.
Old enough to be advised not to use your initiative in the laboratory, when trying to find more productive methods.
Old enough to drive a forklift, and hoist a cow aloft while its head is severed from its body, and learn to bite back vomit as you watch a torrent of blood spew onto the concrete.
Old enough to remind yourself that you chose this job, naïvely, because you wanted to ‘help animals’.
Old enough to wish you’d become a librarian, and immersed yourself in a musty, dusty collection of hardbacks, instead of becoming a scientist, surrounded by pipettes and Petri plates and Pasteurella.
Old enough to know that your faithful Chambers Dictionaries, the bright, new poppy-red, and the old blood-red Sellotape-clad, thrill you more than a cold, cream computer ever will.
Old enough to have lived with parents who didn’t cuddle, or show affection, or say ‘I love you’, until your father spoke the words, in his dying moments, and made you cry.
Old enough to remember when it was improper to ask a woman’s age, (or is that a Brit avoidance (?) for the question has come only from ‘foreigners’, not from Phil, the Englishman, for whom you are expected (as a Scot) to brandish a chip on your shoulder, and refuse to, because your father was English, and you are, therefore, technically, a crossbreed).
Old enough to cringe at the previous sentence, because it has too many commas, too many brackets.
Old enough to question the concept that animals aren’t allowed into Heaven; yet you hear him when the thunder rumbles – his deep, grumbling, echoing bark.
Old enough to wonder if you should have tried the drink-drugs-driving experience when your friends did; old enough to have lost one to an overdose, several to the wheels of automobiles.
Old enough to know, too late, that the longest love-letter in the ship’s history, meant everything to him, and that you didn’t have to clutch for the spoken word when he came home, because your lips spoke to him in other ways.
Old enough to have worked the hay, all day, in a way that made a man say, ‘you can work the hay as well as any man’, and know that he meant it, and wasn’t flirting or flattering for a roll in that hay; and yet you had rolled anyway, in that same hay that you’d worked with, together, all day.
Old enough to love and be loved in a warm, secure, endless love; and also to have loved and been loved, for a special time, in a passionate, intense, wild boy-girl love
Old enough to celebrate your engagement, and be asked, politely, to leave the pub, because your fiancé wore leathers.
Old enough to give birth to a child and be reprimanded for speaking to him with adult words, when you should say, ‘doggy, baa baa, ta-ta’; and old enough to see him grow to be the most eloquent in his class, when his mother is tongue-tied and reclusive.
Old enough to know that intimacy is not (only) about sex, but about losing the reclusiveness, the tongue-tiedness, and about being able to whisper and listen and whisper and listen, for hours.
Old enough to have met two types of people: those who kick; those who kick harder.
Old enough to worry that somebody will query the last sentence with an inquisitive mind, but hope that s/he reads deeply, and appreciates that a kick can be a nudge, a goad, a gentle prod of encouragement (although the sentence, to be fair, was not written with those sentiments in mind).
Old enough to read and smile and understand when Harper Lee, who killed the mocking bird, wrote that one of her hobbies was ‘being alone’.
Old enough to sit in awe of teenagers from the Book Forum who write expressively, and knowledgeably, in a second language, while you struggle, desperately, with your own.
Old enough to feel humbled when Martin thanks you for ‘broadening his horizon’ when your own horizon can be seen from the smallest, highest window in the house, and lies beyond the dipping fields, above the canopy of the trees, across a slate sea, to an island, behind which, in the evening, an orange sun floats and sinks. A horizon within sight, but outwith reach.
Old enough to wish you could have studied and understood language, like Ashlea; and not be bamboozled by Shakespeare and Burns who made no sense to you then, and less now.
Old enough to tremble in fear when sweet Stella Leanna says she wants to compare you: the fear being the fear of comparison, which requires judgement, and you cannot take more judgement.
Old enough to wonder if BobbyBurns is armed and dangerous; and wish you had the courage to tell him that his poetry makes more sense than his postings, because it does, to you.
Old enough to wonder if Litany is always witty and amusing, the life and soul, or sometimes blue . . .
Old enough to wonder if Wabbit is the Jekyll and Hyde of the forum, with his soft, silky sentences and his sporadic, intermittent rantings of rage.
Old enough to wonder if Piedro is the only man on this forum to share your morals.
Old enough to imagine Darren and Ell in colour, and yet battle, fiercely, with Mile-O, in Black & White.
Old enough to wonder at the crunch and clarity of her messages, as they sparkle across your screen, her writing style as sharp and fresh as an icicle, as their owner: Watercrystal.
Old enough to wonder if RaVeN was really the only person with the wisdom to sift through your words, and appreciate that you are Female. FEMALE. Female.
Old enough to wonder that if you had the chance to meet these elusive people, in a candlelit hall, around a heavy oak table, with tall goblets of wine, and soaring chicken-drumsticks, would you be lightning-struck or lead-ballooned?
Old enough to understand that defending your goal is as important as scoring one.
Third Man Girl
piedro
New Member
till now i have been using the word speechless only for effect. but for the first time in my life i was literally , utterly speechless
now was that poetry. naaaah . then what was that? just emotions flowing? and in such smooth fashion?
it is a privilege to be on the same forum as you are. one thing i can say is: you are not a commonplace woman. you are different and i sincerely wish that you are understood by people around you. and for christ's sake dont say that Bryan made you write this. you are the poet not him
PS - we all knew that you were female. the male lawyer post stumped us.
now was that poetry. naaaah . then what was that? just emotions flowing? and in such smooth fashion?
it is a privilege to be on the same forum as you are. one thing i can say is: you are not a commonplace woman. you are different and i sincerely wish that you are understood by people around you. and for christ's sake dont say that Bryan made you write this.
you are the poet not himPS - we all knew that you were female. the male lawyer post stumped us.
bobbyburns
New Member
yeeeee-haw!