Things Just Are

Usually
a coffee-shop
book
coffee
bagel, just in case
decent-looking gentlemen reading or
sitting closely with their girlfriends,
Warm middle-aged women conversing
Autumn leaves,
day-off,
Not a cloud in the sky
Type of day works
But not today
Despite all the people,
I’ve got nobody here to really
connectwith

A young man reads his journal
I can see his handwriting from here
I think we’re all looking for something in each other
And not finding it,
too afraid to speak
I’m scared to death of the older man
sitting to my left
And not in a good way like
I’m scared of my boyfriend and the boy
With the journal
Like they might steal my heart

I’m going to leave now
My work here is done,
But it wasn’t any good

At least I wrote a poem

I despise poems about writing poems

But sometimes things aren’t good nor bad,

They just are.

Pearls of Lidia’s Wisdom Part II

Reflecting upon the 4 sessions I spent writing with Lidia Yuknavitch, memoir goddess and fantasy mother-figure to my wounded child-soul, I’m inspired to share some direct quotes from the workshop. I’m a fan of direct quotes and did my best to record Lidia’s one-liner’s word-for-word. Let’s get started:

“I can write about rocks and water for ten pages and tell you more about my life than if I told you the top ten events of my life.”

“Your objects and metaphors will carry the weight of your truth, will carry your story.”

“Don’t explain shit to the reader.”

“Trick the audience in the beginning, such as, start out with a fairytale-sounding-story then let it disintegrate and achieve your own voice.”

“Find the music of your own voice.”

“Repeat things and they take on weight.”

“There is developing your voice and then there is masturbating (i.e. doing what you already do). You want to continue to develop your voice.”

What do you think about these quotes? Do you like them? Do they make sense to you and for your writing? I think they’re gold. To a certain extent of course–to the extent that they work for me. For example, “Don’t explain shit to the reader?” I love the idea of leaving things up to the imagination. Read Lidia’s memoir The Chronology of Water and you will find a story about sexual abuse with a bunch of big, gaping holes. Wait, what really happened? Was it worse than we thought? Not as bad? Who knows, damn Lidia…but at the same time I don’t want my memoir to read like a movie watched when at the end you No, wait, what? I’m gonna have to watch that one again. I want the reader to understand the first time, but yes, to be left with a sense of mystery, a sense of: No, this isn’t a tell-all. You’re gonna have to call me or lay me or get me drunk to find out the rest.

The Chronology of Water is my second model-memoir. Model-memoirs are memoirs that I study. I don’t copy…that would be too hard, to do exactly as they did, in every area of the book. No, it’s not that at all. I’d be surprised if when my book is published, a person could look and say Ah , she definitely used Lidia Yuknavitch as inspiration. But you never know. Model-memoirs are just books I use as rough references for what I’m going for. Things as simple as chapter length and how the author begins a story. I’m gleaning from Lidia wisdom on creativity, and brave-writing to the maximum.  Loose writing. Free writing.

My other, first-discovered model-memoir is Jeannette Wall’s The Glass Castle. Jeannette Wall’s has a very to-the-point, factual, journalistic voice. She is in fact a journalist. When I first began writing my memoir, I used her approach: just tell the story, as it happened and let the reader decide what to think of it. Little retrospection. I was unable to reflect at that point. Didn’t want to think about how I felt about things. Now, I’m able to do that. It happened before Lidia’s workshop, that I began to “open up” in my writing. Less what happened and more I was fucking pissed, scared, sad, lying, a dirty-girl.

Lidia and Jeannette are two very different writer’s. Studying them both has and will continue to be somewhat of a tug-of-war, in the best of ways…a challenge and I love those.

No Title

I believe in it all
I see the sun is rising
but am aware of its settling
somewhere else.

I recognize the man who we all see as sick
has moments of health and clarity
and that the sweet girl, she has nasty thoughts
sometimes worse than the man’s

This poem?
It is both epic and awful
Like everything,  it has its moments
My relationship is both meant-to-be and
get out now, get out now
There is no plan
but at the same time,
the lord has steered me from danger
once,
twice,
two-hundred times.

I am a beautiful, ugly girl.
I have love to give but have
many moments
of selfishness
and at the end of my life a
handful of people will hate me.
This is being human.

My Own Personal Truth

Why would I drop out?
Of life?
Like my daddy did?
On a mountain
In the bush
Just a bible and a pile o books
Because of people like her
The kinds with their heads up their
arses
When my heads up my arse
I just stay home
Some people need be far away.
I’m one of ’em
It’s not you, it’s me
Making all her nowhere plans
for nobody

What I truly desire
In the middle of my being
Is to hide my plastic face
From the world
And to feel the earth
From the inside out
Where instead of looking at my
reflection first thing in the a.m.,
I’ll look at it at night
And see how the day
happened to change me
Or maybe I won’t look at all
Wouldn’t that be somethin’?

I Grew A Girl

There’s a margin in
which I can change
It’s shallow,
a low roof,
gnome’s entrance,
cock-pit,
dog house,
gopher’s hole,
sugar bowl,
A pore
In which I can change
I grew a girl
A girl who will never
be any other kind of rose
Who will shed and bud the
same shape of leaf
Year after year
I will be happy,
But I will never smile like
the girl-next-door,
At fourteen
I was already the
woman upstairs