Author: Terah Van Dusen

Writer of essays, poetry and memoir.

It’s a Serious Life

Terah Van Dusen6 Comments

I don’t know where I’m going
but I know exactly where I’m goin’

The nights are long and
that’s when I drive
even late afternoon is night these days.
I can see only the ground which
the headlights cover.
I just hope for the best
with the rest.

Most my truths come out
at night.
In the day my
truths hide behind
trees and buildings and
large people.
Only the children can see them
with their eyes wide open
their selves not afraid

I hope with all my heart that
any path I choose is right.
But I know that is wrong.
What I mean is, I know that
isn’t true.
I’ve seen enough
sad stories to know there’s
no “all part of a bigger plan”

WE ACT
AND THERE ARE
CONSEQUENCES

So, you’re saying she was suppose to
die an alcoholic who felt like her
children didn’t love her

So, you’re saying the woman who
cannot conceive really isn’t meant
to be a mother
The woman with the nursery
and the money
and the heart
and the warmth

So, you’re saying he was
destined to die on his way
to his wedding

So, you’re saying 26 children
dying is all part of the plan?

Fuck you.

We act and there are consequences

WE ACT
AND THERE ARE
CONSEQUENCES

People who claim it’s all
god’s will must’ve had their
asses wiped and their lunches packed

This is why I take my life so seriously.
One wrong move and
BAM
You end up where you
didn’t want to be.
Should’ve been drivin’ your own
train buddy, shoulda been in the
driver’s seat

Arizona

Terah Van Dusen6 Comments

Up at the house on the Winchuck River one night it was decided I’d be moving with Peggy to Arizona. We’d leave in two weeks. I told my Dad over the phone and he sounded a bit wounded but he assured me it would only be temporary until he and Lisa found a house. I’m not leaving you. You left me. Remember that, Dad I thought but didn’t say.

Peggy and I went down to the DHS office in Crescent City, met with a social worker named Pam, signed a couple papers and it was a done deal. There was no inspecting Peggy’s house, calling references, or privately interviewing me. You just looked at Peggy and knew she was the real deal. There was virtually nothing wrong with her. She was my perfect temporary guardian. She was my perfect permanent guardian but nobody wanted to go there yet. And I mean nobody. Not Peggy nor me. They talked like it would just be for the school year, but Arizona was hundreds if not thousands of miles away and as soon as we headed south I knew, I just knew the miles were coming between me and my old life. And a good part of me was really, really happy about that. The other part tried to remember landmarks for my runaway escape. Ch-yeah, ’cause that had gone so well the first time..

After a couple days of driving we ended up in Arizona. Peggy recalls what I said when we got there: “Where’s the water? No, seriously, where’s the water?” I found out the water came from faucets and deep underground, not pouring from the mountains like it did back home. We stopped off at an outlet mall outside of Phoenix and Peggy bought me some Levi’s, t-shirts, and a couple of new bras. We drove for another five hours south and finally ended up in what looked like the middle of nowhere. You could look in every direction, north, east, south, west but there was nothing there, just the horizon. We ended up in Sunsites, Arizona. Peggy owned a funny-looking little eggshell-colored house on Geneva Street. Geneva Street had a ton of funny-looking little eggshell-colored houses that Peggy called “stucco”. Stucco was this certain texture the paint had. The houses were boxy and had red-tiled roofs. Don’t get me wrong, they were nice.

School would start in three days. I would be taking the school bus to another town (El-fucking-Frida), where the high school was. Sunsites was initially supposed to be a retirement-only community but they ultimately couldn’t afford to keep the young folk out so it was ninety-percent retirement and ten-percent everything else. There was a ghost town a mile away. The nearest grocery store was thirty miles north. There was no mayor. There was a golf course which was a big deal. Tombstone was over a hill to the west and Mexico was forty minutes south.

Music Inspiration–When I Can’t Write, at Least I Can Listen

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Feature O’ The Day:

Bob Dylan: To Ramona

Ramona, come closer
Shut softly your watery eyes
The pangs of your sadness
Will pass as your senses will rise
The flowers of the city
Though breathlike, get deathlike sometimes
And there’s no use in tryin’
To deal with the dyin’
Though I cannot explain that in lines.

Your cracked country lips
I still wish to kiss
As to be by the strength of you skin
Your magnetic movements
Still capture the minutes I’m in
But it grieves my heart, love
To see you tryin’ to be a part of
A world that just don’t exist
It’s all just a dream, babe
A vacuum, a scheme, babe
That sucks you into feelin’ like this.

I can see that your head
Has been twisted and fed
With worthless foam from the mouth
I can tell you are torn
Between stayin’ and returnin’
Back to the South
You’ve been fooled into thinking
That the finishing end is at hand
Yet there’s no one to beat you
No one to defeat you
‘Cept the thoughts of yourself feeling bad

I’ve heard you say many times
That you’re better than no one
And no one is better than you
If you really believe that
You know you have
Nothing to win and nothing to lose
From fixtures and forces and friends
Your sorrow does stem
That hype you and type you
Making you feel
That you gotta be just like them.

I’d forever talk to you
But soon my words
Would turn into a meaningless ring
For deep in my heart
I know there’s no help I can bring
Everything passes
Everything changes
Just do what you think you should do
And someday, maybe
Who knows, baby
I’ll come and be cryin’ to you.

You Can’t Tame A Wild Thing

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments

To the east is wild. But to the west is even wilder. Always.
Nothing is more wild than the ocean, to me.
When I was young I had a birthday party at the beach and the sun went down and the tide came in and we while we all ran around the bon fire, the waves crashed in and took with it all of the birthday presents the kids had brought. Nice gifts, from their parents. I remember Tommy’s mom who was a beautician gave me a little fancy bag full of three or four bottles of nail polish. Blue and green and purple cause that’s what was in.
I remember I’d finally gotten that certain jacket I’d wanted–but the big bon fire was so hot in the sand and we were all running around, caught between kids and teenagers and I didn’t put the jacket on I just wore my striped long sleeve shirt. Us kids played back then. 
A boy who thought he was my boyfriend (I guess I was leading him on) took me to a big log drift wood and kissed me on the lips.
Happy Birthday.
No thanks.
Cara and I wrestled in the waves and got so rowdy that I ripped her earring out–or she ripped mine out, I cannot recall. Someone bled and we laughed.

~~~

Someday I’ll really be out there. I’ll travel as far out into the wild ocean as my birthday presents did that year. It’ll be me and the insane stark white and teal waves and the whales and the dolphins and the diamonds on the water–all the diamonds–and the sunset and west, west and more west.
It’ll be me and my memories.
I’ll let them go out there. I’ll free them.
One by one I’ll drop them over the edge like excess baggage that my ship can no longer stand to carry.
My liberated soul the only anchor I’ll need.
Onward toward the rest of my life as a woman. Onward to my Womanhood, letting go, knowing that dry land and home awaits me. Solid land to the east. My home awaits me. Letting go into the ocean. Being in the wild. Letting go of the weight, the abuse the neglect like wet clothing like lead like city like smog like ego like pride like fear.
I’ll let let it go alright. Out in the waves.
But not until I finish this flipping book.
I need an ending to my story.
And then
I will go
and let go
for good.

Wake Up

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Choke. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Cough. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. No smoke. Is even. Coming out. Anymore. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. I’m exhausted. Inhale. Enough already. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.  Inhale. Exhale. Exhale.

Stop. Just stop.

You don’t need this to define you.

Inhale, count two-three-four…

Exhale, two-three-four

Stop.

Enough already.

Your body doesn’t deserve this.

T – 48 Hours, Bitches

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

It’s a sad day
Sunday’s are good sad days
the thrift stores aren’t open
so I can’t shop away my sad day
and make the day even more sad by
hazily shuffling the isles
amidst the crazy old ladies
and second-hand clothes ridden with spirits.

No one can help me but me

I will rouse again along with the New Year

That’s why my energy is so low

The Universe has me flat on my back

Recharging

I’m certainly plugged in,
my mind screams,
but my body won’t have it

I’m flat on my back for all the
world to see,

I told my boyfriend,
lock the doors.

I may be lying on my back now,
but I’ll be taking on the world
in T – 48 hours.

Bitches.

A Sloppy Portrait of a Neat Man

Terah Van Dusen6 Comments

I have to wonder about the man.
When I tell you about him, you’ll wonder too.
Wonder about a very old man who spends afternoons in
the library. But why? The man is so old. Even I am here
less for the books and more for the chance of getting laid. Like college
boys. Like most college boys. Like every single single person at a bar. And now I’m just assuming. It’s animalistic. It would be a lie if I said I loved books more than men. I love my fellow man. And what he can do  for me.

The man is so old I expect to see his caregiver trailing him. Helping him up and down. I immediately fall in love with the man of course. I try to make eye contact and smile but he is ignoring me. Playing hard-to-get. Disinterseted. I rarely know which is which.

The man is so old I know I can finish this poem no problem before he goes. The rate at which he moves across the room. Earlier in the morning, I saw a lady so old as well and while passing her on the sidewalk I slowed down so she wouldn’t get whiplash or feel bad. He is so old that even now I am afraid my sudden movements might scare him and send him home. He reads a magazine. Last I looked he was literally reading a crossword puzzle. No pen in hand. Can he even see? As he turned the page I saw a big ad for Walt Disney World.

He wears a knap-sack crossed over his chest (which I imagine has boy snacks in it) and a bright blue and orange knit winter hat. He wears a gray, lined wind breaker and dark blue jeans, the soft kind, and I do not make this shit up. I keep stealing glances but again, I don’t want to scare the dying man away so I’m not gonna look, I’m just gonna guess:
dark gray Velcro shoes.

For all I know, I’m dying at a quicker rate than the man.
I wonder if he can hear the scrape of my pen on paper.
It is loud.
I wonder if it scares him.
I am guessing he is a man and he can take it.
But sometimes men are such delicate things.
Like the men who break and shoot.
His shoes are hiding behind the table with his feet.
He has a red face and is reading People.
He should be remembered for more than that.
But again, who said he was dying?
Someone in the library screams out in pain.
Everybody hears it and looks but him.

Snakes and Blood and Sticks and Chicks and Grandmothers

Terah Van Dusen9 Comments

Last scene:

Peggy will tell you to this day that when I used to get myself in trouble she would give me two options: yard work or restriction and that I always chose the yard work.

So I’m watering roses and it’s hot and I’m drinking water out of the hose and I’m right by the front door and I’m sipping from a silver stream of water when I see a twig of a snake on the porch.

Story of my life. Though usually, they were bigger. Every now and then you saw a small one.

The damn thing has one rattle. One. Rattle.

So I drop the hose underneath the roses and remembering how frantic I was at six when I yelled SNAKE! RATTLER! into the cabin and knowing I’m ten years older now, I calmly walk around the house, through the backdoor, and into Peggy’s art studio where she is painting. I explain about the little snake.

At this point, we were always calling over boys from my school, friends of mine, to do things for us. Things like this. Things like this and moving wood piles and things like that. Man things. We didn’t have them do it cause we couldn’t do these things our self–it’s because it was more fun this way. Oops.

So we called one of the Larson twins. John I think and John, using the ol’ shovel technique pops the baby rattlers head off in one clean shot and I still can’t get over the thing having just, one, rattle.

There’s talk about oh baby rattlers are actually more dangerous cause they don’t know when to stop pumping venom and Peggy thanks John Larson and I never see a rattler again.

And I never. See a rattler. Again.

Snakes and Blood and Sticks and Chicks

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

It’s me and Rosie on a late, late night. Her mother must be gone cause it’s just she and I, and a dark country house, and a black desert night.

And another front porch. And another motion light. And another damn snake.

A little guy. He looked scared. He didn’t even know to coil up like a cow-pie. He remained mostly open–eying me and Rosie like he knew he was about to get killed. I saw a shovel leaning against the house, I nodded and said “We can chop his head off”.

Rosie thought that was a good idea. She grabbed the shovel and before too much energy could build up she jabbed the guy in his snake-neck. It nearly decapitated him. She jabbed him again in his snake-neck with the shovel. He became two separate parts that I swear we’re still moving like the thing was alive.

Since Rosie had been the one with the balls to kill the rattler–I took the shovel with the head in it even though it was still chomping and I could see its fangs, nearly see its venom. I chucked the snake’s head over the fence into the far back corner of a neighbor’s yard. I don’t know why we put it there; we were teenagers, we were stupid. We tossed the rattlers teenage body over there too.

Then we went inside, got high, and laughed about it the next morning over wild Arizona summer grapes grown in Rosie’s backyard.

My best friend, the badass.