Category Archives: Dreams

Womanbody

I want to be a mother. Want to harness life inside of my own body. Want to validate and make use of this healthy hearty womanbody that I have. See I always thought I’d have that baby by now. But I’ve discarded two lives by the ingestion of two pills taken two hours apart. Two men and women weeped and then ate ice cream afterwards two bloody times. I let go of two children on the floors of two different college town apartments no longer than two months into two separate pregnancies. I wasn’t yet twenty-two. Judge me, go ahead. I don’t care. I did what I had to do. What I had the right to do. But that was  way back then.

I want to do it right this time. And that’s OK. I can want that, can’t I? To do it right? My secret shames me. Or tries to. All the women ask me more more more about what I see, what I want. But the men turn their cheeks, their torsos, go silent, don’t know what to say. Most of em anyway. One of my friends though, he told me: I want the baby as I stifled a surprised laugh. The baby. I said I’d get back to him on that. Told him thanks, bra.

I’ve been on my own since fourteen, or seventeen depending on which angle. Point is, I’ve been on my own. I’ve packed and moved thirteen different times. I’ve hosted garage sales with a smiling beaming face all the while featuring the discarded stuff of lovers going their separate ways. I’ve patted the back of men I’ve dumped. I’ve sucked the dick of men I love, but never of men I didn’t. I’ve found my own truths through self-therapy, self-medicating, self-forgiving and self-love. I’ve had sex a million gazillion times and I’m still wandering through life unattached, not pregnant, working at a menial job, going to parties, “living it up”, paying rent, extending my youth. But I want to be a mother. Unapologetically.

I like to think I manage quite well our twenty-something household by cooking meals, watering plants, fluffing guests pillows before they arrive, and subtly controlling everything and everyone—including two twenty-something male roommates (one of whom is my boyfriend) who love to drink and debate and hoot and holler but will maneuver this way and that way to avoid my emotional pull and to please me in many a unique manner. But the men must know what I want. They must know I want a baby. We don’t go there. Sooner or later though, we must. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to prove that I can handle a baby, like a kid would try to prove that he can handle a puppy. Thing is, I probably can’t. What I mean is: learning curve. What I mean is: everything changes. What I mean is: there really aren’t words for becoming a mother.

I dreamed last night that I was. That I was a mother. I was the mother of a small little girl, chubby faced and brunette. She had a smile. Oh she had a smile and we smiled all above and around her. Then there was this moment. This moment where I wanted to go to the other room, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t go in the other room, because I had to stay with Her at all times. It was bliss meeting burden, being a mother. I want to be a mother. Make use of this healthy hearty womanbody that I have. Make up for lost time; for lost bodies.

Centaur

Nature brings
me all the way
back to
myself and
when I am
inside of it
I shed a thick
skin and quickly
I let go piece by
piece the armor I’ve
been endorsing
I let go of the
big box store
one finger
at a time
I find a
better
greener
place
to spend
my time
I rip
and I tear
the clothes
from my skin
I urinate
into the soil
I am animal today
I sleep with the
sky and the moon
whisper sweet-nothings
to blades of grass
I flirt with the irises
run along with the
warm spring wind
I dance to the song
of my own
heart
soul
spirit
I melt into the trees
touch the sky
the stars
there isn’t a care
in the world
inside of myself
inside of nature
inside of this
canyon

moon

This is The End

I started running out of things to write. I’ve told you about all the wild things, my wildcard parents, my over-bearing, artistic grandmother, my messy scramble for love, our dirty homes and apartments, all the mistakes we ALL made, and will continue to make…I told you and then I came to the end. I started running out of things to write.

Spring came–and with its newness and promise, I was able to recognize the closing of the first part of my life; my first twenty-eight years. Nothing spectacular happened, nothing dramatic, but it was a slow ease into my twenty-eight spring. And that stillness was something different, something new, there’s maybe even something dramatic about the way the waters calmed and stilled and pooled after years of gushing and cascading.

All the parts have closed in on themselves. The wild things have closed their wings. I think, finally, I am done. I am done telling this story. I was wondering when it was going to end, and how. People always ask me “Is your book finished yet? How do you even end a memoir, cause, like your life is still happening.” Exactly I always say, How do you?

At this stage of my manuscript it looks like this: I should maybe not even call it a manuscript but a project. Projects get messy, this is messy. This is not 303 typed crisp white pages binded and clipped with a title page and dedications. I do not know the title yet and I have a ton of typing to do!!! See, I am a writer, not a typer. I am a writer, not an editor! My project looks like this: something like twenty-four notebooks complied over the past six years filled with long, drawn out and angry dialogue during which I am both teaching myself to write and scribbling all the letters I never did, but apparently really wanted to write to my mother, lovers, and other people too. Oh I let them have it. I didn’t only say nice things about my father either. Didn’t only say nice things about anyone I wrote about except maybe Charles.

So its Spring now and I’m twenty-eight (and a half) and I’m standing out in my boyfriends lawn and he’s just mowed the grass, the air is perfect, the trees are like magic, and I’m not even high on anything. I look at the sky and it’s perfect too. There’s a wiry black dog running around at my feet. My feet are bare, I’m wearing nothing but a long white cotton halterdress with orange blooms, my hair is down and long now, my body is weightless as I realize that the moment is perfect, just me, in the woods, no book even, no coffee, no shoes, a man off in the distance, the promise of sex and comfort, my bareface, my dreams, the lightness I feel in. this. moment.

I notice something over my shoulder. I slowly turn and look, I see The End. I see the chaos that was my past, my history, tromping off like a brigade heading to who knows where, not any longer attached to me, but parting from me. I bid goodbye. I holler and smile. I prepare to let go.

Time To Come On Home

I’m almost at the place!
No fortune-telling
gypsy need tell
me now
I feel a sense
of grace,
of place,
of peace
The day just
opened up,
the sun shone
down so fierce
My father looked
into my eyes, he cried
then my tears fell too
We smiled at one another
under the pines
We stood in October’s
warmest day
I’m coming home, Daddy
I said to him
I won’t hardly wait another day

My Next Big Thing

71ff1ac339195a49da6e6052ed1812f9I always need a Big Thing in my life.  For the past year, my Big Thing has been a bi-monthly writer’s group in Portland. But now that I need new tires, new disc brakes, and more money and time in general, I’m finding that I can’t pull off going to Portland like I used to (it’s a three-hour drive). All the signals are pointing toward something new, and at this point, I’m looking for anything that will help me accomplish completing my manuscript. So I’ve decided to stay local and sign up for a class at Lane Community College. The class is “Crafting the Novel” and starts on October 3rd. Back to school for me! Fucking, yay. I know, I just know that this is the push I need to wrap things up and begin the editing (and publishing) process.
Here is the description of the class:

This class is designed to assist students not only in writing their novel but to get it published. Whether you have a completed draft, are in the idea stage or something in between, this class will help you develop the discipline, dedication and the skills you need to get that novel written and published. Week by week we’ll workshop our works-in-progress in a supportive and positive setting. Some of the areas we’ll cover include: developing character, plot, dialogue, organization, revision and finally how to publish and market a completed novel.

Major plus: the class is held at the brand-new downtown location, right next to the library and closer to home than the main campus. I am concerned that the class might not be the absolute best fit since novels are fiction-based, but I’m hoping the teacher is flexible (I know that I can be) and will help me adapt my memoir to the structure of the class, or whatever. Because if I’ve learned anything it’s that a memoir needs a plot, climax, and rich characters too. Wish me tons of luck! I really think this is the last leg, the final chapter of my memoir-writing–which all began a long five years ago!

Give & Ye Shall

In the moonlight
my most sacred wishes
tumble out like a star giving birth,
filling my world with a million grains
of newborn hope

On the river a
moonglade reflects
back to me my most
incomprehensible
sins and shortcomings
and also reveals my
strengths and gifts

At dawn I wake
knowing the Universe
has slaved on my behalf
and today,
if I give all that
I wish to receive–
Love, communication, security,
I will dance in my hearts
grandest creation yet