Tag Archives: Rant

To-Do

Dreams, Feminism, Freedom, Inspiration, Poetry, Rant, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing, , , , , ,

Fall apart, let loose into creation
Let my hair down, like a poet would do
Dance a sexy dance, for no one
Write off my obsessions and idols
Lower them until we see eye to eye
Kiss them
Open my mouth
and let love in

Get places on time
step by step, cover the basics
Clock in and clock out
with a smile
Allow myself to fall apart,
just enough behind the scenes that
I walk away with a notecard poem
safeguard–just barely–my reputation
my job title

Forgive others
as easily as I forgive myself
Let loose the reigns
and let em go wherever
the fuck they want

Seize the moment
(cross that out)
Avoid cliches

Fear blank pages
more than scribbles
For mistakes are a sign
of progress

Live in the knowledge
that things cannot be pretty
100% of the time
A concept not limited to
my face, my body
Understand that superficiality
is the sister to vanity
and to view yourself poorly
makes you just as vain as if
to  view yourself pretty
all of the time

So you
do the dishes
tidy up
Everything
Everywhere
All of the time

But most of all you
fall apart
into poetry
even if it means
scribbles and
ink on the fingers
or your face
even if it means
mussying up a
blank page
a blank page
that will roll around
in your purse
in your car
in your junk drawer
mussying up your life
like children or dirty jobs
in general

Fall apart for creation
for a full and happy life
Fall apart for a full heart
and just write

Billboard People

Poetry, Rant, Writing, , , , ,
Instead of regurgitating facts
why not digest the knowledge
Instead of claiming ideas as your own
shoving them down my throat
like capsules of lead
let them collect around you
and carefully handle the wisdom
grow to understand it …
before you accept it
Everything has a label now
most of all, our own persons
are we not all tagged as this
or that?
Who am I if I do not
promote myself to you?
Do I exist at all?
Have I no life if
I am not on display?
Have I got no education if
I don’t wear it like a badge?
Have I got no past if
I don’t carry my albums
in my mouth
spilling them out
on the floor at every change
waiting for you to stop
talking so that I might
do my dance
How old are we anyway?
Still young enough for
Show and Tell?
Are my bones
my breath
my eyes
my body
all lost on you?
Is my presence
not enough?
I forgot my billboard
at home
You forgot my
address
my phone number
You forgot I’m
a person
not a number
Not friend
number 362
but a soul
a spirit
a woman
begging
authenticity
from
you

No Title

Memoir, Poetry, Writing, , , , ,

For how long
can we
trapeze this love?
Before falling
     f
       a
            l l
               i
                   n
                           g
with I love you’s
and titles.
We run from
those words,
playing hide
and go seek
For surely
those words
lead to
   I don’t love you
             any
                 more.

For how long
can we babystep
this desire?
Knowing All-grown Up
desire is
dumb.

For how long
can you go
without
calling me Yours?
For how long
can I?

Neurotic Fan Part III–Chuck Palahniuk

Poetry, Writing, , ,
Image by dailyemerald.com
Image by dailyemerald.com

Throughout the night Lidia, Chelsea and Chuck read their potent pieces and throw out souvenirs to the crowd–teddy bears and baby dolls and just the heads of baby dolls. And somehow toy intestines (see image above).

One million times I think of yelling Mommy! Mommy! to Lidia, my child-like fascination with her echoed by the toys they toss.

These people don’t need a gimmick. They’re gods, not people. They’re not like us. They should know just their presence is enough. But I guess they have to get their kicks too. All these shows feeling the same after time.

You should’ve seen the way these kids were clawing and begging for more toys. Lidia told one girl, You’ve have enough. Look at you, you have like fucking five.

Mommy! Over here! I scream inside my head.

Later, I leave the show with nothing but my covered-up shaven legs, and Dora: A Headcase, unsigned. I hadn’t even caught Lidia’s eye.

Image by ethosmagonline.com
Image by ethosmagonline.com

I round the west corner of the WOW Hall, thinking of how I’d taken Chuck Palahniuk for an uber-eccentric, maybe a little self-centered at the worst, I mean he was famous and all that…but that wasn’t Chuck had come off. Not at all. He came off as a gentle spirit, more than just a writer, but quietly charismatic too…
when,

BAM

there’s Chuck in my peripheral vision, exiting the back door to escape the crowd…both of us in our silk robes, his–red, mine–black.

Lucky. Fucking. Me.

“Thank you,” I say, gesturing with a nonchalant nod.

“Have a good night,” Chuck tells me.

A bum sitting on a nearby tree stump parrots Chuck’s words as I pass: Have a good night, Have a good night. My mind is already doing the same as I head home sober as a whistle and starstruck.

I’m a Night-Creature Again (Warning: Life Rant)

Dreams, Rant, Writing, ,

While you sleep I watch and write.

Art by Kate Gabrielle
Art by Kate Gabrielle

When I first moved to Eugene I searched for work for a month or two before finding a night shift position at a group home for teenagers. I wasn’t sure about staying up all night five days per week but let’s face it: I’m no stranger to the night.

It turned out the position suited me well. My job involved insuring the safety of our clientele–and when it comes to wayward teens I am a claws out, karate-chopping mother-hen-type gal (I remember what it was like to be in their shoes, many having been abandoned by their parents and experiencing unimaginable amounts of helplessness).

After being laid-off (surprise!) in November I sulked for nearly three months, writing a bit at first but losing my momentum as it seems writing and life and work all go hand-in-hand (I’ve heard many writer’s attest to this). Then, last week, in some crazy twist of fate, in a “the more things change the more things stay the same” kind-of-way, I was rehired. I will sit at the same desk, I will walk the same grounds at three a.m. admiring the same moon and all its phases and I will cook breakfast at the end of my shift in the same kitchen for the same people.

I am ecstatic. I’d recommend that any writer consider the night shift. In between bed-checks and garbage-taking-out and pots of coffee: there is writing. There is quiet. There is time and space and somehow, money too. Graveyard work + Writer’s dreams = Happy camper.

Foot note: This position is only temporary. In March my boyfriend and I are moving to a small-town south of Portland, so that I can pursue my writing dreams “in the big city”–only we’ll be living in a little house on a farm. Cause that’s how I do.

What is a Dream?

Dreams, Rant, Writing, , , , , , ,

You know those dreams you’ve had in life that you’ll never forget? I’m not talking about waking dreams (for once), I’m talking about sleeping dreams. For example, when I was about four years old I had a dream my dad picked me up in a hot air balloon and took me to Safeway to so we could buy some dream-mirror-dreams-can-come-true-31082814-900-900ABC soup, which was my favorite meal. Not much happened other than that but for some reason I’ve always remembered that particular dream. But why?

Then there are the recurring dreams–again, when I was just four years old, I’d say from four to six–which was actually a pretty traumatic point in my life–I would have this dream:

I’m in a dark dungeon. I’m lying on my back or my side and there are about five or six little elves running around and climbing all over my body. Above my head is a big roll of lead. Let me explain more: you remember Bubble Tape? They always had Bubble Tape on the rack at the grocery store at the check out stand. It’s like a carpenter’s measuring tape only made out of bubble gum. Yeah. That. So that’s what this big roll of lead is like. The little elves pry my big toddler mouth open, much to my resistance, and insert the end of the roll of lead into my mouth, shoving the lead down my throat. My throat expands and I choke but this goes on for what feels like hours and upon waking faintly taste lead in my mouth, metal in my throat.

I had this dream at least a few times throughout my childhood. I can’t help but notice–now I’m having a dream quite the opposite.

I had one just last night:dreaming-quotes-034

Sometimes it’s just me but sometimes, like last night, I’ll have an audience:

I’m back in Crescent City at a party and a lot of my friends are there–all grown up, having a good time, drinking beer by the river. I’m chatting with one of my male friends when I feel a noodle in my mouth. The flat kind–linguine. I put my index finger up to indicate “just a moment”, a break in the conversation if-you-will and reach into my mouth for the linguine. I grab hold of the linguine and tug. Well, that’s where my dream morphs into this recurring dream I’ve been having: pulling a never-ending mountain of noodles from my throat. The more I tug, the more I pull, the more noodles emerge. And just like in the lead dream–I can hardly breathe. My cousin Cevin and his friends approach and there I am, crouched down by a cedar tree, pulling out and vomiting up noodles, for what seems like forever.

What I appreciate about this new dream is this: it’s quite the opposite of my baby-Terah-lead-dream. Clearly, I’m letting it all out now instead of shoving it all in. For fun, I’ll retrieve my dream dictionary, The Complete Book of Dreams & Dreaming by Pamela Ball and interpret some of the imagery from both of these dreams:

Dwarf (sadly Elf was not available): A dwarf indicates a part of our personality which has not yet been integrated or has been left undeveloped. In a dream a dwarf denotes a part of ourselves which has been left damaged by painful childhood trauma or a lack of emotional nourishment.

art-lipstick-mouth-photography-teeth-Favim.com-349102Lead: The conventional explanation of lead appearing in a dream is that we have a situation around us which is a burden to us. We are not coping with life perhaps as we should be, and as a result it is leaving us heavy-hearted.

Throat: Dreaming of the throat denotes awareness of our vulnerability and also the need for self-expression.

Vomiting: Vomiting is a symbol of discharge and evil. We may have held on to bad feelings for so long that it has caused our spiritual system some difficulty.

I do believe there are connections between our dreams and our spiritual selves. I do believe that if you have, especially a recurring dream, you should pay attention to it and make changes to your life as needed. For example, if you are a man and you dream about a particular woman most nights, you need to explore your relationship with this woman. Or, if you dream about water, water, water, you should visit a spring or a sea–because your subconscious is begging for you to wet her.

Please, readers, share some of your dreams with me. I would love to use my dream book to provide you a little more insight into your subconscious. If you’re into that kind of thing.

Nighty-night. Sweet dreams.

It’s a Serious Life

Poetry, Writing, , , , ,

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

You Can’t Tame A Wild Thing

Dreams, Memoir, Poetry, Rant, Writing, , , , ,

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.

First World Story

Memoir, Poetry, Rant, Writing, , , ,

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.

I’m not Unemployed, I’m a Writer

Memoir, Rant, Writing, , ,

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!)