Category: Memoir

First World Story

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Here’s the thing: I’ll let it all out, tell the world and no one will care. It will be the same as before I let it all out. No one will care. Enough. People may care enough to fix me dinner, buy me a coffee, buy the book, write a review, maybe send a letter. But no one will find me a good therapist or marry me. No one will give me a child.

But after I put it all out there…I’ll have no reason to kill myself any longer. I won’t be harboring resentment, guilt or secrets of any kind.

What a fucking idiot.

The stories will be released and I will no longer be poisoned. I can move on. Forgive as they say.

And to top it all off–my stories will be first world problems. I let that off my chest? Please. And for what?

For one more reason to put one foot in front of the other that’s for what.

I’ve always been in danger. Foolish.

I just now checked out a fifteen year old girl (probably) in a mini skirt. I’m sick and I keep telling you about it.

Foolish.

I’m letting go of the truth. Giving it to you. And moving on to make more sick memories.

Twisted. First world style.

Young Dreams

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments

My young dream was to be a performer or an athlete. I also said I wanted to be a writer. I know because I wrote all this down on a slip of paper that recently emerged while rifling through child-things at my great aunt’s house.

I also know it because I remember all the energy I used to put into performing. I wrote–short fictional stories–but not very often. I had too much movement in my body.
I’d acquired at least a little bit of skill and grace from the few years of ballet, jazz and acrobatics I took at the Dance Art Studio in Crescent City. And when I had an audience, boy-howdy I put on a show. My family called it “tumbling” but I’ve watched the home videos and what I was doing was acrobatic ballet: cart-wheel, round-off, pose, cart-wheel, round-off, pose.

I practically lived in a long-sleeve pink leotard and dreamed of owning sweats, leg warmers and new ballet shoes like the other girls. I’d carry it all in the “Twinkle Toes” ballet bag I saw on display at the Dance Art Studio. It cost thirty-five dollars. Which was even more money back in 1996.

I watched gymnastics on TV whenever I had the opportunity and thought for certain I was just a few lessons away from a double back layout and a spot on the floor at the Olympics.

Clearly I wasn’t, but once in acrobatics class when were learning back tucks (which is a back flip with no hands) my instructor was spotting me so I gave it my all. Seconds later when I was upright my teacher said “You just did it. I didn’t even touch you. You did it all on your own,” which drew the attention of the whole class, not because a back tuck hadn’t been done before, it had, but because I’d only been in acrobatics for a year or less (and just once a week)–the other girls had been going to the Dance Art Studio since infancy.

All I got from the girls was a long glance. No pat on the back.

In the upcoming months I would begin to wonder why my crotch smelt funny as we stretched and get self-conscious over my dirty socks.

I stopped going to dance, which no one in my family protested or gently encouraged me otherwise. I’ve always been able to do as I please. Just as I please.

I cut my hair and half-heartedly took up basketball, poetry and boys.

I’m kicking myself now because I was darn good. I’d nearly nailed my back hand spring with no spotter, I had a stage smile and good balance. And now I know that crotches just smell funny sometimes. Especially after excercise.

I could’ve really been something.

SPARK Update: 4 Days Remaining

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

My assignment is to write a story (non-fiction or fiction, I’m writing non-fiction of course) in response to Helen Lewis’ One Red Elephant photograph. Just four days remain until we submit the final works—the “response pieces” if you will. I’m happy to share that I’ve written my story but as usual have overwritten and will need to cut in order to meet the 1,500 word limit. What I still need to do: edit, refine and type. Oh, and I don’t think I have a title yet. It’s always fun to title something, no?

In a few days I will share my response piece plus the photograph that Helen Lewis created in response to A Fortune Teller Once Told Me…(True Story).

Thanks for reading!

Visionboarding & Organization

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments
My Memoir Visionboard doubles as a place to keep organized. Notice the blank spaces, those are for writing my "scenes to-do lists" which are the scenes I need to write, and then I'll cross them out as I go. And the wheel in the middle is my "full-circle story", which reveals that I've not yet completed the beginning but have written much of the content in the middle.
My memoir Visionboard doubles as a place to keep organized. Notice the blank spaces, those are for writing my “scenes to-do lists” which are the scenes I still need to write ( I’ll cross them out as I go). And the wheel in the middle is my “full-circle story”, which shows the general idea of my memoir starting at the top and traveling counter clockwise.
My full-circle story diagram. Its a start. It could definitely be elaborated on. It helps. I think.
My full-circle story diagram. It’s a start. It could definitely be elaborated on. It helps. I think.
My main goal of 2013 (if it happens sooner, great) is to find meaning in my story. Like, one meaning, or two, but no more than three. A "theme" if you will. A "take-home message". The "moral of the story".
My main goal of 2013 (if it happens sooner, great) is to find meaning in my story. Like, one meaning, or two, but no more than three. A “theme” if you will. A “take-home message”. The “moral of the story”.
I like this little corner of the Visionboard. Often as I'm writing in my journal I'll think of an idea like "Choose Your Own Adventure" ending and I'll just write that and a light bulb to signify "idea". Well, now I have an "idea" corner. For all my ideas about my memoir. It helps. I think.
I like this little corner of my Visionboard. Often as I’m writing in my journal I’ll think of an idea like “Choose Your Own Adventure Ending” and I’ll just write that and a light bulb to signify “idea”. Well, now I have an “idea” corner–to compile a list of my ideas.
My life Visionboard. It's more intracite than the other Visionboard, and every space is filled with images I clipped out of magazines.
My life Visionboard. It’s more intricate than the other Visionboard, and every space is filled with images I clipped out of magazines.
The idea is that you instinctively clip images and words without thinking too much about it and tape or paste them together--the result reveals truths about you. Truth about me: I want to be able to work a "real job" and be a successful writer too. I want them both. Surely, I can have them both.
To make a Visionboard, instinctively clip images and words without thinking too much about it. Then tape or paste the words and pictures together–the result being truths revealed about you. Truth about me: I want to be able to work a “real job” and be a successful writer too.
I find this portion of my vision board to be very mysterious.
I find this portion of my Visionboard to be very mysterious. Especially the bottom left corner. That’s my hand writing.
This part represents where I come from and also, the future, when I am able to settle down there. This section has a lot of hidden meaning. Notice the "pursuit of happiness". I guess that's what I'm on. The pursuit of happiness.
This part represents where I come from but also the future. This section has a lot of hidden meaning. It conjures many thoughts for me. Pursuit of Happiness.

SPARK Project: A Fortune Teller Once Told Me (True Story)

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Here’s my submission for SPARK. My partner Helen will respond with a photograph inspired by the piece. You may or may not remember this poem but it made an appearance on my blog many moons ago. Enjoy! I hope some folks are considering learning more about SPARK–you can participate in the project from anywhere.

 

A Fortune Teller Once Told Me (True Story)
By Terah Van Dusen

 

Several years ago
I had a psychic reading
Not at one of those hole-in-the-wall places
with the flashing lights
and crystal balls

It was done in my living room

My former roommate, Sydney, had her future read frequently
Sydney had the same lady come over to our house
oh, every couple months or so
Always when nobody was home
I don’t remember how it was arranged
but the next thing you knew,
I too was signed up for a reading
Sydney promised not to tell the “medium” a thing about me
That way we could insure accuracy

The medium didn’t wear a long, flouncy dress
Or bring a satchel full of rocks and crystals,
She showed up in her Subaru car,
dressed in a North Face pullover and jeans
Said to me, this isn’t my day job

We sat facing each other in the quiet house
Nobody there except for us,
That was one of her rules
That nobody else be there

She took a few minutes to gauge me,
Had her eyes closed, seemed to be sniffing around at the air
Like she were some kind of animal.
I closed my eyes too, I was tired

Maybe its custom to start out by saying a
few nice things about the person.
Because that’s what she did at first,
mentioned a few of my qualities,
built me up a little bit.
She said she noticed that I was a writer.

She told me:
Keep writing, someday there will be people helping you.
As you can imagine, I was pleased
This lady was good

She went on to say that there was a person from
my past, a person who wished to speak to me.
From a past life, from a past life, she clarified.
The medium then, with her eyes still closed,
began speaking in a stranger, lower voice
I realized that the spirit was speaking through her:
It’s you! It’s you! I cannot believe I can finally speak to yyyooou!
The emotion that came with this voice brought tears to my eyes
Ooooohhhhh, youuuuuuuu!
Oh, oh, you are sssso lovely in this life!
The voice was truly eerie,
but my, what a compliment! Lovely?

The medium broke the contact with the spirit
She looked at me and said:
Whoever that was they sure are fond of you.
But, know that not every spirit is good.
Spirits, like humans, are both bad and good.
Let’s move on, she said

I have some advice for you, based on what I’m seeing:
First, know that a good way to gauge your happiness, is that
you are happiest when you are light on your feet.

I would imagine…

Second, you should eat less spicy food. More fresh food.

No and okay.

You are very serious, watch more funny movies and TV shows.

Now, I have given you some advice about how to better your life,
I’d like to mention just a few other things before we close:

You are wondering if you will have
everlasting love: you are not the type.
You will not be with the same man for all of your life.

I’ll show you!

You are wondering if you will be happy when you move from Arizona.
You will be happy, you will be more whole than you have ever been.

In the distant future I see you standing up on a hill,
inside of a prairie or meadow.
Your arms are wide open.
You are rejoicing because
you have finally reached the place
where you’ve been headed all your life.

I will keep my eyes wide-open for that place…

That was the last psychic reading I’ve had
The only psychic reading I’ve had
The woman told me all I needed to know,
and then some.
Knowing your future is not fun.
Whether its true or not.
I mean, there’s the good:
I should keep writing!
People will be helping me!
I’m going to stretch my arms out wide like a crazy
person while standing in a high-elevation prairie!
And then there’s the bad:
I should give up Thai food,
No relationship I will have will last.

Enough is enough,
I know enough now.
I will seek that meadow where
I will be whole and free
and I will try my darndest to have a long,
happy marriage someday.
Regardless of my “destiny”

I paid the psychic $25 bucks that day.
She told me a whole lot more
But its been so long that I forgot it.
I hadn’t written it down because
at the time I was sure I’d remember it all.

Memoirs of a Breakup

Terah Van Dusen8 Comments

I gazed at the far wall above the fireplace where I’d hung an abstract painting I found at the Goodwill, and on each side, two wooden toy guitars. I know I wasn’t the first person to procrastinate a break up because of all the work it would take. All the dividing, he gets one toy guitar, I get one toy guitar.

In the end, he would get the abstract painting. He would even get my mountain bike for fuck’s sake and yes I’m still bitter about that. I would get the curtain rods and the fancy curtains we bought down at an overpriced bohemian home decor store that I can’t even remember the name of now and he would get all the good wine glasses, of course. I would get most of the art and knick knacks and he would get the cat because it was his mother’s to begin with. I would leave him with the furniture because there was no way I was going to keep going back into that apartment. The guilt. The holes in the walls that we both made.

Two weeks later I had a new boyfriend and a new neighborhood, and oh, I got to keep all our friends. I was having sex again, and enjoying it.

I remember the night I’d pranced around in a brand new purple silk nighty from Victoria’s Secret. I’d dropped hints like bombs around the living room before he told me he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. He’d told me “you didn’t have that mustache when we met”.

I’m not Unemployed, I’m a Writer

Terah Van Dusen8 Comments

I’m a private person. With the exception of writing my memoir, I get squirmish if too much about me is revealed. I’ll often write a post here on WordPress and then just save the draft not wanting you to know my thoughts. As if knowing those thoughts you can crack the code and know everything about me.  A lot of those posts are your everyday post/rant-types. A sort-of “I’m not feeling inspired to write actual memoir or a pretty poem (as if I do that) or a short story so I’ll blah blah blah on here for five minutes about my day.” It’s like posting a status on Facebook only painfully longer.

My fellow bloggers do this well. Most the time, not all the time, I enjoy those though. I don’t mind reading that a blogger whose writing a thriller took the day off to do her laundry or that a musician strolled the art walk and didn’t play guitar but took pictures and here they are. I guess I’m always afraid of being irrelevant. But irrelevance is OK. It happens. Daily. Why not let a few of these rant blogs slip through. Thing is–it appears that at least a couple people look at my blog every day. Well, this blog is for you. So you don’t leave empty handed headed.

 

 

I’m not Unemployed, I’m a Writer 

On October 31, 2012 I applied for unemployment. I was officially laid off on the 30th. I can now go change the bio on my blog to read “unemployed” instead of “work at a young women’s substance abuse residential treatment facility”; or I can just leave that out, or just say “writer”. Now, for the first time, I am not a social worker and then writer or a park ranger who writes or a pizza slinger poet: I’m just a writer. I’m nothing else. And, I don’t have to accept work that pays less than my former job did or that isn’t work that I’m qualified to do. In other words: I don’t have to work until I find the right job for me. So for now, I’m a writer. If anybody asks, that’s what I am. And guess what? I just hired myself.

Wait what?

I just hired myself on the condition that I show up for work on time, can meet deadlines and be a great team player. Not wanting to wear myself out, I gave myself the ideal schedule. I work part time (in a perfect world, wouldn’t this be the case for all of us?) and have the weekends off.

 

 

 

Eugene Public Library

Schedule:

Monday: 10 – 2 (I just love Mondays! Everybody’s buzzing about, getting down to business!)
Tuesday: 3:30 to 11:00 p.m. (during this time I drive to my writer’s workshop in Portland) *every other Tuesday
Wednesday: 10 – 2
Thursday: 10 – 2

My office:

Eugene Public Library (just a skip, hop, jump from home)

 

 

 

 
Additional perk:

I get to wear whatever I want to work!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s the thing: I must stick to it. I must be the nicest most stern boss I’ve ever known!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tips? Have you done this? I know I have the determination but too my fear of failure sickens me. This is my dream schedule and my dream job. Surely I won’t quit or be fired. Here’s a post from a fellow blogger whose doing the same thing only she has a real job and kids and a husband and a…(pet, probably?)

Props to Marlene Luneng for making a schedule and sticking to it. (You’ve inspired me!)

Miracle Boy

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments

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.

Pearls of Lidia’s Wisdom

Terah Van Dusen7 Comments

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…

Big Blue Bin Blues

Terah Van Dusen6 Comments

*This is a scene I gleaned from my memoir. I’ll deposit it in my Memoir section later. For now I just wanted to share it with you.

Our quiet, peaceful life as we had known it was done for. Lisa had a large family and we moved in with them up in Lacey, Washington. I don’t remember the names of most the people in the house, except for Michael Hamm. Michael was Lisa’s twenty-something nephew. He gave me cigarettes, otherwise I found him a fool.
We lived in the Hamm’s backyard in a fifth-wheel trailer. I had only my big blue bin and a diary where I chronologized how miserable I was living in Washington with the evil step-mother and her self-righteous family. I slept out on the couch in the front part of the trailer. I would sleep, cry, complain about wanting to go back to California, and on a good day, I did so while sun-bathing on a blanket out on the lawn. It was the summertime and I had virtually nothing else to do but mope around. I couldn’t tell you what my dad and Lisa were up to. As usual I was left to my own devices. There was a wall between Lisa and I. And there was a rope around both my dad’s neck and her wrist. As far as Lisa was concerned I was a disposable child, that had already been made clear. Kids, who needs ’em anyway?
The Hamm’s were very religious. Pentecostal. They went to church at least twice a week. I didn’t want to be involved. Since curtal and temples and dancing in the streets of San Francisco with the Hare Krishnas, religion hadn’t done a thing for me. But I was forced to ride along with my dad and Lisa to church. When we got there I would stay in the car and smoke any refries Lisa had left in the ashtray. Once, the church folk caught wind that I was out in the car and the pastor sent several of their perkiest teenage girls to coax me out. I could’ve punched them all in the face for knocking on the window and waking me up from my sleep. They didn’t understand. I didn’t budge. Seeing their sprightly faces and the way they all clutched on to each other like a bunch of co-dependent idiots reinforced the fact that the inside of that church was the last place I wanted to be. They didn’t understand.
I would sometimes take walks from the fifth-wheel behind the Hamm’s house to a nearby shopping center to use the payphone. I had a calling card that I used to make calls to David and we would talk about what was going on with me and what was going on with him. He told me he’d gone to a party and met a girl named Kristy. Why would he tell me that? I knew her vaguely – she was a cute Mexican girl a grade below me in school. I didn’t wallow over it. I knew David loved me. I knew he loved me and only me. Because that’s what he told me. Repeatedly. Men would do this in my life. Men would lie.