The unfinished look of an identity on hold, infinite whiteness fading to grey, so many ways to call it anything but "nothing". Today, being a bit short of inspiration, I decided to turn "nothing" into "something". It all started last night, when I began working again on a short autobiographical story in progress and stopped at the ledge, just before I took a step to the void, while touching an old wound. I wanted to describe an experience of molestation that I had at the age of 11, without being too female. I hate writing that is too female, it's like using your sex to get the attention, almost like wearing too much cleavage. The only difference is this cleavage appeals mainly to the ladies, and I want my writing to be as sexless as possible. I think that sometimes a pseudo-sensitive, pseudo-aggressive, openly post-feminist approach works as a substitute for true talent because while working on this approach, you deliberately treat the female psyche as a musical instrument - touching a certain chord has the certain result of a certain note. That is so unfair to the reader and so disrespectful of her attention... Relevance is the main issue while writing and, as I see it, relevance has to be above sexes. That's why I always test my writing on my man first; first, he is a man and second, he's ruthless. So tonight I will go back to the ledge, I will touch my old wound again, neither as an 11-year-old girl nor as a 39-year-old woman, but as a writer trying to document his / her version on the impossibility of triviality.

On the doorway of perception I stood, full of wonder / Vainly contemplating the decoration / Smelling the wooden flowers, he loves me not / Taking in the geometries with a shivering anticipation / And there I was, a fool once again / The white handkerchief over my eyes, a substitute for knowledge / A peace flag begging for mercy to the heartless unknown/ And when I opened the door, I triggered it all / The smell of the unknown tainted by sweat, the cold feel of the stone walls / The taste of violence and the warm stream of the lamb's blood / The ancient fear jumping in my chest like a time bomb / And as my white vision turned into a vision of white / My woman man ancestor took me by the hand / "This is where you belong", she said, with a lying reassurance / As my feet began to sink in the burning light / And then I stepped back and told her, "Bless me Dark Mother for I have sinned" / "I am made of the divine imperfection of the hetaerae" / "My allegiance to you was an urge in my genes" / "But I spit on my nature, I spit on your darkness" / I said, and I went, struck by the hand of death / And into Thy hands I committed my haunted spirit / The blessing and the blasphemy wrapped around my ankle / And as I repent for my vanity, I am starting to love / This bleeding bracelet sent from above

In an electrifying mist, I would perceive you as perfection / And I would choose my painting hand over nature, over and over again / The filter of flattery reviews the torn skin, the retouch of dew over shrinking petals / The fondling of all the little flaws, their disturbing feel under the fingers turning to wonderful smoothness with every stroke / And as I lie on my stomach over the carpet of unfinished roughness / Filling in each and every bump with the finesse of my nude-colored pencil / The beauty mark marks the spot, not with an "X" / But with a redefining mask that hides the clumsy lips under a playful smirk / Artificial beauty as a process of belief / In life after self