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

Miracle Boy

This piece I wrote in Lidia Yuknavitch’s writer’s workshop. The prompt was: write about the “peak” of an event, from someone else’s perspective. The narrator in this piece is my aunt Dorothy, the year was 1970, and if you don’t know by now–Robby is my father and a major character in my memoir.

                           “Where’s Robby?” I heard mom’s voice. She turned around and looked directly at me.
                            Her drunken gaze was unusually fixed, “Where’s Robby?”
                           I couldn’t respond before she said it again, “Where’s Robby?”
                           I looked out at the water and there was just a woman and a toddler sitting in the shallow water on the shore, a scuba diver gearing up and an older man in a bucket hat rowing a boat. The last I’d seen Robby he was swimming over by the big rock pile people liked to jump off of. But he wasn’t there anymore.
                          “I dunno where he is!” I told her, annoyed. She acted like I was the goddamn second mom. I was the oldest but I was only fourteen. If she thought I was gonna go looking for Robby she was wrong. She was the mom and she needed to remember it.
                           Mom started panicking and walking up and down the riverbank. She was asking other families if they’d seen her little boy, he was wearing a mask, she told them.
                           “Was he wearing a snorkel?”
                           “No.”
                           “No, we haven’t seen him. Not since earlier, not since lunch.”

                        Fifteen minutes went by. Fifteen minutes.
                        I watched mom look. She searched the parking lot. Robby wasn’t a parking lot kind of boy. She scanned the bushes, the tree trunks, the fields, she scanned the opposite side of the river—the wild side. No Robby. I started to get a sicky feeling in my stomach. Marie didn’t know what was going on. Robby’d gone missing before, but this just felt different, ya know? Mom felt it too. She was yelling Robby, Robby! I started yelling too. Robbbbbbyyyyyy!
                       Mom approached the scuba diver who was a few feet from the shore. She waved her arms and he wattled over on his flippers through the shallow green water. “Can you look for my son? In the water?” She asked him.

                          Ten minutes went by. Ten minutes. I saw the flick of a blue flipper make a splash on the calm surface of the water and then I saw the scuba diver’s head followed by my brother Robby’s head in front of him. He was carrying my brother Robby and he’d brought him up from way down in the water. Robby’s head was limp at the neck and there was a mask around his head still, it looked like it was weighing him down. It was my daddy’s mask. The first thing I thought was: Robby’s dead.

Other People’s Ideas

There’s always some reason
To feel not good enough
I need some distraction
Oh beautiful release
Let me be empty
I need a break
That would make it okay
Are you strong enough
To be my man?
When I’m throwin’ punches in the air
Feelin’ like there’s no one there
It’s a
Mad world
Mad world
Tears filling up our glasses
No expression
No expression
You see my old man’s got a problem
I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
It’s funny how we feel so much
But cannot say a word
Screamin’ inside ohhh but can’t be heard
It’s a
Mad world

Leftover Children

 A tender little angel looks for his mother
in the body of his ten year-old sister
But her tit is too small
and not equip to support him

Tears spring to the old young old sister’s eyes
as they lie on cardboard at dusk
High-heeled women walk around them
like the faceless/upperbodyless ladies do
on old cartoons
only not maternal at all
Not for them

The children use poison to stifle their hunger
and to give them something to look forward to
Men with faces not worth seeing smack them around for
being druggies and they say “it’s my parents fault, it’s my parents fault”
the men say “no, you have a choice”
and I say “no, no they don’t. Not really”

This poem was inspired by Children Underground, a documentary about homeless children living in a subway in Bucharest, Romania. It’s maybe my favorite movie. It sure beats Bride Wars or fucking American Pie: The Reunion. It will make you think, it might make you want to change the world even. This is a film that matters. *The children in the photo are the actual subjects that inspired this poem, their names are Ana and Marian.

Pearls of Lidia’s Wisdom

The support from my friends, family, and primarily my coworkers with regards to my current writing goals has been over-the-top generous lately. One coworker offered to switch shifts with me so I didn’t have to rush back to Eugene for work after attending Lidia Yuknavitch’s writer’s workshop in Portland on Tuesday evenings. Because of my coworker’s generosity, I can chat after the workshop with my new writer friends or get lost driving in the big city (which is what I did after this first workshop).

Given all the support I’m being flooded with lately–and the fact that I recently learned some of my coworkers actually follow my blog–I figured I’d share a post about the things I’m learning in the workshop: pearls of wisdom straight from the pretty, wide mouth of Oregon’s epic author, Lidia Yuknavitch (hint: links to one of Lidia’s powerful essays). Check. It. Out. What I love (a good example is the said essay) is how Lidia addresses social issues and shouts out loud for change while using primarily her personal experience and memoir. Lidia’s past is a sopping wet rag and she’s twisted it and pulled it until the information and insights have poured out of it like warm water. And she intends to use every last drop. How much of your past have you used to change the world? If you’re like me–not enough. There’ve been a lot of lessons learned, no? Write about ’em.

Pearls (note: these are Lidia’s ideas interpreted by me–not her exact quotes):

  • A memoir can be a bunch of essay’s stitched together. In fact–it’s nearly gotta be, one doesn’t tackle a memoir in one swift movement. That’s a lot to take on. Write scenes, then stitch ’em together.
  • “Stitching” is a tough chore indeed, but it can be done.
  • Overwrite your memoir–Lidia says it was only through majorly overwriting that she found the pieces  that needed to be in the book.
  • If there’s a story that’s really scary for you to write (i.e. too revealing, too painful, too bold) for godsakes write exactly that.
  • The voices you hear in your head are your friends. Unless they start to tell you to do bad things, or are highly obnoxious or dangerous sounding in which case maybe you need to see somebody about getting properly medicated and assessed.
  • Fear, irritability, sadness, desperation…if you are experiencing these feelings, it is an excellent time to write (see, there’s always a bright side!)
  • It’s never too late to start the writing career you’ve always dreamed about. It’s never too late to start doing any of the things you’ve always dreamed of doing. It’s never too late. It’s never too late. Lidia knows from experience.

Were these pearls useful for you? Hopefully they reinforced some of the wisdom you already had but forgot, like “it’s never too late” or “write when you’re sad”. For me, as a writer, I need daily reminders of these facts. And I can’t always rely on myself for that. It’s nice to have Lidia around to give me permission. Permission to follow my crazy dreams. Permission to mess up along the way. Permission to tell the world my dirty little secrets. Writing with Lidia is very freeing, I’m very much in tune with her, we’re marching to the same drum, or the same marching band at least. I like her. I hope she likes me too. I bit my tongue a lot at the first sesh but I suspect I’ll start fighting for her attention more in the upcoming weeks. I only have 3 more sessions with the Goddess after all…

Thanks But No Thanks

Feverish feelings
flood my face
You look at me, ask What’s wrong?
You smack my pink face
Then you grimace at my face
because it is red, and ugly.
You call me nasty things
then you call the doctor to tell
her my ears are bleeding.
You kick me and offer me a hand.
Birth me and leave me on the ground
wriggling ’round, gaping mouth in
desperate need of a tit.
A spike dog-collared breast is provided
and people later ask,
What’s wrong with this baby?

Look Away Dumb Bitch

Most women crave attention.
You can see it all over their faces as
they walk down the street.
You can see it in the way they ignore you.
The way they play dumb.
Play dumb in sundresses and slouchy bags.
Dumb.
Every last one of us.

I’m at a crowded lake alone.
I’m on the shore under a grove of
droopy Fir trees and I have my legs
and my pink dress and it’s warm.

All afternoon I’ve been needing cheered up.
It’s more than that–I have to somehow stay afloat.

I stare out at the pale gray lake with its buoys
and children
and tall,
sharp
green
blades of sea grass.
My life could be worse,
I could be in there,
cut up.

A car rolls by.
A clean shaven man looks at
me from inside of it.
He wants my bloody pussy.

A figure in the passenger’s seat
cranes their neck to see me.

The car parks.
There is a raft up top.
Out climbs a husband and wife,
as evident by a child.
The child looks my way.
I check out the man.
I look away.
I look back.
A family.
A threesome.
No doubt they’ve had bad times,
like I’m having now.
They are unhappy too, aren’t they?
Stop staring at the family.
I think to myself.
It’s rude.
You do not belong.
You are not allowed to do this.
Look away. Don’t look at the man.
He only glanced at you, fool.
You know who loves you?
Your boyfriend.

I silently permit the poor wife to kick my ass.
I am a dumb bitch, even if I do look away.
I disgust myself.

“Get To Know Me Better” & Awards Announcement

Hey all!

A blogging friend of mine, Jane, nominated me for the Inspiring Blog Award and the Lovely Blog Award. How lovely 🙂 Thank you, Jane! Jane writes the blog In My Mother’s Room, which focuses on her memoir of the same name. 

Now it’s time to share the wealth! I get to pass on the positive vibes by nominating 10 of MY favorite WordPress.com bloggers! Here goes:

Poetry, Photos and Musings, Oh My!
In My Mothers Room: A Memoir 
Marlene Luneng
Maggie Madly Writing
Jason Alan (AKA Poetry of a Mad Man)
Brian Westbye
Facehookin’
Arna Baartz
Christian Mihai
Zen and the Art of Borderline Maintenance

Another part of the deal is that I have to share with you 7 random things YOU didnt know about me. Have fun getting to know me better!

1. I work the graveyard shift.

2. On Monday, I’m auditioning for a lead role in a movie!

3. My zodiac is the Scorpio.

4. My boyfriend Forrest’s birthday is the day after mine–he’s a Scorpio too!

5. I’ve been to jail.

6. I’m from “redwood country” and my family has been living there for 5 generations now! Represent Del Norte County, California!

7. I was recently interviewed by Sci-Fi author Dan O’Brien!

What now?

If your blog was listed above–please take the time to let your favorite bloggers know you care by nominating them!

No, there’s no fancy side bar image or
anything like that, this is just a pat on the
back folks–a thank you for doing what you
do. Also, tell us “7 Things About You”.
You’re special–and I wanna know more!