Tag Archives: Rage

My Self Lately

My mind is a machine in need
of a tune-up
My heart a dilapidated thing, again
And who damaged it but me
The only calm I come by is dawn,
even my dreams are exhausting
I am a sterile girl
with a pregnant body in
all places but the womb
My body is one bursting with life
but oppressed and not-in-use.
The past few weeks have grown me
older than all of last year
The days are dropping like rotten apples
from a tree I used to call home
and I am lying down,
fermented,
achy,
and by choice,
alone.

Walking With Our Love Woes

We all have our love woes
They come in their own unique
shapes and sizes
Often lopsided
Old married couples have big love woes that
make for strong foundations
Things to fall back on
Like joint accounts
and children
Things that make people say ‘oh what the hell’
and stay
Young couples have little
love woes that they pick at until
they bleed
and when they dry they
pick at them again
I let you guess which love woe
I have
I’m walking with my love woes
who put this day in winter?
We bundle up, our faces sadder than ever
and everyone I see
is walking alone

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

Feature O’ The Day:

Widespread Panic: All Time Low

Black heart sun rides the sky
Now your eyes are running dry
Oh, like the space around me
I take my spot in time

Who knows who is both your best friend and brother
When everyone’s deserted you
Who’d shoot first and ask questions later
If anybody’s messed with you
Pretty soon we’ll all be tumblin’ like a barrel
Thrown from the top of the waterfall, well
I’m drowning in piranhas in the river
Man, what a drag, man

Black heart sun rides the sky
Now your wells are runnin’ dry
Like the space around me
I take my spot in time

Who knows who is both your best friend and brother
When everyone’s deserted you
Who’d shoot first and ask questions later
If anybody’s messed with you
Pretty soon we’ll all be tumblin’ like a barrel
Thrown from the top of the waterfall, well
I’m drowning in piranhas in the river
Man, what a drag!
Man, what a drag!
Man, what a drag!

I was talkin’ to my teacher
Said I didn’t have a clue
I think my principles are reachin’
An all time low
I saw my lady in the streetlight
She was walkin’ with her man
They were headed for the fire
That was burnin’ in the sand
I think my principles are reachin’
An all time low
I think my principles are reachin’
An all time, all time low
All time low
All time low
All time low
All time low

It’s a Serious Life

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

T – 48 Hours, Bitches

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.

Tyson

I’m sensitive. I realize this now. I am also naïve and gullible, believing most anything people tell me. So when the kids at school started saying so-and-so was talking bad about me behind my back, I believed them.

I was spending more and more time with the preppies. And according to some asshole punk named David who just wanted to start trouble, Palma Bergeron was now spending most of her lunch hour going on and on about what a trader/slut/wimp I was. I didn’t know how much of what David said she said was true but when I passed Palma in the halls sure enough she would ignore me or glare, and then a moment later she would make some gesture behind my back that would cause a couple of her no-good friends to laugh.

We had algebra together and so I decided to write Palma a note basically asking what her deal/problem was. In case she hadn’t heard me in the hall ask her “what’s your fucking problem?”

I passed the note to John Larson, a Mormon boy who sat behind me. John opened up the note (even though it clearly read “Palma” on the front), read it, and then passed it back to Palma. Palma wrote something, passed it to John, John read it, then passed it to me.

The note read, in Palma’s idiotic scrawl, that I was a “dug out slut”. Palma Bergeron was no angel herself let me tell you what. Okay, so there was the dug out, but I was pretty sure that being a slut required sleeping with multiple people and nobody at VU knew anything about David. Which would have only brought my count up to two anyway. I was so done with this dug out business. I missed Crescent City where a girl could sleep with someone in peace. It was almost Christmas break and people were still going on and on about Dug Out. I’d show them.

John Larson says my ears turned red and quote “steam was coming out of them.” I remember seeing red. Usually, I liked to stare at Mr. Brazeal’s “aka Vern’s” crotch and have the good ol’ student/teacher fantasy. Vern was all of twenty-six years old, had gone to VU himself. But I just couldn’t focus. John said I started shaking. I knew what I had to do to a girl who thought she was tough shit: show her she wasn’t.

Within thirty seconds of getting that note I was up out of my seat. I wound up my right arm, made a fist and socked Palma as hard as I could in the side of the face. In my peripheral, I saw the other kid’s eyes widen and their jaws drop. Fighting didn’t happen at VU like it did back in California. Just a bunch of shit-talking. I found fighting to be much more productive. Much, much more productive.

I socked her on the other side of her face with my left fist and she was up out of her seat, face red, tears coming down. It was great. We did the whole hair grabbing thing (it really does just come naturally for women) and finally Vern broke it up. Vern escorted me to the office and told me he was proud of me for standing up for myself. See, Vern understood. I think he knew that I wasn’t the type to go around and talk and talk and talk bad about people. I hadn’t been stirring the pot, I really hadn’t. I was suspended for a couple of days and was even more surprised when Peggy too said she was proud of me, despite my being suspended. I think someone had told Peggy that Palma was one of those up-to-no-good kids. She knew Palma would no longer be my confidant, and that pleased her. She told me she never wanted to see Palma at our house again.

From then on the kids called me Tyson instead of Dug Out.

Memoirs of a Breakup

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 was so horny I would’ve humped the couch but I had less inhibition back then so I didn’t. 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”.

Big Blue Bin Blues

*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.

The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch

When visiting the Eugene Public Library, a bi-monthly event, I sit down at a computer and do a quick search for memoirs. I snatch one of those little square white slips of paper and one of those baby pencils with no erasers and scrawl out the call number and the first four letters of the author’s last name. Usually the memoirs are found in section 921. I write down about 7 books, knowing that I’ll be unable to locate a couple of them, for whatever reason, and that one or two I’ll end up not liking at all, upon seeing the cover, upon reading the first few lines. I’ll leave with four books or so. I’ll get ’em home and read half of those. Right now, for example, I’ve got a book called Patty’s Got A Gun, it’s about Patty Hearst. I read a little bit but it didn’t catch me because, as intriguing as the story is, I already know the gist of it and the author’s writing isn’t making me feel like he’s going to tell me anything new. The author’s writing. The author’s writing.

I used to be a big believer in fate. Not so much in destiny really, but that if I sort of held my hands out in front of me and closed my eyes and slowly walked (figuratively, for the most part) toward the places and people and trees and parks and coffee shops that felt good, that felt right, warm, light, loving, that I would end up where it was appropriate for me to be that if I had mindlessly walked into life that day. That I would end up where I was supposed to be. I used to look for signs everywhere pointing me to these places. I used to keep my eyes wide-open. I used to. I used to. That was a long time ago. Since then I’ve realized that I hold the power, regardless of how spiritually mindful I am being or not, to make things happen in my life, to change things, to get what I want, to make decisions. It’s almost as if it’s entirely up to me, and not depending upon the Universe at all. This took a while to come to terms with, being that I was raised up by such a religious father. My father always told me things like “God will take care of it.” Now, whether it was the Universe leading me to Lidia Yuknavitch’s book or that I just happened upon it: I feel that this was meant to happen. Not predetermined, just meant to happen. At this time. Not one month ago, not one year from now. Now. I’m having one of those: ohmigod, what if I had never come across this book/person/story/insight feelings.

Let me tell you more…when I did that computer search for memoirs roughly a week and a half ago I came across a book description that mentioned something about a drowning. A drowning? Hey–I know about a drowning! My Dad drowned, wait, almost, you know, not quite. Done. I wrote down the call number and the letters YUKN. My boyfriend was with me that day and he and I set out to find my memoirs. If I remember right, he found the first memoir, handed it to me, I mentioned something about it having a beautiful cover, and I tucked it under my arm, almost instinctively. I got that book about Patty Hearst, which had been mistakenly filed under her last name, like it was her book, like it was a memoir. I didn’t look twice at that book, it was like once I had Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water, I was all ready to go home and start reading.

When I began reading the book, I was instantly impressed with Lidia’s poetic writing. I said aloud to my boyfriend in the car, “she just called her still-born baby ‘little dead girlfish’. That’s awesome.” I looked at him and quickly said, “but not, you know, of course, but, I mean, who does that? Nice...” We got home and I put the book away and got busy for a few days with a ballet recital and family visiting and I forgot about the book. Not entirely of course. I picked it back up and got sucked into the story when I discovered that Lidia’s father was some sort of incest rapist. Love that. Hate that. Hate that. Hate that. Of course. But does it make for good reading? Yes. Some people (like my great aunts and grandma’s and grandpa’s) like to cover things up and ignore them and pretend like they never happened like an unmarked grave but I like to investigate the story a little bit. As much as it hurts and makes me puke in my mouth. I’m on page 195 and Lidia’s drawn out her family’s story like my Dad used to do with his loogies over a bridge (ew, gross) and I still don’t know what did or did not happen. I still don’t know if when Lidia’s dad took the family to Mount Rainier to get a Christmas tree if her sister’s face got all red and teary because she fell down and hit her rib on a rock or if her dad had just fucked her face. That’s how good Lidia is…she still hasn’t told us. Me? I wrote my sex abuse scene all in one chapter, titled it “Does that tickle?”

I’ve got a lot to learn from Lidia Yuknavitch. Just like she had a lot to learn from Ken Kesey. About one-quarter way through the book, Lidia moves to Eugene. Eugene! That’s where I live! I’ve read other books where people move to Eugene but within a page or two they pick up and move somewhere else, like I’ve sometimes wanted to do. But Lidia, she stayed. Lidia knows that where a person lives does not make or break them. Unlike me, Lidia doesn’t say “I just feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else” or “It will all come together when I live there and am doing that.” Lidia stays in Eugene for a decade or more and starts off going to creative writing classes at the U of O, classes that she isn’t even paying for, isn’t even signed up for, and she learns that although she feels like she can’t do anything right, she can write. She can write. Lidia stays in Eugene and she learns how to write, amidst a sea of people she feels she is nothing like. She goes to seminars with a flask tucked in her pocket and she fucks the author speaker, man or woman, at the Best Western down the road, the same Best Western where my family just stayed at when they were in town, visiting. She drives the same road I do to get to the coast and she lives in the same neighborhood, just closer to the train tracks.

I google Lidia Yuknavitch and discover that she was recently at the U of O presenting a lecture at the Memoir Fest. I knew about the Memoir Fest but decided not to go because it’s on campus and you know, I’m so above and beyond that and what does campus want with me anyway? I should’ve tucked a flask under my arm and gone. I should’ve, I should’ve.

I read some more and discovered that Lidia Yuknavitch has a Writer’s Workshop! In Portland! In September! It’s not full yet and it’s happening, it really is, on Tuesday’s, at 6:30! (If you can’t tell, I totally plan on going. And if you don’t know me, know that when I say I’m going, I go. I’ll just pretend to hear your “I’m so happy for you!” Dude, it only costs, like 150 bucks.)

I haven’t finished reading the book yet. When I have a good book I like to draw it out like my dad’s loogy. Speaking of dad’s…remember how Lidia’s book description talked about the tragedy around drowning, or almost drowning? That was her dad, her dad almost drown. She still hasn’t gotten back to that. It’s sort of hanging out in the air. I want to know what happened but I wouldn’t imagine most readers do, because nobody cares, because he was a rapist. Lidia’s got a lot of loose ends to tie up in this book, but whether she does or doesn’t, I don’t care. That’s how good this book is. I can dig any book that talks about broken women and lots of sex and S & M and men and women that behave like men and writing and drugs and more drugs and hope and hopE and hoPE and hOPE and more HOPE and VICTORY. I can dig a book that breaks all the rules. I can dig Lidia Yuknavitch.

Help

Rage
More and more
Rage
Exposing itself
Black rage
Hanging in the air

I know the neighbors
can hear me
I wail and cry at night
They hear books,
coffee mugs,
milk jugs,
hitting the walls
They hear
my boyfriend’s big feet
shuffling, picking up after me
It only lasts a minute
But I know they hear it

When I see the neighbors
I’m all smiles and pleasantries
I know it isn’t fair,
to my boyfriend
to my neighbors
If only my walls
My Walls
weren’t so thin
If only I showed my
BLACKNESS
to the one who deserves it
If only I kept it to myself
It’s just that until now, I didn’t
have anyone to show it to
I’ve kept the blackness here inside
of me for    so     long     and I haven’t a clue
why it’s coming out now.
Do you?