Saturday, September 1, 2012
non-mysoginistic vampire sort
I've gratuaded. From the belief I must pay in spades for every move because I hurt someone has sort of lifted to like, I'm just a reckless kid who never got to test limits.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Acedia is the New Sloth
In her book on acedia, (the entire title is stupid so I won't post it... look her up) Poet Kathleen Norris writes about my own personal 7 deadly sins: sloth sloth sloth sloth sloth sloth and sloth. Formerly known as laziness, I have now upgraded my character defect to a full-blown sin.
And a sin is cooler than a defect these days. Being bad is good. It implies choice. It implies thumbing your nose at your higher power. It implies it's your life and if you choose to throw it away on Chee-zits and Jerry Springer re-runs, well GOOD for YOU.
So thanks, Mrs. Norris. (the ridiculous title tells us she's married-- like we care, that she hangs with monks -- if we're reading it, we've all done so at some time or another, and that the book is about her experience. It's a memoir. DUH) For a smart woman, she sure picked a stupid publisher, assuming it's the publisher who chose the title.
Was it the oh
so
clever
alliteration they were so fond of it twisted their brains? WARNING: Alliteration is sometimes okay in poetry. In prose it is mostly obnoxious.
Marriage, me, monks, monkees, motorcyles, menstruation, mobs, mangled menparts, mangoes, and mountains may be my Memoir.
Or Narcissists, nails, knives, knuckleheads, NeverNeverLand, nope, nobody, Negligent, nefarious Nothingness. (all about my marriage)
I do try to improve. I have so many personalities I will never be any one way, good or bad. I hope at least to always be amusing.
And a sin is cooler than a defect these days. Being bad is good. It implies choice. It implies thumbing your nose at your higher power. It implies it's your life and if you choose to throw it away on Chee-zits and Jerry Springer re-runs, well GOOD for YOU.
So thanks, Mrs. Norris. (the ridiculous title tells us she's married-- like we care, that she hangs with monks -- if we're reading it, we've all done so at some time or another, and that the book is about her experience. It's a memoir. DUH) For a smart woman, she sure picked a stupid publisher, assuming it's the publisher who chose the title.
Was it the oh
so
clever
alliteration they were so fond of it twisted their brains? WARNING: Alliteration is sometimes okay in poetry. In prose it is mostly obnoxious.
Marriage, me, monks, monkees, motorcyles, menstruation, mobs, mangled menparts, mangoes, and mountains may be my Memoir.
Or Narcissists, nails, knives, knuckleheads, NeverNeverLand, nope, nobody, Negligent, nefarious Nothingness. (all about my marriage)
I do try to improve. I have so many personalities I will never be any one way, good or bad. I hope at least to always be amusing.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Lazy is always bad...a truism that's wrong in your belief system
Anna is lazy. Lazy is always bad. So Anna is bad. But wait...what makes lazy automatically BAD? Aren't there appropriate times to be lazy? A lazy afternoon? A lazy bath before bedtime? A lazy cuddle with Gita Sweetah? When you are sick? Or being pampered? A special occasion? When you deserve it? When you're worth it? oooo we're getting to the other edge here.
That slimy slope between indulgence and necessary healing time.
But it wouldn't matter to you because lazy is ALWAYS bad. ALWAYS no exceptions. NONE. A WOMAN's WORK is NEVER DONE. that is why you are so good in emergencies. Someone has to do it. When no one else can do it someone has to do it and you, Anna, have been trained to make that ultimate sacrifice for the good of the clan if necessary; PAST LIFE?? It fits. It also fits with everything in my current life. So who knows?
If you can allow yourself to relax when it's appropriate to relax, you could release that stress that's got you hamstrung hogtied uptight fibromyalgiafied boxed in cemented down sat upon with little gremlins running mad whapping your knee now your elbow your shoulder your hip your arm your wrist your left middle toe your back with nasty old hammers just one meaningless pain after another for no reason just zap zap zap no pattern no connection then run around and do it all over again.
Sorry. I try not to talk about the PAIN except with the few who "get it". I don't want sympathy. I do want you to understand I'm going through a much bigger struggle just to get out the door every day and try to be kind when I'm a few minutes late or I can't make a date or appointment.
For myself, becoming such a mess has made me far more forgiving of other's faux pas than I was when I was younger and cooler. Although young people seem to like me today and that makes me happy. Makes me feel "cool." Which reminds me, I owe my niece a phone call, and of course I think of it after midnight. She's in law school and so has regular hours, although she's getting antsy with the routine and tedium--the discipline of stuffy old law school after being a star and one of the few girls in a cutting edge hot-shot limited-admission computer undergrad degree track at Penn State U.
Sorry. Bragging about my godchild. Very not cool.
There's something about a wounded healer that allows me to trust them. The vulnerability. The smart teacher knows me, knows I can only truly open my heart to someone who needs me, so in order to get me to open my heart, they must allow me to see real pain, allow me to cross ethical boundaries into their lives and actually help them. Play-acting won't do. I'm too good a fiction writer myself. It's all too much a stage to pull out this bit of life and say "this is special because it's on stage." It's all on stage, dummy. Shakespeare knew that. Which is why we still read him today. Not because he created our reality. But because he nailed it. Bam.
For the first time. All cliches (generally) run back to the Bard. Who stole like a mad thing from history and the classics. Gods bless him.
That slimy slope between indulgence and necessary healing time.
But it wouldn't matter to you because lazy is ALWAYS bad. ALWAYS no exceptions. NONE. A WOMAN's WORK is NEVER DONE. that is why you are so good in emergencies. Someone has to do it. When no one else can do it someone has to do it and you, Anna, have been trained to make that ultimate sacrifice for the good of the clan if necessary; PAST LIFE?? It fits. It also fits with everything in my current life. So who knows?
If you can allow yourself to relax when it's appropriate to relax, you could release that stress that's got you hamstrung hogtied uptight fibromyalgiafied boxed in cemented down sat upon with little gremlins running mad whapping your knee now your elbow your shoulder your hip your arm your wrist your left middle toe your back with nasty old hammers just one meaningless pain after another for no reason just zap zap zap no pattern no connection then run around and do it all over again.
Sorry. I try not to talk about the PAIN except with the few who "get it". I don't want sympathy. I do want you to understand I'm going through a much bigger struggle just to get out the door every day and try to be kind when I'm a few minutes late or I can't make a date or appointment.
For myself, becoming such a mess has made me far more forgiving of other's faux pas than I was when I was younger and cooler. Although young people seem to like me today and that makes me happy. Makes me feel "cool." Which reminds me, I owe my niece a phone call, and of course I think of it after midnight. She's in law school and so has regular hours, although she's getting antsy with the routine and tedium--the discipline of stuffy old law school after being a star and one of the few girls in a cutting edge hot-shot limited-admission computer undergrad degree track at Penn State U.
Sorry. Bragging about my godchild. Very not cool.
There's something about a wounded healer that allows me to trust them. The vulnerability. The smart teacher knows me, knows I can only truly open my heart to someone who needs me, so in order to get me to open my heart, they must allow me to see real pain, allow me to cross ethical boundaries into their lives and actually help them. Play-acting won't do. I'm too good a fiction writer myself. It's all too much a stage to pull out this bit of life and say "this is special because it's on stage." It's all on stage, dummy. Shakespeare knew that. Which is why we still read him today. Not because he created our reality. But because he nailed it. Bam.
For the first time. All cliches (generally) run back to the Bard. Who stole like a mad thing from history and the classics. Gods bless him.
Equal and Opposite Force
Best compliment I ever gave myself: After a very emo day, dag end of months of emo days, I looked at myself straight on in the mirror and said, "If I have to be stuck in anyone's head for the rest of my life, I'm glad it's yours...ours...mine." And then I cracked up laughing.
For all the crying that goes with inner child/PTSD work there's an equal and opposite force for the laughing at it all...
The comedy and the tragedy...
Is the glass half full or half empty?
It is both.
For all the crying that goes with inner child/PTSD work there's an equal and opposite force for the laughing at it all...
The comedy and the tragedy...
Is the glass half full or half empty?
It is both.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
poetry fodder
Maybe it’s not circular/ Mabye nerds are popular now because they ARE truelly more evovled in the sense of closer to the True meaning wtf ever that is.
Maybe the nerds will be on top becuase we are finally understanding the quiet things we’ve mostly ignored through hx until the nerd and girls/women forced us to get a clue are those things which in 24K true reality are IMPORTANT.
We’ve figured out the big stuff.
Now we get to gaze upon the minutiea, the trivia, the detail, the memories evoked by old cookies softened in milk. Woohoo!
EOM
Maybe the nerds will be on top becuase we are finally understanding the quiet things we’ve mostly ignored through hx until the nerd and girls/women forced us to get a clue are those things which in 24K true reality are IMPORTANT.
We’ve figured out the big stuff.
Now we get to gaze upon the minutiea, the trivia, the detail, the memories evoked by old cookies softened in milk. Woohoo!
EOM
mercy/thanksgiving
Sitting on a porch in Old Town half a block from
the Waterfront. My mother's old diamond sparlking
on my finger liquid rainbows like a setting star grown huge on the horizon.
I always freak out this time of year. My mother died one Thanksgiving morning ages ago. Breast cancer crept into her brain, creating bizarre delusions. Thought my Dad was holding a gun to her head; it was really his keys; he thought that was funny.
Visitors stroll right down the middle of the street. A little giddy
with the hot fragrant air of Key West. Confident. Just knowing there’s
fun in store.
She insisted me (13) and my brother (16) go to the big Thanksgiving pre-game bonfire. She didn’t know I loathed to go: hyperactive crowds and noise and frozen toes and fingers and the simple-minded “rah-rah-rah” school spirit I never did get the spirit but I played clarinet in the band to please her and she was dead when we got home.
Music plays from B. O.’s Fishwagon, “Ain’t That a Shame?” And people cheering.
I don’t remember a single friend at her funeral. They may have been there. They didn’t talk to me. Dad a silent hunched figure took one valium it made him cry so no more of those, not ever. Never ever. Right before they shut the coffin my couin Frankie--lots older, 20 at least--put his arm around me and I sobbed. I remember because he was the only one who dared and only that once, prickly pear cactus that I’d become. My brother said: be strong. My favorite aunt told me to wear waterproof mascara for the next viewing.
Three viewings
Three viewngs
Three motherfucking viewings.
Endless handshakes from strangers pitying young mother lost, “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry”. Grandfather leans over and admonishes me to say “thank-you” whenever someone says “I’m sorry”. Sorry.
Sorry Thanks Sorry Thanks Sorry Thanks Sorry Thankssorrythankssorrythankssorrythanks
They’re all so fucking sorry. I hate them. Be strong. Sorry thanks I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry.
Pieces of people appear through the white porch railing,
Heads hidden by the banister top. Many say “Hi!” It’s a
mindlessly friendly sort of town. I like that about Key
West. I say “Hi!” back but I can’t really see them.
I hate this time of year. The deification of turkey slaughter. The gleeful devouring of dead flesh. Beautiful colorful paper turkeys children cut and paste as we admonish them to cut and taste real dead birds. I will tear these pretty pieces off the door of my detox room in the looney bin. They will say nothing but tape another up. And tape another up andtapeanotherup as I patter to the toilet just in time shaking and puking and hallucinating like an old gutter drunk drinking 65 years I’m 24 I’m in Cornell Law School I’m lapping Maalox like a cat at the nurses station because my hands shake too much to hold the plastic shot glass. People hate me when I fail to say “thanks”.
Men spit lung cookies on the sidewalk. Thanks for sharing.
Give me your TB your Bird Flu. Some women spit too, but
them we put on psych units.
I always get a little crazy this time of year.
Fluffy grey cat joins me on the porch. Does it live here?
Little girl’s allergic. It may be feral; it’s hard to tell.
Key West is a town that takes care of its strays.
Faint tabby stripes. Tiny ears.
White chin. Little kink at the end of her tail.
And too many toes.
I couldn’t write without cats.
Mommy bald, mommy throwing up non-stop, her feet pattering to make it from th couch to the bathroom. Finally gave in to a basin by the couch, covered, which she cleaned out herself many times a day. I, wrapped in spoiled selfish adolescent horror ignored it. Her. Hid in the basement hugging the noisy dirty coal furnace when she screamed in pain. Ungrateful little bitch. Terrified child trapped in sinking ship with no Exit sign lit.
White whiskers droop.
Dark eyes outlined in white.
Swivels her ears and turns to me when I address her,
turns back to the smell of a good catch being hauled onto
the dock. Putrefaction stoped for now by ice ice ice and
more ice.
My brother always wanted to work in an ice house he said. Became a doctor instead. Grateful for his success so my failure would not be the end of father’s hope. Me the black sheep black suits me fine but does show cat hairs who cares in the looney bins where I take notes I am not a real patient I will write a book about this someday I the eternal audience watching watching watching and never learning.
White chin, white belly, belly in bloom,
She cleans her teats like a good mama cat.
Mommy a corpse. Smiling blue eyes and peppermint gum and freckled skin and summer days at the county club pool fade to black. Hammering technicolor close-ups of corpse flesh in full maggoty blowfly bloom. Eyes squeeze tight squeeze tight squeeze tight shut forever to the light. I willed myself a creature of the night, I followed my greatest love to the grave and I set up camp there. I married a man with 6 months to live. Twenty years later he tired of walking hand in hand ready for his imminent death any day any day you better do this for me now I could die any day for twenty years we walked the lintel line between life and death and I was comfortable there till my usefulness got used up and I was tossed back into life against my will my wishes. I do not belong with the living I want to rest among the dead
Another kitty-cat squeezes throught the railings.
I’m a nurse now, on and off duty. I help crippled strangers up and down stairs. I help blind people know where they are and who’s around and what the dangers are. I buy palm frond roses from smelly drunks on Duval. I’m disabled myself get a check every month to prove it but I can wash my own basin thanks. I can never atone never atone never atone. Mercy, please, someone. I crave to see my own blood. Dripping from my wrists. Pouring out of my belly. And I need it to hurt,
Black and white with
Tender amber eyes.
I couldn’t live without cats.
the Waterfront. My mother's old diamond sparlking
on my finger liquid rainbows like a setting star grown huge on the horizon.
I always freak out this time of year. My mother died one Thanksgiving morning ages ago. Breast cancer crept into her brain, creating bizarre delusions. Thought my Dad was holding a gun to her head; it was really his keys; he thought that was funny.
Visitors stroll right down the middle of the street. A little giddy
with the hot fragrant air of Key West. Confident. Just knowing there’s
fun in store.
She insisted me (13) and my brother (16) go to the big Thanksgiving pre-game bonfire. She didn’t know I loathed to go: hyperactive crowds and noise and frozen toes and fingers and the simple-minded “rah-rah-rah” school spirit I never did get the spirit but I played clarinet in the band to please her and she was dead when we got home.
Music plays from B. O.’s Fishwagon, “Ain’t That a Shame?” And people cheering.
I don’t remember a single friend at her funeral. They may have been there. They didn’t talk to me. Dad a silent hunched figure took one valium it made him cry so no more of those, not ever. Never ever. Right before they shut the coffin my couin Frankie--lots older, 20 at least--put his arm around me and I sobbed. I remember because he was the only one who dared and only that once, prickly pear cactus that I’d become. My brother said: be strong. My favorite aunt told me to wear waterproof mascara for the next viewing.
Three viewings
Three viewngs
Three motherfucking viewings.
Endless handshakes from strangers pitying young mother lost, “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry”. Grandfather leans over and admonishes me to say “thank-you” whenever someone says “I’m sorry”. Sorry.
Sorry Thanks Sorry Thanks Sorry Thanks Sorry Thankssorrythankssorrythankssorrythanks
They’re all so fucking sorry. I hate them. Be strong. Sorry thanks I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry.
Pieces of people appear through the white porch railing,
Heads hidden by the banister top. Many say “Hi!” It’s a
mindlessly friendly sort of town. I like that about Key
West. I say “Hi!” back but I can’t really see them.
I hate this time of year. The deification of turkey slaughter. The gleeful devouring of dead flesh. Beautiful colorful paper turkeys children cut and paste as we admonish them to cut and taste real dead birds. I will tear these pretty pieces off the door of my detox room in the looney bin. They will say nothing but tape another up. And tape another up andtapeanotherup as I patter to the toilet just in time shaking and puking and hallucinating like an old gutter drunk drinking 65 years I’m 24 I’m in Cornell Law School I’m lapping Maalox like a cat at the nurses station because my hands shake too much to hold the plastic shot glass. People hate me when I fail to say “thanks”.
Men spit lung cookies on the sidewalk. Thanks for sharing.
Give me your TB your Bird Flu. Some women spit too, but
them we put on psych units.
I always get a little crazy this time of year.
Fluffy grey cat joins me on the porch. Does it live here?
Little girl’s allergic. It may be feral; it’s hard to tell.
Key West is a town that takes care of its strays.
Faint tabby stripes. Tiny ears.
White chin. Little kink at the end of her tail.
And too many toes.
I couldn’t write without cats.
Mommy bald, mommy throwing up non-stop, her feet pattering to make it from th couch to the bathroom. Finally gave in to a basin by the couch, covered, which she cleaned out herself many times a day. I, wrapped in spoiled selfish adolescent horror ignored it. Her. Hid in the basement hugging the noisy dirty coal furnace when she screamed in pain. Ungrateful little bitch. Terrified child trapped in sinking ship with no Exit sign lit.
White whiskers droop.
Dark eyes outlined in white.
Swivels her ears and turns to me when I address her,
turns back to the smell of a good catch being hauled onto
the dock. Putrefaction stoped for now by ice ice ice and
more ice.
My brother always wanted to work in an ice house he said. Became a doctor instead. Grateful for his success so my failure would not be the end of father’s hope. Me the black sheep black suits me fine but does show cat hairs who cares in the looney bins where I take notes I am not a real patient I will write a book about this someday I the eternal audience watching watching watching and never learning.
White chin, white belly, belly in bloom,
She cleans her teats like a good mama cat.
Mommy a corpse. Smiling blue eyes and peppermint gum and freckled skin and summer days at the county club pool fade to black. Hammering technicolor close-ups of corpse flesh in full maggoty blowfly bloom. Eyes squeeze tight squeeze tight squeeze tight shut forever to the light. I willed myself a creature of the night, I followed my greatest love to the grave and I set up camp there. I married a man with 6 months to live. Twenty years later he tired of walking hand in hand ready for his imminent death any day any day you better do this for me now I could die any day for twenty years we walked the lintel line between life and death and I was comfortable there till my usefulness got used up and I was tossed back into life against my will my wishes. I do not belong with the living I want to rest among the dead
Another kitty-cat squeezes throught the railings.
I’m a nurse now, on and off duty. I help crippled strangers up and down stairs. I help blind people know where they are and who’s around and what the dangers are. I buy palm frond roses from smelly drunks on Duval. I’m disabled myself get a check every month to prove it but I can wash my own basin thanks. I can never atone never atone never atone. Mercy, please, someone. I crave to see my own blood. Dripping from my wrists. Pouring out of my belly. And I need it to hurt,
Black and white with
Tender amber eyes.
I couldn’t live without cats.
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