yes, of course!

A few weeks ago I’m sitting at my desk, typing away in front of my computer, the muse and I having a grand ol' time of fluency and inspiration, when my husband walks by and says: "Why are you working on another story? Why not finish the one you’ve started?"

I pause a moment within this reverie of creation, and reply with the only thing that comes to mind: "Well, Amy has the draft", and he says: "So, you can still work on it." Meanwhile, I’m thinking, well, of course I could still work on it, and I have worked on it since I printed out a draft for her, but somehow there just isn’t enough time to write anymore. Somehow, Thursday nights have become the only time I have for writing, and with the amount of sleep I’ve had since the last Thursday night it’s a wonder I’m even able to stand and drive and work and complete the basic functions and tasks necessary for my survival! For example, just that morning I was awoken at 3am by the voice of our daughter: “Maawm? Can you lay with me?”, so, up out of my nice, warm comfy bed and back onto her cold futon I went. I snuggled up close to her and attempted to place my body between the steel bars that lay beneath her futon mattress, and it must have worked because that morning my right hip did not feel as if there was a knife driving into its socket every time I took a step, and then once I was finally settled into the bed and finally warm beneath the covers and my mind was almost ready to drift back off to sleep, our son woke up, bumped his way out of the top bunk, switched on the hallway light and POOF! Our daughter was awake again and then I needed to be awake, but instead I rolled over and fell into the deepest sleep I had had all night! and then SURPRISE! The alarm was blaring, and since it’s one of those that gets louder as the seconds pass and the volume is set to 100, I really needed to get out of her bed and turn that damn thing off! and then I stumbled downstairs, hoping that I could stand up long enough to find my way to the bathroom and then stand up for a few more minutes to put some water into the kettle for my coffee cuz the house was freezing and there was no way I was drinking day old coffee, even if it would mean it’d be ready in a microwave minute, and our son says to me, even before I took the last step off the stairs: “I want french toast for breakfast!”

So, yes, dear, of course, I can finish the story, but can I go back to bed first? Please???

writing is my religion

The 11^th commandment – is what again? Thou shalt not kill? No, no that’s probably number 3, or something further up there. Thou shalt not steal? No, not that one either. Thou shalt not commit adultery? Covet thy neighbor? … maybe? Yeah, I suppose it could be that one but it’s hard to remember them all, especially since I’ve committed them all at least once since I had them ingrained into my mind during those years of parochial school. Well, since we’re talking about commandments, I should probably be truthful and say, I probably haven’t committed them all, however since I can’t remember them all, who’s to say? And that right there my friend is the gist of this isn’t it? Who’s to say what’s right, what’s wrong, since we know no issue is truly black and white, therefore wouldn’t it be assumed that there is no right or wrong? Just someone’s loose interpretation that they’ve given to themselves during times of psychological distress and unrest? Someone’s random associations and proclamations witnessed and beheld for all the world to see for those viewed and held among the populace amongst the throng of humanity, lest ye be deemed and judged unworthy in the eyes of the lord. … but who really talks to god these days? I bet those who actually do speak to him are the crazy ones, don’t you think you’d be crazy too if you’d spoken with an all knowing, all powerful being? I’d imagine it’s sort of like speaking to a parent when one is young, but how young is too young to behold the grandeur of the human psyche? Shouldn’t there be warning signs, or a statute of limitations, for some of these declarations and proclamations over human behavior? When you get right down to it, down to the heart of the matter, the meat of the meaning behind these demands, doesn’t every child know that these commandments are inherently a good idea? Maybe these statutes should be taught to adults, perhaps they’d have greater meaning to those in power who seem to tout the will of god, if they actually knew what they were getting themselves into? Would they still proclaim the teachings of their savior if they were proven to be deficient in them?

decembered thoughts

clutter migraines dance
spirals around husbands
while wives swim under
currents of circuitous
thoughts brought on
by diurnal timing
of seasons change

former life

In a former life I lived within the lap of luxury. Servants were at my beck and call, and to be honest, I overused them. When my tea was room temperature I demanded a newly steaming cup, when I had worn my clothing for more than an hour I demanded a completely new outfit and I refused to wear any bra or a pair of underwear more than once, cuz while I’m being honest, let me be honest about this, after washing any bra or pair of panties more than once, the elastic just isn’t the same. And of course, one must not forget that when taking my evening bath, the water had to be changed anew as soon as the bubbles no longer covered my gleaming bronze skin and my robes of silk needed to be replenished lest any trace of a water stain be seen. So all in all, in a former life I was a neurotic bitch who demanded excellence from everyone and everything around her.

And so that is why I am the way that I am today, obviously, this is the better choice.

writing/reading

last weekend i attended my first writing conference. one of the keynote speakers, andre dubus III, said in his afternoon lecture, that when we read a book, what we're looking for is to find a part of ourselves, "give me, me", he said.
if this is truly the case, and it must hold some truth, otherwise i would not have bothered to write it down, then which characters are me within the stories i enjoy reading: anita blake? merry gentry? hunter kiss? janelle angelline? vicki nelson? lt. torr?
and before now: the children of v.c andrews, the various victims of dean koontz, emily dickinson, the worlds of edgar allen poe.
the stories and characters i read then were about victims and being victimized, helpless to fight back with little to no chance of taking charge in a world gone mad.
the stories i read now are about being a heroine, taking charge of your life and the lives of those you care about.
anita blake is no one's victim.
merry gentry is no one's victim.
hunter kiss is no one's victim.
janelle angelline is no one's victim.
vicki nelson is no one's victim.
lt. torr is no one's victim.
this doesn't mean that none of these characters have been victimized, it just means that they've lived to tell the tale, and they are stronger now than they were before, and they are able to protect themselves and those around them from anything like what they've experienced from happening again.
these women are nobody's victim and neither am i.

page 271 of my memoir

He’s worn this same jacket since we were in high school. It’s an army surplus, which I just recently found out was from the Vietnam war. I always wondered why he chose to buy fatigues of any kind, since he’s always been dead set against war and did not even bother registering to vote for years due to his fear of being drafted, but I do remember a night when I wore the camo pants that matched them, which means at some point, he went out and bought the set of them.

My only guess as to their purpose would be that he bought them for paintball, and now that I think about it, where did his paintball gun disappear to? Did he sell it before he went cross-country? or before we moved in together? It never did appear in the apartment we shared together in Gardner, so it must have been sold soon after his return from California. Maybe he never owned a paintball gun? Maybe he rented it? I never thought much about where the gun came from until now. Isn’t it funny how you can know something for years, but when you sit and think about it for a minute it becomes a mystery so elusive your mind cannot possibly solve it?

And how about that apartment in Gardner, huh?

It was an attic apartment with slanting ceilings, a gas stove for heat and walls so thin that we could hear our neighbor’s kitten crying for hours and hours on end because no one was there, but we were there, and more than once I thought about breaking into that neighbor’s apartment and keeping the kitten company. However, every time I mentioned it he would tell me, absolutely do not do that, and for some reason I actually listened to him. It didn’t always happen, me listening to him I mean. There were many times when he disagreed with me and I went ahead and did it anyway, some of those times it was for the better, some of those times for the worst, but always, whatever my choice was, he accepted it. It didn’t mean he liked it, or even that eventually he approved of the decision, but he did accept it and we moved on, and this is how we’ve managed to span close to half of our lives together.

I do crazy, slightly insane things, like insist on going to a weekly writing workshop, and he accepts it, just as if normal people do this all the time, but whether he tells me directly, or just eludes to it, I know he knows that this is not normal, that I am not normal, and again he just accepts it for what it is, and only occasionally will I hear him say, ‘freak’, to which I reply, ‘you’re the one that married me’.

Just recently, he’s been replying to my reply: ‘what choice did I have?’

To which I say, 'you could've stayed in California'

16 at 16

… the number 16 haunts my thoughts …

… 16 ways to do this …

… 16 ways to do that …

… 16 years ago i was 16 …

… sweet 16 …

… 16 candles …

… 16 years old …

… 16 years young …

… 16 years + 16 years = 32 years …

… 16 years ago i was 16 years old and i wore a size 16 …

… 16 years later and i’m back to a size 16 …

… what is it about the number 16 that is so intriguing? …

… why can’t i think of 16 things to say about 16? …

… 16 – 1 = 15 …

… 16 – 2 = 14 …

… 16 – 3 = 13 …

ah, lucky 13! i did it!

16 things about 16!

the muse is not happy

my muse is tired of beating me over the head with words.

she sits in her darkened corner, waiting for me to shine a light upon her, but at this moment she’s almost resigned to her place, she can tell that now is not the best time to make herself known and yet, i can see her tapping her foot to a rhythm that can no longer find its rhyme, i can see her fingers twitching every time i turn on my computer, and she heaves a great sigh of derision when i go on-line instead of powering up microsoft word.

she looks at me in mild astonishment, and her silent thoughts come as clearly to my mind as if she had shouted them: ‘what the hell are you doing?! nobody cares what you’re making for dinner! get the fuck off facebook and work on the damn story!'

it's possible that she wouldn't be so upset if i hadn't promised her that i'd be hers for the past week and a half. at the time my intentions were clear, and at one point my thoughts were in the right place, i even thought to myself: for the next two weeks i am the muse's bitch. i will do exactly what she says, when she says, and when she tells me to go jump off of a bridge, my only reply will be: which one?

sadly, regrettably, these days have not gone as planned. i am not finding new and interesting ways to connect scenes, create flawless plot lines, or build stronger characters. i am, however, finding new and interesting ways to bemoan our new status quo, flawlessly building wall upon wall of fault lines that can tumble into meaningless rubble by a mere glance or even a stray comment, and the only strength i can find within this time is that these events are building me into a stronger character. but i do wonder, not for the first time, do i need to be stronger? haven't i gone through enough? you mean there's more shit i need to shovel? damn-it! i thought i was done with this crap!

"it's been a pleasure doing business with you"

this is the last time i mix business with pleasure. the end result could have been determined within seconds of coming to terms with the situation, and yet, somehow, i have found myself within this space. the business does not get done in the allotted time necessary to hold anything together, and the personal aspects have left much to be desired, the associations and confusions brought on by this continual engagement have warranted knowledgeable dissent and catered to the least common denominator resulting in gross approximations of reasonable doubt inherent in the proclamations of advisable conduct present in mixed company, as well as outlandishness in the worst possible circumstances, thus it has been determined that in order to restore desirable conduct you must repudiate your previous associations in order to form appropriate and current proclamations and proclivities of the heart, body, mind and soul.

weights & measures of worth

for years i have been measured in the eyes of others and it is only recently that i have tipped the scales, weighted the balance to my advantage, and suddenly i find myself on the opposite side of the spectrum. no longer am i bothered by the glances of quick evaluation, no longer am i plagued by the measure others give me, no longer do i let their thoughts consume my mind.
that's not to say i do not notice, not even to say i do not feel the sharp pain of ridicule, but i now brush it aside because i know something that they do not.
it's my secret to keep, or it's my secret to tell.
i know what i am worth and on my own scale i am weighing less than i have in years, and this time, since i am actually eating food and maintaining this balance of my weight and size, then that's all that i need to keep in mind as those around me put me onto their scale of weight and measure.

weekly wanderings

Last night at 3am I awoke from a sound sleep, my daughter’s voice sounding in the night, but the call was not for me and as she fell back into a restful sleep I lay still and made the attempt to go back to sleep. While I was lying there I had these notions and writing prompts running through my head, a list of things to do, but I thought, no, I will not write these down, I will lay here and be still, and I will go back to sleep.

After a time, and a false start, I did go back to sleep, but since when I awoke this morning I felt just as horrible as if I hadn’t slept, then I’ve just learned an important lesson – next time I will turn on the light of my cloudy vintage lava lamp, and write down those thoughts with a pen onto paper by the greenish-yellow light cuz now that I am here, in this quiet space, they are elusive, floating through my head, the barest hints of images forming in my mind, but as soon as I try to hold onto one of them they disintegrate, like so many other grandiose notions within the time space continuum of every day life, and the consistency of weekly coffee and cookies on Thursday evenings.

This day, this week, this month, perhaps it could even be said, that this year the only consistency within my life has been this space of coffee and cookies, and so what do I do with the consistency? I change it up just a bit, make it into just another mad dash from one obligation to the next, and suddenly this quiet space of coffee and cookies has become too quiet, the coffee too hot, the cookies too plentiful, and my mind is stopped in its tracks and cannot remember a damn thing from those thoughts between that indescribable moment of sleeplessness and sleep … those moments when your mind is finally quiet and you can truly hear what the muse is trying to say to you, truly hear the definition and conjugation of her words, rather than the glimpses received during the bright lights of day, it is this time when the muse speaks clearly and concisely, and it is that time of night when I should be writing – cuz, seriously, who needs sleep anyway?

a dollar short for lollipops

‘A day late and a dollar short’ is no way to live the American dream and yet, somehow more and more people are experiencing it this way. There is never enough money to go around the table, there are always too many mouths to feed and the longevity of the dollar is pretty close to the second it takes for your employer to transfer the funds into your account and viola! The dollar is spent, the money did not sit long enough in the bank for it to change hands, and the world continues to turn, the days continue to pass and time flies like the winds of change, blowing us around at a moment’s notice, too fast for our minds to comprehend the atrocities of the spirit of things gone bad.

Time becomes irrelevant in the grand miasma of the soul and the world turns without you, no longer caring for the inevitable push towards the abyss, we stand on the edge blown by the breezes of time immemorial, lending a helpless ear, too tattered around the edges as we come apart at the seams of disintegration, defeat and despair, waiting for the winds to change and bring forth a new day filled with sunshine and warmth, as well as love, luck and lollipops :)

the shape of things

lines drawn across the page

forming shapes that form letters

letters that form words

turning back across the page

forming images in your mind

collecting in your soul

and riding your body

into the dreams of imagination

myth, legend and lore

coalescing and creating

eons of a bygone era

shrouded in mystery

for the mind’s eye to

conjure and play and

hold onto for another day

when paper and pen

come together again

a bird's tale

A bird sat in the mud. One leg bent down at an awkward angle, the other was tucked in and held close to its body. The crippled leg had been bitten by an alligator. The bite had happened over a year ago, the wound had healed nicely, no infection took hold, but the bird could no longer bear to set this wounded foot within the mud.

The other birds thought this notion of regret was worrisome and grew weary of this bird’s eccentricities and proclivities towards meanderings and feats of grandeur too blithe to remain unheeded in the night. And so the flock chose to take to the night, fly away to the dawn of a new day without this silly creature, they left it behind to contemplate the feeling of the ground swaying beneath its single clawed foot, rather than stand for another day’s light to shine against the silver toes tucked amongst the crystalline blue and virulent green of the bird’s feathers.

harvest season

this year i have harvested
a new life
a new job
a new story
on an old way of living
close to the ground
to the bone of things

this year i have harvested
time for myself
time for my family
time for each other
on an old path traveled
by many around
to the marrow
of the matter of things

this year i have harvested
truths about myself
truths for myself
truths within myself
on an old song
sung 'round the fires
close to the ground
gnawing on bones
to get to the marrow
of necessity long forgotten

this year i have harvested

transitional cycles

The year is 2010. The month is September, the day is the 21^st and the hour is 3:37am.

In this year, upon this day of the month, it is the autumn equinox and the Harvest Moon is setting in a clear night sky, the stars of the Big Dipper barely noticeable by the moon’s full evening light.

During this time of year, summer’s harvests have come to an end and the change of seasons has begun again. Early morning fog is beginning to collect and rise from Lake Wyola and the first frost of the year can be smelled within the winds that dance with the fog along the waters of the lake.

During this time of year, transitions abound. School begins as summer’s heat recedes, vacationers return to their warmer climates, and the lake becomes quiet and still, the reflection of the moon’s full light has the chance to shine bright and still against her waters once again and time passes on into the next cycle of life.

During this time of year, I am in transition. My body, my soul, my very being becomes pushed and pulled in so many directions that moments of quiet contemplation become rare and if I am not careful I will fall to the ground and let the first frosts hold me within their stillness into the change of the next season.

During this time of year, I am the one who holds all of these things together. My body, my soul, my very being becomes full and laden with summer’s harvests and as I ride the waves of the changing waters, so frequent that movement from one to the next cannot be seen by the casual observer, I am also aware that I am the one who rescues those who are in need. I am the one to carry them to a calm shore, allowing them to rest a moment before they plunge back into the waves. I am the one who brings them warm drinks and sits with them beneath a blanket, attempting to create a sense of peace before they take off on their next adventure. I am the one who saves them from drowning, but who will save me?

grandiose verbosity

within the past 24 hours i have had bright light shined upon the inner workings of my subconscious mind. these realizations are so new and shiny that all i can do is stare at them in wonder, bask in the glow created by the newness of their reflections and be held within their stillness and silence for just a moment before the muse takes me by the hand and pulls me into her embrace.

one of these notions of enlightenment is this: within 4+ years i have written 400+ pages on a story that has held up to the rigors of life. transitions of children beginning school for their first time, husbands going back to college for the third time, family members falling into sickness and death, disgruntled employment, unemployment, self-employment, part-time employment, all mixed in together to form this thing we call the american life, for surely this was never the dream once thought to be capable of being achieved by every american ... or is it? is this truly what the american dream is all about? is this truly all the world has in store for me?

somehow i doubt i have followed the path that had been laid out before me. in fact, from the very beginning i seem to have taken digressions and been observed to be content with the many diversions that life has to offer for those who are willing to look beyond the well-worn road and into the depths of the darkened forests and hidden valleys of past, present and future.

and as always happens in these ramblings of my conscious mind i find myself not within the space i had intended to create but in a space that i was led to, for surely i could not have imagined that i'd be sitting here, blurry-eyed and weary, when all logic and propriety would have me sleeping in my warm bed next to my warm husband as our children slumber in their beds.

yet, here i am, slightly chilled, drinking an even chillier beer wondering what the hell i am doing, especially since i've been awake since 3am, shouldn't my body want to sleep by now?!

you would think so! and even i would have thought so and i did make the attempt but as soon as my body was relaxed enough to make rest possible the muse took hold of me, placed ideas and thoughts and possibilities into my head and now i find myself here.

since this is not an unfamiliar place for me to be at this hour, of this day, during this week, i am mostly comfortable within this space of time, but a part of me wishes i could turn this off long enough and fast enough for my mind to rest when my body rests ... just a small part though, which is obvious since i wouldn't be writing this if my body had its say and i wouldn't be writing at workshop, and for that matter i wouldn't be writing anything at all if my logical brain had a say in the matter. after all sitting at a computer typing away the hours of a weekend only leaves long lists of things to do which go unfinished and pages and pages of unpublished works that elongate into the nether regions of my mind as quickly as my fingers can fly across these keys.

16 ways of walking

16 ways to take a walk … hmm … ummm…gosh! I don’t know! What is it about the number 16 anyway? Why is that number so enticing? Why not 17, or even 18? How about 21? Or 5 or 10? Is 16 the average amount of things needed to jog your memory, make it move from one step to the other so fast that your mind does not have the chance to question? What about the number 32? … hmm … yes, I suppose 32 ways to take a walk would be asking way too much within this space of time … so, okay, fine, here are 16 ways to take a walk:

place one foot in front of the other, count 16 steps on the right foot, then count 16 steps on the left foot and you’ll get a total of 32 steps in the right direction. However if you’d prefer to move in the wrong direction then you’ll need to take 17 steps backwards with your left foot and 18 steps backwards with your right foot and then turn yourself around 16 times 16 times 16 and then you’ll be going exactly where you want to go!

Oh wait! Crap! That’s only one way! Well, I guess that’s the only way that matters!

editor in chief

within my mind lies an internal editor. a voice that tells me everything that is wrong with my writing ... my grammatical errors are gross and frequent, my plots are loose and my sentence structure is deplorable ... too many commas, frequent run-on sentences, too many descriptive adjectives, not enough dialogue, not nearly enough connections to form the whole of a story and dear god! you're writing about vampires? seriously?! dude, that genre is full! the world does not need another vampire novel!

and it's usually at this point when the other part of my mind steps in and says: shut the fuck up!

and again i begin to write with even more flagrant uses of commas, lengthy arduous sentences with brilliant and vibrant adjectives among pages and pages of zero dialogue with no continuity between scenes and all of it chock full with vampires, squirt guns filled with rosewater and pistol crossbows slung across the back of a butch vampire hunter dressed in doc marten's and leather ... and suddenly my mind thinks ... maybe i should have majored in art so i could have developed my drawing skills and created a comic book? or possibly even stuck with my computer programming skills and created a video game? guess the external editors had more of a say in my life than the internal editor ever did ... and that's all the self-reflection this mind can take for one day, it's possible that notion takes up days and days of self-reflection! whew! i'm done!

spoken power

there are words
that should not be said aloud
not even in utterance
unless they are meant
truly and fully within your heart
truly and fully within your body
truly and fully within your soul

I love you. I hate you.

there is a dichotomy
held within these words

without one
you cannot have the other
without the other
there is not the one

I love you. I hate you.

neither can exist
without the other present
neither can reach
its full potential
without the other present

I love you. I hate you.

these words will always
remain together
dichotomous
opposite
juxtaposed
within our minds
intertwined
within our hearts
forever held
within our souls

isis moonglow

Isis Moonglow traveled the country in her VW camper. She has traveled within this vehicle, created a home within the steel walls and maintained it’s shiny cherry paint finish since it’s purchase on December 31^st, 1969. Many who witnessed this purchase thought she was crazy for the sale, afterall the 60s had come and gone, who in their right mind would want to drive a vanagan if they didn’t have to?

They balked at her investment, thinking her to be a little too new-wavy gravy to make a go of her travel plans, and yet, here she is, still traveling, the vintage cherry vanagan still shining along the Dakota plains, through the valleys of the Sonoran Desert, and over the hills of the Appalachian Mountains.

Isis Moonglow traveled a circuitous route, which when placed upon a map of the continental United States would form the outline of some shape that could not readily be determined by the naked eye, but only with the eye of one who has seen things from the other side, only one who has traveled to the beyond and come back again could truly see the patterns within the laylines across the borders.

This van, her shiny red vanagan, has been preserved in its original state, every inch of chrome still shines, every hinge still hinges silently and completely. The only alteration to the van’s original 1969 vintage happened a few years back. Isis had been talking with a hitchhiker in upstate New York and while she was driving south on I-9 he told her of the advantages of using grease as fuel. By the time they reached the Pennsylvania border he had explained to her all the eccentricities and nuances of such a system, as well as convinced her that this technology would serve her well, especially when one considered the reduction in fumes and the vast quantities of used cooking oil when one was stopping at the ubiquitous fast food joints to make use of their facilities.

This one time she was at such a place she happened upon a woman who had the most fascinating eyes. Isis had stared at this woman for eons, she had admired the depth of the cerulean edges and the cascading rhythms along the azure rays, falling deep within the pools of ebony irises …

Until the manager had been summoned by said woman and Isis was asked to leave this fine establishment for she had not bought any refreshment. Those were his exact words! Can you believe it? “This fine establishment … refreshment …” what were they serving within those air-pocketed white rolls anyway, filet mignon? Isis Moonglow did not think so, but rather than debate this flagrant attempt at distraction by catering to the media-dependent masses and debate the banality of the urbane populous, she chose to get out of the grungy red plastic chair and into her shiny red vanagan, blowing French-fry scented fumes as she exited the cracked and bumpy parking lot.

However to this day, Isis Moonglow, still cannot remember the name of that stringy haired boy, was he even with her to see the despicable condition of those red plastic seats, how could they allow such flagrant neglect to be seen? Astonishing, really astonishing, to think that something once so shiny, so red, could one day be defiled and scuffed to such a state was too horrible to even contemplate!

Think of the colors, man! The colors!

fear

my mother bred fear.
in actions, in words, in postulations, in associations
everything and anything was fear
fear of strangers
fear of dying
fear of sickness
fear of death
fear of loss
fear of hate
the world was your oyster
but you had better stay in your shell
and keep those valves shut down tight
beware of what lurks in the shadows
in the hearts of men,
under your bed,
in the darkest depths of your closet,
in the darkest depths of your soul.

so what do i do?
instead of holding onto fear
i repel it, expel it
say to hell with it
push it away from me
beside me
push it over and under and around and through
until its form cannot be seen
until its place cannot be named.

an example of this:
vampires
they scare me
they frighten me
they instill the very essence of fear within in me
a fear so pure it does not allow logic to abide
they make me want to hide
cower in the corners
quiver beneath the covers
and never ever again want to wander
within the darkest depths of night
vampires
so consumed by their hunger
for their need to survive
that they think of nothing else
humanity, dignity, discretion
all lost
only the blood lust remains
sated for the night
to be awakened again the next
and the next
and the next

so what do i do?
rather than stay away from them
i become obsessed by them
i read everything i can find
i watch everything i can find
and then when i have consumed them
i find there is more
werewolves
gouls
goblins
faeries
mages
witches
wizards
so many within our myths
so many within our legends
so many within our stories
that become consumed
by hungers so close to our own
so close to what we could become,
but far enough away from ourselves
that we can take a step back
let our minds create logic around
these creatures of the night
these creatures of the darkness
like us, once us, but not us

i consume them
i devour them
i hold them within me
let their stories settle in
let their stories play within
until my own story forms
and suddenly i find myself
writing about them
being consumed by them
allowing them to play
within the shadows of my mind
until they come out into the light
burning letters across the page
telling a new story
for others to fear

Queen Mehazpusstaha has risen!

The ancient kitty goddesses of Egypt have arisen from their sarcophagi, seeking repentance upon the fowl misdeeds committed by their ancestors.
These once, revered creatures of the world, have since been defiled and denuded of their ancient and supreme heritage, and the fate of their lineage, indeed the fate of the world, must be rectified lest cats become nothing more than mundane household pets doomed to be forever reliant upon the fancies and whims of their keepers …

Only time will tell and the sands of time are nothing but a place for feces to fall from the most powerful and omnipotent one, once known to her herds of followers as Queen Mehazpusstaha. Only she can instill within her lineage the ancient rights and knowledge necessary for the reinstatement of the deserved pleasure of cats being worshipped as goddesses and gods and with her (and possibly her army of risen followers?) she will soon teach her ancestors and the world what it truly means to be a CAT.

Queen Mehazpusstaha cordially invites you to a dinner in your honor, wherein the hearts of bulls and the gizzards of wild turkeys will be served in multitudes.
Obviously any and all who receive this invitation are more than willing to attend.
However upon arriving they soon realize that in order to eat these gigantic and tasty delicacies they must first pounce and kill them, too which they respond by rolling around on the floor meowing and crying and sobbing at how unfair it all is and if they were home then their owners could kill these beasts for them and serve them on platters rimmed with gold and topped with finest of clotted creams.
For a moment, upon hearing of this notion, Queen Mehazpusstaha considers that perhaps she was wrong about her ancestors that these beings may not have fallen so far if their owners do in fact feed them in this way. However, upon learning of the truth: the fetid canned scraps that is served on chipped plates of questionable origins and even more questionable cleanliness, the bowls of dirty water left on the floors for days on end that gather little bits of food floating around in them, combine this with the horrifying notion that humans seem to think they own these beings of supreme breeding – this is all entirely too much for Queen Mehazpusstaha to comprehend!
There is nothing that is fresh, nothing that is wonderful, everything in this world has become dulled to the senses, and all has become denuded of its grandeur – ack! and that is just about the state of the food and drink!

Never mind this ridiculous, indeed disgusting! appalling! idea that cats need to be “fixed”! The very idea is repulsing! Too repugnant to even think about! And yet, it is happening again, and again, and again, even to those ancestors who have shunned the leashes of ownership humans have inflicted! A tragedy! A travesty and grave injustice has been done upon these creatures of noble lineage! To “fix” these steeds of paramount genetics is incomprehensible!!!

(This story can only be truly realized in comic book form, otherwise the visuals that are in my head go into the waste bin of creative nulls and the cheesiness factor of the story becomes too low to even think about! ... if only I could find an artist willing to draw for free!)

patience

my lack of patience is getting on my nerves.
this ineptitude of long-suffering understanding is decidedly too much for my weary form to uphold and i have reached my limit of social indignities, repetitive insults and languid glances of inadequacy. i will not tolerate them any longer than it takes for me to walk out of the room, i will not tolerate them any longer than it takes me to end the phone conversation and my replies to any email suggesting that i have been unwilling or ungracious enough to decline a request to be within your presence will be met with bold truths and bright words that shine light upon the shadowed tangled web of your mind's eye.
i will not tolerate the twists and turns you lay before me any longer than it takes for me to brush away the traps you've set within your strands of half-truths and subtle innuendos.
i will continue down this path i have chosen.
my patience is at it's end.

palindromic age

recently i had a birthday.
i am now living within the 33rd year of my birth.
usually at this time of year, as the anniversary of my birth has come to pass, i take a look and review the events of the past year, and occasionally i've been known to even go so far as to update the synopsis of my life that i began to write when i was in high school. the reasoning behind the synopsis of my life was not a narcissistic endeavor, but the result of a creative writing assignment given to me by my english teacher and i have this crazy notion that once you start something, you don't let it go without a good reason. and since the only reason not to update the synopsis is laziness, or perhaps apathy, i'll keep it going for a few more years yet.
since that time, now over 15 years ago, i find that my birthday, rather than the turning of the calendar year, is also the time when i'm ready to evaluate the past and make goals for the upcoming year, so here are my year's resolutions:

1. i will allow myself time to write outside of workshop, whether it be for personal results (like blogging or journalling) or time to work on the story i began 3 years ago, i will set aside time to write and/or time to type what was written in workshop into the computer when deemed necessary and relevant to blog/story
   
2. i will go out for a walk, or a bike ride, or a trip in the kayak, or work on the farm at least once a week
3. i will bring our children outside with me for at least one of the above endeavors
   
4. i will drink more water
5. i will stretch out my body when the muscles begin to tense, rather than letting them get tighter and tighter until it hurts to move them
6. i will forgive myself if any of the above cannot be met each week
7. i will ....
8. 
   
9. 
   
10. 
    

well, i was hoping to set 10 goals for this grand palindromic age, but it appears that 6 is my limit this evening ... guess i should forgive myself for that as well, and since tomorrow is another day chock full of exciting tasks and obligations, then i should stop typing right now, get off-line and get myself up to bed, especially since everyone else in my house is restful and sleeping ... seems a shame not to stay up and enjoy the quiet though doesn't it?

weird dream last night

i quit working at the co-op and got an office job. from the job description it appeared to be a secretarial position with amazing benefits, but within my first shift i learned the truth.
the organization was harvesting images from your memory, every image from the past 10 years was harvested and you had the option of loosing all of those images/memories, or having them replaced by company generated images.
within seconds of learning this i quit. the boss, upon learning that i was quitting, told me that if i deposited any amount of money that had been given to me by the company into my bank account, then i would be theirs forever. i decided to give back my day's pay, but the boss left before i could give it to him, and instead of following the boss back to his office i went back to my room in the dorm to pack my things.
before i began packing up my the things that i brought with me, i went over to a set of shelves and grabbed a few pieces of sliced meat which were among the groceries which i had just bought to bring home to my family. as i was eating the slices, the new girl, the one that would replace me, was sitting on the bed next to my storage space and she told me that the meat was not roast beef alone, there was human mixed in, that's why the color of the meat was so red, you can't cook human meat well enough, it always looks like what it is,
dead muscle.
i stopped eating the meat immediately and began to look at the rest of the groceries that were on my shelves. i soon realized that everything i had bought was made by the company, or made for the company, everything on the shelves had their logo on it, and now, not only could i not bring home my day's pay, i also could not bring home any of the food i had just bought, lest i contaminate my family with unknown substances, or even human-known substances.
i left all of my groceries on the shelves above the bed and began packing my sleeping bag, pillow and clothing, making sure to pack only items that i had brought with me. as i was packing i asked the new girl if she'd give the boss back my day's pay. she answered, "no", and i then asked her for the boss's cell phone number so i could call him and make an appointment with him to give it back. she gave me the number and when i called the boss, he invited me and my husband to a party.
i was very skeptical about attending, but we went. this was the only time since quitting my job that i had seen or spoken with my husband, and while amidst the party i had to tell him that i quit my job, the reason why i quit, and not only did i loose a day's pay, but all of the groceries i had just bought for the week were contaminated, i couldn't bring home anything from here. i tried to do this covertly, but the party was small and chances were high that everyone had overheard me. strangely, during the time of our conversation, my husband had little to say and just kept eating. he was completely focused on his food and did not utter a word, or even glance at me as i spoke to him. i was just about to say something to him about this, like: "didn't you just hear what i was saying? are you listening to me? i don't have a job! i can't accept my day's pay! i can't bring home the week's worth of groceries i just bought! we're totally screwed!"
however, it was at this moment that the boss chose to begin the presentation.
the guests gathered around two tables and two young women got up and laid down on top of them. the boss poured a white viscous liquid over the core of their bodies, it looked like elmer's glue, but once on their bodies the liquid began to move and spread, covering the entire length of the body, every piece of hair and every tip of toes and fingers, everything was covered.
somehow i knew that once their body was completely covered, the white liquid would devour them, shrivel them down to their bones.
the boss was saying something about how wonderful this was, that these women were choosing to be beautiful young sacrifices, how glorious this was and ... it was at this moment that i chose to leave. i couldn't bear to watch this happen and did not hear the rest of the boss's words as i began to make my way through the standing guests, towards the sliding glass doors, on the opposite side of the room. on my way to the doors there was a woman behind me that said the space outside was called "the shrieking fields".
a moment before i walked out of the doors i grabbed a white towel from a stack that was on a shelf near the door and then headed outside. there was a patch of grass in front of rows of wooden benches, the benches forming a semi-circle within the grass, like a waxing crescent moon. as i walked out into the patch of grass i was wiping my hands on the white towel. i had noticed a small bit of the white goo had gotten on the tips of my fingers. apparently it had gotten on a few of the other guests as well, because now all of them were outside, standing within the grassy patch known as "the shrieking fields".
one of the guests suggested we roll in the grass to get the white goo off and all of them began to do that. before long there were patches of the white liquid covering the blades of grass and i noticed that almost every blade of grass was surrounded by the white viscous liquid. there was no where within the shrieking fields that was safe, there was no where i could step without touching the white goo and risk becoming contaminated further.

(it was at this point that i woke up fully and my conscious mind took over and began asking questions: could i jump/climb over the wooden fence? or were we too far above ground? maybe i should climb over the fence and let myself fall regardless of the height? is the only way to rid oneself of contamination by stripping off all clothing and shoes? if i were to do that, it would be best do strip only after jumping/climbing over the fence, otherwise the white goo could get on my bare feet and then things outside this place would be contaminated and that would be terrible, even more terrible than what had just been done and if i am jumping/climbing over i should bring along an extra towel or two, just in case a stray bit of the white goo remains ...)

coyotl

Coyote walks among the branches, he hears the whispers on the winds and speaks among human and animal alike. He watches from the shadows, reads between the lines of what is said and what is heard and he could always tell you the difference, but he will never tell you for to tell would be to forgo the lesson you were meant to learn and all your wanderings would be for naught, untold secrets lie among the shadows and hide among those branches of every day life.

the farm

plow the fields,
sew the grains,
pray for the rains
to come after the noon
sun shines bright
in the morning
as dawn's early light
glints along every leaf
and blade of grass,
each one becomes jeweled
and shining now
that a new day is dawning
and another night has come to pass.

plow the fields,
sew the seeds of hope,
pray for the rains
to come wash over the land
and shower the heavens
with lush exuberant life,
bring forth the grain
and cull the harvest
fruits of our labors.

plow the fields,
sew the sets of last season,
pray for the rains to come,
shower the land with gratitude
and ask for forgiveness,
be patient,
be kind,
and allow time
to capture the rays of light
and bring them
into dawn's early light,
holding close
the warmth of the season
to be your only reason.

need colors

all the colors
have been bled out
there is no longer
vibrant orange
there is no longer
outrageous red
there is no longer
brilliant gold
these leaves
need color
these leaves
need luster

need luster
these leaves
need color
these leaves
brilliant gold
there is no longer
outrageous red
there is no longer
vibrant orange
there is no longer
all have been bled out
there is no longer
color

the muse?

what if the muse was just a figment of your imagination?
would you be deemed crazy, or just a bit off when asked "what inspires you?"
what would your answer be if the muse did not exist?

there are things within this world that need to be put into words.
phrases and conjectures that need to be made, placed into order, organized into cohesive thoughts and only i am the one that needs to do it.
i am the only one who holds that perspective.
i am the only one who can tell that story.
i am the only one who can hold that turn of phrase and make it be exactly what the reader is looking for.
i am the only one who can do this.

what would you do if the muse did not exist?
as you walked down that path in the woods would you see the shadows as they played among the branches and trunks of the trees?
would you notice how the light glints off the surface of every blade of grass, making it all glow golden in the early morning light?
would you hear the cadence and rhythm of the spoken word,
or would it all just be one more moment that the mind does not hold onto?
would it all just disappear as quickly as it happened?
what would you do?

within your element

"You're finally within your element."

You've finally found your space and it is within this space that your existence matters, it is within this space that what you do makes a difference. Within these first weeks of spring I have cleaned away many winters' debris, within this space I have created a new place for plants to take hold, within this space I have planted hundreds of carrot seeds, a basket full of potatoes, hundreds upon hundreds of onions and over a thousand metacoment red corn seeds and all i can wonder is that within this much abundance why are there still people who are hungry?

and then i think: no. stop. you don't want to go down that road. just this once. don't go there.
so, okay, i'll go back to that other space, back to that blissed-out delirium i've learned to call work.

Work is now standing in a greenhouse filling 1,152 slots with soil, planting one metacoment red corn seed in each, covering the seeds with soil and then covering the trays of soil and seeds with well water. Work is now unpacking 1 box of product and pricing it, when the next person comes in they'll stock it, there's no need for me to do it all myself. Work is now squatting for 2 hours in the sun to place 615 onion bulbs within the soil, then come back and do it again, then again, until the entire 32 lb. bag of stuttgarter yellow onion sets have been planted, humming to yourself and them the entire time. Work is now about taking your time to do it right the first time, and if it turns out you didn't do it right, that's ok, let me show you again. Work is now talking for 40 minutes about nothing and everything at all, after you've planted all those onions. Work is now about giving yourself time and if it doesn't get finished all in one day, that's ok cuz there's always tomorrow!

truth

the truth is i'm blissed out and suddenly lost in my own world of happiness. all of those small niggling thoughts no longer matter, the angst once held so tightly has been let free and just as suddenly my muse has left me to my own devices so that one second i'm lost within my memories and the next i think, hey, look at the pretty little flower print, isn't it just so darling? and finally my muse pokes her head around the corner and says, um, excuse me, did you just say that that flower is darling? you mean the same one that you bitched about for three days last year? yes, i say, well, it's not the same one, see? this one looks more like a dandelion, or a daisy, and that first one was much closer to fleabane, or devil's paintbrush, see? my muse looks at me, giving me that blank stare that silently screams, are you serious? she continues to stare at me and i falter a bit, look down at my bare feet as they wriggle in the early morning dew of the grass, the drops of dew glinting in the early morning light, giving each blade it's own gilded edge. when i look up my muse is still staring at me and i take in a short breath and breathe out, what? and then she takes in a very long and very deep breath and on the end of her sigh says, don't you at least see them covered in blood?

50 things in my junk drawer

1. a container of batteries, rechargeable and not
2. about 20 elastics of all colors, shapes and sizes
3. 2 boxes of birthday candles, all partially burned
4. a #3 candle
5. a #2 candle
6. marbles, always more marbles
7. an illegal promo box cutter stolen from WFM
8. a shiny new, safety blade and a box of razors
9. a pair of scissors
10. a key attached to a zip tie - it was in this drawer when we arrived and it must go to something in the house right?
11. about 10 blue balloons
    
12. a cabinet knob
13. a red bow tied around a piece of twist tie that used to hold closed a bag of fancy holiday chocolates
14. and a purple one too!
15. outlet covers
16. a tape measure, taken from my sewing box
17. a golf ball
18. a rusted spring
19. an official stephen brothers pin
20. a "swiss" army knife
21. a pocket knife
22. a small orange flashlight
23. a small yellow flashlight
24. touch-up paint for the ford 500
25. the cap for the bathroom sink faucet
    
26. one shower curtain ring, missing dragonfly embellishment
    
27. a pad lock with the key in lock
28. a key to my bike lock
29. a lock with key from a post office box (possibly illegally obtained?)
30. a black vhf/uhf splitter
31. a radio shack uhf/vhf/fm hyrbid splitter/combiner
32. a 6"screw
33. another golf ball
34. an extra button to the tie-dye dress i'm wearing and a gold safety pin
35. two mini key rings
36. 4 or 5 small pink balloons
37. the lock to the bathroom door
38. a python clicker for last subaru owned
39. a two-sided allen wrench
40. a yellow mancala piece
41. a green mancala piece
42. a chain, possibly for mini flashlight?
43. nuts
44. bolts
45. mini screws
46. a blue metal zipper pull
47. a small 1/2" spring
48. a christmas light bulb
49. a wooden dowel
50. a red paintbrush
    

• 
  

units of measure

an inch and a peck of love will only get you as far as a foot and a pint of despair, following at a meter's length to find the truth beneath the quart of sarcasm, and the league of generosity one sees the notes of reason, rhythm, rhyme and writer's block.
quartered and halved by ennui and general malaise, hence to be or not to be is no longer the question at hand, instead it has been trampled by the feet of defeat and lays limp as a dog on a log laying in the summer heat, lolling it's tongue through the airs of notoriety and retreat.

longing

a yearning, a desire, a moment of bliss, a serendipitous act of fruition without consequences, a second in time like no other and it is within that moment of time in which you know the sequence of events cannot be retold, only memory can be held close and you are left with a longing of what can never be.
held within the confines of your heart, examined and categorized by your mind as it tries to break free from the bars that have been made to hold you. look around those bars, what do you see? bend the cage to your will, do not accept what has been given to you as the only way to be, look within the shadows cast by those bars, look within the rays of light held between them. what do you see? do not be satisfied, do not be contained, do not be caged. look around you, make your presence known. what do you see? know that there is more, know that there is less and all that is held in between. do not be held, break free and run through the shadows, break free and run through the light, break free and run.

writing bones

i need "bones to write into", a structure/function set of guidelines to adhere to, a linear alignment of the stars and planets to coalesce into an image uniquely my own, a theme unlike any other hereto unknown, unrehearsed, ubiquitously unkempt within the fates of time, space and the continuum of cheesecake and coffee with raw milk creams and butters and maple syrup frostings over the edges of my plates of consciousness, leaking down the curved sides of my inhibitions, onto the tablecloth of my youth. no longer pure and starchly white, but soiled and stained with my heart's irreparable pain and my body's meanderings and wanderings into the unknown depths of my long lost soul.

(quote is from Kathy Dunn)

16 things to do before i die

1. see the sunrise at Stonehendge
2. get a nose ring
3. see the Royal Gardens of London
4. find my grandfather's recipe for raspberry wine
5. dye my hair turquoise
6. celebrate my 50th wedding anniversary at Arcadia National Park
7. get another tattoo
8. see the Eiffel Tower
9. get a third tattoo
10. see the castles of England and Ireland
11. find my tribal ancestors
12. visit the town where my grandfather's family is from (northern Italy)
13. see the Grand Canyon
14. go back to Monte Verde, Costa Rica for a month or more
15. go back to the Olympic Penninsula in Washington for a year or more
16. see the sunset at Stonehendge

plastic heart

within this bag lies the pieces to my heart. the unseen gestures of the every day. the smile, the touch, the taste, the scent of all that is held within. it is here, within this space i can truly see the dawning of a new day, the prelude to the next piece, held together by threads of nuance, invisible to the eye, seen only by the heart.

within this bag lies the pieces of my heart, torn and bloodied, the dark liquid pooling into the corners, billowing out to the entire space, just waiting for the moment when it all becomes too much and the seams tear and my blood comes gushing out, spilling onto the floor, pooling next to my feet, my life poured out beneath me and anyone else who wishes to see.

within this bag lies the pieces for my heart. searing emotions, burning desires threaded among the veins of my existence, tumbling from one moment of ecstasy into another, all too quick for my mind to hold onto, but knowing there is no need for all that is important is held within my heart's desire.

nothing

i have nothing to say. really, i'm serious about this.
my mind is a blank slate waiting for the chalk of time to scratch across its surface. the whole idea of putting things into words right now is painful, this blank space is making all thoughts in my head turn bright white and nothing cohesive or comprehensive appears before my eyes ... and, yet, here i sit, still and waiting for something to spurt forth onto this blank page because when i started this blog i told myself i'd post something every other day, and then it became every two days, and now it seems closer to once a week, but still i sit and wait for something more than what this is ...

spring flames

all the trees
are tipped with red
like flame
spouting forth
the fire of life
after the quiet
of winter
has come and gone

the blossoms burning
bright and full
in the early
spring morning
rays of the sun

2am

i want to know what it is about 2am that has me wide awake and ready to write, or sometimes with a desire to read. there must be something biological, or chemical, or biochemical, that is unique to the hours of 2am to 4am which make my body awaken from sleep and decide to have a spurt of creative genius.
once my mother told me, even as a baby, i used to wake up at this hour and her reasoning was because this was often the time my father came home. i was never entirely convinced by this reasoning, but lacking any other explanation it seemed to fit and gave me an answer to my question. when i moved into my father's house it did appear that he and i shared this trait, but he was no longer coming home at 2am, so my mother's logic was tossed aside. since, at the time, my mother and i were barely speaking to each other i was all too ready to find fault in her words.
as time went on i began to cherish these moments of wakefulness. the house was so quiet and still enough that you could hear the rise and fall of everyone's breath as they slept, as well as the peepers singing within the pond across the street, and i knew there wouldn't be a chance that someone would knock on my door. this time became my solace, this time was my own, except on those occasions when my dad would see my light on and tell me to go to sleep. i always thought this was a bit ironic since he would then go downstairs, turn on a light and sit in the living room to read for an hour or two himself, but i never asked about it since my life was so strange at that pint anyway, one more oddity was just accepted.
when i was in college i'd frequently stay awake until 2am and then crash for a few hours before going to an 8am class. at one point i had this notion of being on the crew team, but my nights of wakefulness were not conducive to 6am practices. it was only after graduating from college that i began to realize how inhibiting this quirk of dna could be, especially when i had to get up and go to work the next morning. a stop at dunkin' donuts became a necessity and once we moved to amherst my caffeine addiction really took hold and i began to frequent the only cafe that was willing to make an iced cafe vanilla without using the sickly sweet vanilla syrup, give me the powder! when my employment opportunities turned into dire straits my addiction to cafe vanillas was intense. no longer were these relugated to my morning routines, but one could find me with a steaming cup of vanilla caffeinated goodness at almost any hour of the day or night.
it wasn't until i began working at bread & circus that the possibility of a condition was realized. there were so many possibilities! hormonal imbalance, adrenal fatigue, hypoglycemia, hyperglycemia, stress, anxiety ... one by one these notions were eliminated and eventually i went back to enjoying these times of quiet solitude.
when my children were young these nightly sojourns were few and far between since most days and evenings were spent in two hour bits of sleep, moments of early morning energy became a thought of the past. as soon as these moments returned i knew my children were growing up, as well as realizing how much i missed this time. truly there is no other moment in time that is like 2am!

inspiration within a moment's notice

Divine inspiration can happen on a moments notice. It does not adhere to linear time. One second your mind is contemplating the oblivion of sleep and the next you find yourself basking in the cold light of the moon as the muse stands beside you, patient at first, waiting for you to notice her and then that’s when she gives you a push, it is a niggling thought, a mere hint of suggestion and then suddenly, almost without any warning at all you find yourself within that realm of creative passage. Your perception of time becomes lost, your world changes within the blink of an eye and you now see clearly, the path that lies before you.

When walking down the street, seeing people cross my path, my mind creates mini-stories about them. That one will meet the man of her dreams only to find out he’s her fourth cousin twice removed on her father’s side, indeed a long lost relative due to the war of 1812, and now that they’ve found each other and have been welcomed into the homes of each other’s families, if truth be known it is essentially back into the family, no one is willing to let him go, so their related? Isn’t everybody? And the details of the connections are lost once again. Another one finds solace in S&M by anonymous ads placed in the Backroom section of the Advocate, she even has a fake apartment rented just of those occasions. By day she’s the typical-looking sorority girl, tight pants, big boots, fake-fur-lined-hooded jacket, with a face as sweet as can be and diminutive to everyone she meets, many think of her as almost child-like in appearance and demeanor. By night, she’s the one in control and any deviation from that is not tolerated. Another one gets outrageously drunk at any and all parties, sometime roving from one to the next until she can get into bed with someone, anyone, multiples, whatever. Precautions, protections are all secondary. And the oddity of this is that she never gets into trouble. she doesn’t get any strange venereal disease and remains childless. After she graduates from college, with a business degree, she finds a job and when out on a Friday night, after she comes out of the bar alone, she is raped. She does get pregnant then and I can’t decide if she has an abortion, or if she decides to have a baby born by rape. I also can’t decide if she knew the guy, or if she gets a disease as well, or maybe instead of getting pregnant she gets a disease?

Usually my stories are about women. The men’s stories tend to be simpler: That one driving the “I-have-a-small-penis-but-every-chick-wants-to-fuck-me” bright red sports car with the gigantic spoiler on the back, wearing his baseball cap on sideways and backwards, dark sunglasses on eventhough there’s no sun to be seen, with his radio blasting some rap song that is so outrageously loud all you can tell is that it has a beat you could dance to, you know the guy I'm talking about. The guy dies in a horrible car crash after going to a frat party on his birthday. That one nails anything with great legs, another one flirts outrageously with any girl, but secretly wants to be with a guy. I don’t know if this guy actually has sex, but definitely the flirting, and more than a few hot and heavy make-out sessions in public. That one likes “showers” from women before he can reach climax, but he adamantly refuses to reciprocate the action, and has refused any further contact with those women who want equal treatment. Another one will only have sex in his car.

These aren’t great stories, perhaps a few could be embellished and made into a truer picture, but there is no drive towards elaborating, these are just random thoughts that pass through my mind as I walk down the street, or sit in a café, or wait for my laundry to dry. It’s only recently that I realized this is not an erroneous act, or a psychological disorder. This is what a writer does. This is the way a writer’s mind works. Everything is put into words, words become phrases, phrases become poetry or prose, and if those phrases become large enough they then become a story, all running through my mind until I finally put pen to paper and let it all pour out onto a blank page, filling it up like so much spilled blood and once it’s all out, when my mind is satisfied with the havoc I’ve created across the page, only then can I rest and my body collapses from lack of food and sleep awaits me until the muse awakens me once again.

the writing life, part 2

i used to worry that i would run out of words. if i didn’t use them in a story then they’d be forever lost in the tangle of my mind. i have since realized that it is the complete opposite. when i no longer hold onto my words, when i let them banter about and wander into the unknown that is when the flood-gates open wide and the ocean of my mind rushes forth to spill out onto the page. the momentum of thoughts are pushed along by my hand scribbling over the lines as fast as they can, trying to keep up with the flow of words pouring out of my mind.

the writing life, part 1

i tried to write this morning and came to the conclusion that writing with children, and a cat, and a husband, and life is like trying to drive a car with the sun shining brightly in your eyes, oncoming traffic is completely lost to the glare of the golden light, and you say a little prayer, hold on tightly to the wheel as you attempt to steer yourself straight and stay within the lines. when all hope has been lost, in that moment when you throw your hands up into the air and say, “alright! i give up!” when you begin to sway and swerve and sidle along the edge, when you deviate from the lines that is when the true magic happens.

the lines, after all, are only guidelines, the merest hints of suggestion as to the path that should be taken. when you cross those lines and the edges of your road are nothing but a blur of boundary that is when inspiration takes hold of you, and you are no longer the driver, you are the passenger, seeing the sights as they fly past the window of your mind.

to muse, or not to muse ...

on occasion i have been known to read psychology articles. most of them have been pilfered from old magazines and all them have been known to leave me with a new psychological profile. i am suddenly exhibiting every conceivable nuance hinted at within the most recently read articles: obsessive-compulsive, add and adhd, all run rampantly through my days and every thought becomes analyzed to the n-th degree.
the only time i did not adhere to my base instincts of psychological mimicry was when an article mentioned a disorder in which a person exhibits a compulsion to write. this disorderly behavior has been known to be exhibited only during times of intense stress. the author of this article then went on to state that she herself began to exhibit this behavior, shortly after being diagnosed and medically treated for post-partum depression; another article has made mention that the entire human population, the entire society of humanity, is one giant ball of stress - so my next thought is: what constitutes "intense" stress? and have we become so convoluted in our interpretations, so abstract and banal, that we can no longer appreciate the muses? have we drifted so far away from the realm of creativity that rather than enjoying the thrall of outrageous spontaneity and dynamic conjecture we now prefer to medicate ourselves into mindless oblivion instead of basking in the glow of the muses?

writing = cutting

you tear open your skin and bleed words out onto the paper. the blood drips, forming inkblots and the Rorschach in your mind begins to find meaning within the spots, shades of light and dark at first, and then the grays begin to form shapes, that turn into letters, which turn into words and tumble out of control before your body can remember to clot the wound and it all comes out in a bloody mess across the page. smearing and streaking images that form plots and stories begin to take shape and that's when the blood begins to clot and the story dies beneath your hand before it can reach the fulfillment of a whole body experience.

happy endings

i have never believed in happy endings. fairy tales were absurdities to me, until i began to dig deeper into those tales and soon found that the versions i had been told, the versions which i had grown to hate, were not the original content. for example, in cinderella: after the ball, when the prince is looking for the girl he danced with, one step-sister cuts off her toes and the other one cuts off her heels, in order to fit their feet into the glass slipper. the blood dripping from their stockings causes the prince to realize they are not the one he’s looking for. at the end of the tale, cinderella’s step-sisters are blinded by crows pecking out their eyes.

not exactly the happy ending you remember, is it?

recently i realized the irony of my disbelief in happy endings is that my life is one happy ending after another … i was born with a tumor on my tailbone. the surgeon told my mother that i might never be able to walk. not only was i walking by the time i was 10 months old, but i loved to dance and was in countless ballet recitals … in 2^nd grade i began having numerous bladder infections. the same surgeon that removed the tumor found two cysts on either side of my bladder. he removed the cysts and implanted little tubes to re-connect my bladder to my kidneys. my body didn’t reject the implants, but i had nerve damage from the surgery and now needed to use a catheter many times during the day. i hated the idea of having to do this every day, especially since i needed to use it at school, and would need to be excused from class and go to the nurses office. in 6^th grade a classmate saw me walking from class to the nurse’s office with a bag of my supplies and he told everyone that i had to wear diapers. to this day i’m still not sure if i was able to convince them otherwise. it would take years for me to accept that i had to do this for the rest of my life, and years more for me to be comfortable enough with it that i could tell people about it, and years more than that for my body to correct the damage that had been done. it was only after i became pregnant and carried my children to full term, that my body re-built the muscles it needed, or did something close to miraculous and healed the trauma of that long ago surgery … pregnancy was another miracle in and of itself. due to my health issues i was told there was a chance i wouldn’t be able to have children. i was told this at a very young age, possibly at age 8 when i had bladder surgery. obviously at that time i had other thoughts going through my mind and the notion of never having my own children was not a concern. during my high school years there were many girls who knew they wanted to have children, there were even a few who already had names chosen for them, but i never really saw the point in it. perhaps this was because i wasn’t sure my body could have children, but i think most of my reasoning was because i was more interested in going to college and finding a place to be away from my family, rather than making one of my own.

my world is just chock full of ironic happy endings like this!

16

16 years ago i was 16 years old. the year was 1994. i was a junior in high school and just beginning to realize my world did not need to revolve within the walls of narragansett regional. i did not know where i was going to go, but i knew i wanted to get out of town and go somewhere where no one knew me or my parents. going to the same high school as your parents sounds all comforting and nostalgic, but when you're living through it, it can be hell.
i can't tell you how many times i was told: your father sang in the chorus, why aren't you singing in the chorus? your father acted in the musicals, why aren't you in any of the plays? the one time i tried out for a play was a disaster! i couldn't keep my voice from shaking and my mouth tried it's best to form words that were just a jumble of letters printed on the page. it was within that moment of sheer, utter panic, i realized that years of dance recitals were not preparation for getting up on stage and speaking in public.

what i didn't know in march of 1994 was that i'd find a class that i truly enjoyed. it was a creative writing class and even though the teacher, mrs. koziol, went to high school with my father, she didn't place any of his accomplishments on my shoulders. there were no expectations other than the requirements of the class.

our first assignment was to write about our lives up until this point and the next class we'd read them aloud in class. i was utterly and completely truthful in this assignment and was very reluctant to read anything aloud, especially given my previous experience with auditions. when i expressed my reluctance to her, rather than insisting that i do it or fail the assignment, she let me stay after school and read my work to only her.

after the assignment was finished and i was riding the late bus home, i began to wonder if i shouldn't have been that honest, maybe i should have edited a few events, or just not mentioned others. if i had done that then maybe there wouldn't have been a need for me to stay after school and i could have read it in front of everyone. the days between handing in the assignment and receiving the grade were long and torturous.

i can't remember what the final grade on the assignment was but i do remember that she gave me positive feedback. she liked my honesty and she liked my writing style. it was in this class that i learned to write about my life, without editing of any kind, and it was in this class that i learned that i liked to write. this class was when i realized that a pen and paper where closer to my creative muse than any musical instrument, song, or play could ever be.

16 years later and i'm still writing!

spring morning

within that hour of sunrise, just as the sun begins to reach over the tops of the trees, the forest awakens to greet the day with bird song and squirrels chasing after each other round and around the trunks of the tall red pines, hoping to win over the affection of the other while vying for territory all at the same time. if you walk among the trees within this hour you can almost hear them wake as they hold the silence of the night within them, around them like the melting blanket of snow that covers their surrounding grounds.

the silence of the night becomes held within the trees at the hour of dawn. they hold it within themselves, away from the bright light of day, protected until the sun sets and night awakens again.

the light of day is held within the trees at the hour of dusk. they hold it within themselves, away from the darkness of night, protected until the sun rises and day awakens again.

the duality of night and day, darkness and light held within the trees is also held within me. i am a creature of great darkness and depths able to shine brightly in the morning sun.

listing

i am obsessed with making lists. to do lists, grocery lists, packing lists, books i have read, books i want to read, books my children want to read, movies i want to see, dvds i want to own, dvds my children want to own. i'll stop in the middle of almost anything in order to make a list.
i used to think this fetish was the result of some inherited trait from my mother, like my love of books and bouts of periodic insomnia are from my father (not for the first time i wonder if these two traits are inherited synergistically, that a love of books inherently brings to fruition periodic insomnia and without periodic insomnia one cannot appreciate the value of a good book), but i also wonder if it's the concreteness of the list itself. the ability to see at a glance, this is what i've accomplished, see what i have done this week? of course, there is the reverse of that as well, which becomes more and more obvious as the tasks that are accomplished get crossed off the ones that do not are held in bold relief among the slashes and zig zags of one's accomplishments, but whenever i get to that point the paper is usually full and then there's a need to write a new list on a fresh piece of paper with bold new goals along with the old.
i have never been without a list of things to do, nor have i been far from paper and pen. in this digital age am i the only one that does not have a palm pilot/iphone/blackberry attached to their bodies? i'm not sure i'd get the same sense of satisfaction from a push of a button. it'd be like driving a car, but having the car park for you, which by the way was an option when we purchased the prius - who the hell wants their car to park it for them? i can just imagine the accident reports: i'm sorry officer i don't know what happened. i pushed the auto-park button and the car just crashed. talk about limited liability - yeesh!