These shortcuts don’t
work for me no more
I keep coming back around
to where I was before
The mind fucks me once,
fucks me twice, bends me
backwards, sends me shooting
through the sky
I get a scary high from
the things inside my mind
One foot in front of the other
is about all I can do
without my youth I can no
longer choose when and
where and who
there are no longer
options for sick days,
day-drinking, playing
power with my boobs
As I turned into a woman
–I became more substantial too
It’s more like: do what you have to
do to get you through
show up
listen up
battle else embrace the
thoughts inside your mind
whisper the things out loud–
to yourself and in private
inspect the things for faults
and stripped screws
think: Would you want
somebody to think or say
these things to you?
Talk yourself down
in a poem or in a song
Bring yourself down,
pinned to the ground
and whatever you do
DON”T THINK about
who’s going to PICK YOU UP
just lay there–squeegy wiping
the I’m so angry
I’m so hurt
I’m so lonely
so unloved–
erase all that shit
from your mind
there isn’t any time for it,
we haven’t got the time.
Stand strong in your own self
even if your shaking in your boots
even if your person is on fire and
your head is filled with tears and
you can’t seem to decipher
fact from fiction
real life from “intuition”
I’d say get real quiet, don’t
go crashing through the day to day
be honest, be real, and have
a little faith
Tag: womanhood
Mind Fuck
The truth is: I still get depressed. “Still” being despite all the good things I have come to obtain–things I’d worked toward like a good paying part time job which affords me the “time to write”; and meeting my boyfriend who is hard working and kind and so wonderful that I often fear losing him. I sometimes think that if I give him away then I will not be losing him. This is untrue. Nevertheless I set little booby traps for the both of us, one little slip here and we’re done, a step too far that way and I’m out. Not even two years in things are so predictable. But I’d set out to do it different this time–to see it through and find out what happens when you do. And I have every reason to! But between you and me, I’ve been daydreaming.
I’ve been daydreaming about roadtripping across the country in an airstream trailer I will make payments on, painted on the back will read “Less is More”. I’ll wake up next to the sea shore, and camp in the parking lots of our National Parks. I’ll fry myself eggs (airstreams come with stovetops, right?) every morning, eat lots of that soft Taylor’s beef jerky, and live on black coffee with tons of sugar. I’ll give up smoking, for good, dammit. I’ll journal under the moon roof, under the stars. I’ll listen to public radio and really good books on tape. Hell, I’ll even write a book about the whole thing. Or at least an essay.
The only thing stopping me is fear of loneliness and regret. So say I give up my boyfriend and I give up all my new friends–the girls who invite me to their blessing ways and craft nights, the young men who cheers me after a hard days work, who run around with me to rock shows and barbecues, then what? I find new friends? Someone else to have sex with and the whole circle begins again?
See it’s not so much humans that I’m looking for. Being alone and being sad, it’s what I do. Starting over, it’s what I’m good at. It’s safe to say it’s all or nothing for me. It’s safe to say I am impatient. It’s safe to say I dream about pregnancy and motherhood and in vain cause….well, never mind. It’s safe to say I have chronic malcontent, I go after something, I get it, I fear losing it, I begin to fantasize about throwing it away, I throw it away. It’s safe to say there is something unresolved inside of me. This does not make me special. There is something rather unresolved within all of us. I always tell myself “don’t let on, don’t let on”. I’ve told myself that people who let on are weak. That we all have our problems but we shouldn’t just go on and on about them. That’s what separates the strong from the weak. But I don’t fully believe that either. You want to be strong enough to voice your opinions, to talk it out, and to make change. But there is some strength in keeping quiet too, not showing how much it hurts. People have enough problems without taking on yours too, and that’s a fucking fact.
So I quietly plot out my life:
Plan A. Stop sleeping so much. I fucking sleep right up until seven a.m., the latest possible hour for me to get to work on time, then when I get home I exhaust myself pondering what to do with all my spare time and I fall into an angsty, maddening sleep, the type that says “you should really be doing something else” or “Steve’ll be home soon and he’ll catch you sleeping”.
What is unresolved within me? What, in my daily life, am I running (i.e. sleeping) from? The uncertainty of it all? Is anyone else this hard on themselves, this hard on life? Are they just not letting on? Plan A. Keep on doing what I’m doing well, and fucking start enjoying it more. Take pride in the work I do. Push myself further. Yet allow for rest. Know when it’s time for what. Greet the day optimistically. Cook a good fucking dinner. Trust others. Do yoga (I don’t know, its recommended and it does fucking feel good). Be in nature. Play along if I have to.
Plan B. Pack up and move in the day, when everyone else is at work. Leave a letter note saying I’ll be back for the rest of my stuff eventually, so don’t worry about that. Cry all the way to the coast, all the way down the 101. Stop on the side of the road to vomit, likely. Remember all the other times that things weren’t “quite right” or “good enough” so I left, changed location, got a new job, replaced my boyfriend. Remember how time frantically erodes all the mystery anyways and that all the mystery and peace, it lives on the inside of me. So does the dissatisfaction and pessimism. I carry it all with me wherever I go.
Not a year ago I wrote a poem titled Staying Power. That’s what I wanted. Now I’m leaning more toward Runaway. But it’s all a mind fuck. I know this.
It’s safe to say when I am alone I am in control.
It’s safe to say I like being in control.
I feel I am at sea in my home, with my man. Okay so it’s better than ever. It works. But I don’t know which way we’re going, I don’t know how long I’ll be out here for. And it’s all so average, I don’t do average. Give me neat and tidy and I’ll muss it up and rebuild it to be my own version of neat and tidy.
It’s safe to say I am confused and at times sick with worry. Things are just-so and that really unnerves me. I want more. In this peaceful space–my brain builds catastrophes, spiderwebs of what-ifs and what-for’s delicately stitching together my present moment and existence–I tip toe through my mind, more afraid than ever of what I might find there.
On Transformation
If I am to change
I shall be the agent
of that change
Borders
and many of them
have still to be
crossed
I thirst for
the waters
that course through
my future person
quenching
my mind
my body
my spirit
When I am alone
and quiet
I can better move
through the landscape
that is being human
better scale the mountain
that is being me
the past is an avalanche
above and behind me
the trail in front
is forked
and broken
sadly, I see that
some paths lead to 
nowhere–and if that
be the case then
anywhere is somewhere
when you still have a
heart
My mind
slips and staggers
My impressions,
the ones that I give,
are not always kind
I do worry about
my mind
I must prepare
for battle
It’s as simple
as that
I must balance
out my person
I need to take
some sort
of chance
If I am to change
then I shall be the agent
of that change
I see Transformation
I’ve done it before
I see a makeover
of the soul
nothing outwardly
or flashy or faux
I see spelling-out a prayer
and later finding its been answered
I see asking some questions
for once
I see saying
no no thank you
to the many temptations
that just don’t suit me
I see blank pages
and getting more
writing done
I see stepping into
the shoes
of the woman I
want to become
High Hopes
I’m hungry
but I won’t touch
my plate
all the delicacies
in the world
would not satisfy me
and so,
how can I be helped?
What I salivate for
is not of this world
maybe it is
my unborn child
maybe it is
his budding,
not yet bloomed
love for me
maybe it is
the love withheld
from me
maybe it is
love to gift to
myself
‘stead of waiting for
it from my mother,
my father,
my lover
maybe this thing is
fame not yet attained
maybe this thing is
Spirituality
Maybe, surely
it is that unsatisfied
vessel that we all know
so well
That itching space
that we all share—
an unfulfilled fantasy
so out-of-this-world
it will never be achieved
like how we imagine
our wedding days to be
so high on the shelf
it’s out-of-reach
better to just forget
it’s even there
ignorance is bliss
they say
but I deserve a knowledge
tried & true
I’m hungry
for love &
I beg it of you
So many dreams
tattered at their feet
I will not be like my parents,
I will not sell myself so cheap
How do you eat an elephant?
One bite at a time
How do you stay sane
with a hunger like mine?
The Load
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 makes people say
“Oh what the hell” and stay
Young couples have little
love woes they pick at
til they bleed
and when they dry
they pick at them again
I’ll let you guess which
love woe I have
I’m walking with my
love woes today &
who put Valentine’s Day
in winter?
We bundle up against
the wind, our faces
sadder than ever &
everyone I see,
including me
walks alone
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.
Fiber
I am everywhere
I am sitting on your head
I am raining on your home
I don’t even try
I shower but I
smell
I keep mum but I
shout
I chipper ‘good morning’at your placemate
he mumbles inaudibly in return
I play my music
and I play it loud
the birds seem to
sing to me
a hummingbird stares
treading the air
a breath of hope
like a dragonfly
or a new moon
I sit on the porch and write
I am everywhere
but I wouldn’t dare
my hair clogs your drain
my saliva is yours
your coffee
is my coffee
I fear
I beg
behind my mask
I am an open slice in my flesh
I am addicted to love
and unsure of its meaning
I am attached to you
lecherous and brave
I sink into the corners
come in from under the door
give myself too much power
take myself too high
stare in the mirror
too much or not enough
think too much
think all over your house
spill my selfy-ness
on the counters and floors
Am I cleaning anything up
when I scrub?
Or am I pounding myself
into the fibers that were
just you
Esther
Did I dream her up?
I met her in the vegetable garden. It was sometime near my fifth birthday. I was fingering the dense pumpkin stocks and their broad leaves like wall insulation to the touch–misleadingly soft and cozy. Like a five year old herself.
She appeared there beyond the ripe orange globes.
She stared at me, reached out to touch the vines.
She was my age. Her eyes spoke to me but her childmouth never moved. I admired her wetsand-colored curls as she told me that we were Identical. That he touched her too. That he came for her when he was done with me, that he came for me when he was done with her. She told me her name was Esther. Before I could respond, he pulled up in his Chevrolet. I crouched down in the path in my Autumn dress. I peeked my eyes above the garden greens as he pointed to the passenger door instructing her to get in. My eyes got big and wet, her dress was caught in the door, they drove down the dirt lane toward Hunter Creek and I shook but it wasn’t cold outside.
Cabin Door
When the cabin door was pulled shut at night I could let out my big breath. I always felt ill at ease when my Dad’s buddies were around and they were always around. Didn’t work. None of ‘em. I wished they would go home to their trailers down the road. And they would for a minute and they would come back and they would invite me and I would say no, talking quietly back to their hot smelly beer breath.
In the day I would go hide by the river and pretend all those things little girls pretend. That they are princesses, mermaids, that they are safe. But when the sun went down Dad said I had to be home at the cabin.
The door of the cabin didn’t lock, exactly. In fact the door handle was a rope with a big fat knot. We had one of those little tiny silver hook locks on the inside of the door and nobody could break that unless they were really, really trying too. No one was out to get us, by any means, but there were a lot of men with wild eyes up there you see. Outlaws. I felt better and safer when the cabin door was shut and my Dad’s friends were locked out for the night.
I wished I had a sister or a brother, big ones, or a mom.
Too Much So Soon
He is alive and well. Warm. He breathes in, he breathes out. He is inside his mind, mulling over manchoices underneath the loud chant of a tractor, a mower, a tiller. He must have 9 hours a day inside his mind. Yet he doesn’t have much to say. He doesn’t let on with me–just asks me out again and again, and again and again. I’m barking up his tree, I’m tugging at my heart, I’m wanting him to choose me, I’ve already chosen him. He is alive and well. I did not know.
I thought he might not exist at all. And then I saw him, standing, breathing, talking. I thought I might have missed him. With my birth, his death. I thought, I am too different for love. I am not chosen. I am pick-eee, but I met him, breathing and talking. Now, now I need him to pick me, to keep me.
If not well it’s back to the drawing board, numb hands, no ink in my pen, well run dry, stiff, deadlove girl. He moves me. Makes me come alive. Takes my breath away. This is. This is it.
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 