etchings WRITTEN BY DANIELLE FUSARO ILLUSTRATION BY JEN KLUKAS
It is midnight. Rain is spattering across my windowpane, and I can hear my neighbor’s wind chimes whirling. On nights like these I think of my mother, her soft voice reminding me to think of all the animals outside – the red foxes curled up in their dens, the blue jays huddled in their nests – and soon I’d forget about the whipping wind and fall soundlessly into a dream. I think of my gentle, resilient mother too, as close up Deborah Levy’s The Cost of Living. I had picked it out at an indie bookstore because of its mustard yellow cover – a color that an acquaintance once told me was the aura I radiate – and because the bookseller told me it was the last copy in store. Now, in my bed, I can feel the warmth radiating off of the book, like a candle of some kind. I feel illuminated – about my relationships with men, about the sacrifices of motherhood. Levy’s vignette-style memoirs are bursting with life, and all the pains of that life, as she reflects upon balancing the responsibilities of motherhood with her desire to have a separate space to write, and another space to live, after her divorce. As she contemplates the inner-workings of her relationships with men and women, I contemplate mine. I consider my own creative process, and the ways it has been interrupted and often hindered by a desire to be a good girl. A soft writer, with dainty, precious words. Words that do not hurt, but soothe. Levy, though her writing is precious, uses this fragility to push against the expectation that she sacrifice her writing for the satisfaction of someone else, for the perpetuation of the status quo. Suddenly, the rain is no longer bothersome. It is fierce, and heated, and beautiful in that heatedness. My laptop glows from somewhere in the dark, and I’m compelled to write for no one else but myself. It is midnight. The rain is fierce. I lay with my back against
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my striped comforter, eyes dwelling on the leak stain in my ceiling. I’ve clicked on Kiana Ledé’s 2018 EP, Selfless. The range of her voice whirls up my body, the lyrics clinging to my toes, which are now pointed up towards the ceiling, kicking like I used to do with my little sisters, giggling away as a song ran its course. Ledé talks about the realities of womanhood. Its confusion, its complexities. I got not trouble with my pride, got trouble cutting ties. Wanting to talk to an ex without feeling like you’re disempowering your heart, or other women. I keep holding on. Toxic relationships, perpetuated by both parties. I always seem to get my way way too late. She reminds me to be selfish. I don’t remember being told to be selfish as a young woman, but here it is, making me kick my legs to Kiana’s soulful songs. I feel myself leap, out of body. I’m free to put myself first. I stand in front of my mirror, the rain entering into the music like it was always a part of the tune. I let my hair out, ruffle it up, spin around on my carpet. Like Kiana, I am human, I am flawed, I am not an object. Like Kiana, too, I am beautiful. She makes me think – what is it I want? I hold my breath for a moment. I realize I’ve never been asked that before. I pull out my journal and my favorite pen, the one that feels right in my hand but bleeds through the pages a bit. I start writing a list.
