I wondered
We roasted marshmallows last night
and the shadows played in the starlight
like children chasing fireflies
or like fireflies chasing one another
and after just a few minutes spent
pulling molten goo from the end of my stick
the sugar began to lay heavy on my tongue
and sickly in my stomach, and I wondered
how good things turn bad so soon.
I added my limb to the kindling,
watched it join its family and smolder
all piled together in the fire, a genocidal pyre.
The darkness rendered the yard
two-dimensional and empty -- unreal
and the firefly flames began
to chase my memories, to peek
through the Irises in the plastic garden
of my mind and I wondered
how good things turn bad so soon.
Poetry
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
I lied
I lied. I'm even grumpier.
The local Library doesn't have ABC of Reading by Ezra Pound, or The Literary Essays of Ezra Pound or Blizzard of One by Mark Strand or In the Palm of Your Hand: the Poet's Portable Workshop by Steve Kowit. People think I'm kidding when I say that his place is full of nothing but toothless rednecks who don't even know the definition of the word culture.
I have decided (again) that people in general suck. Walmart shoppers especially. (Private joke people, I have nothing against actual Walmart customers.)
My mother is going to the beach next week, and she intends to take Kory with her.
The local Library doesn't have ABC of Reading by Ezra Pound, or The Literary Essays of Ezra Pound or Blizzard of One by Mark Strand or In the Palm of Your Hand: the Poet's Portable Workshop by Steve Kowit. People think I'm kidding when I say that his place is full of nothing but toothless rednecks who don't even know the definition of the word culture.
I have decided (again) that people in general suck. Walmart shoppers especially. (Private joke people, I have nothing against actual Walmart customers.)
My mother is going to the beach next week, and she intends to take Kory with her.
Day Two
This is day two of not smoking. I'm already doing worse than yesterday. Already I'm disappointed in myself for the day. I think I'm less irritable though, which is good. I am still staying away from MTC. I made the mistake of going straight there to read the further comments of this shy950 person. I'm pissed as hell about her, but to a certain degree, I feel sorry for her. It must suck to be so ignorant and insecure as to need to bring your friends with you to comment in a positive manner on your posts. I think, if anything, that shows that she knows that her writing is bad.
It's grey again today. How I wish for more days like yesterday - whole years of them would be good. I should find a place with weather like that year round. I'm sure they exist -- I'd move in a heart beat. Moving around so much as a kid fucked me up in some ways, but it also taught me not to fear the unknown. There's never a point in time when I'm not completely open to packing up the truck and moving along.
Too bad it's so damn cold in New Hampshire.
It's grey again today. How I wish for more days like yesterday - whole years of them would be good. I should find a place with weather like that year round. I'm sure they exist -- I'd move in a heart beat. Moving around so much as a kid fucked me up in some ways, but it also taught me not to fear the unknown. There's never a point in time when I'm not completely open to packing up the truck and moving along.
Too bad it's so damn cold in New Hampshire.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Our Rescue Garden
The clouds finally dried up and blew away today, leaving the sun and the scent of promise.
I walked intrepid through the masses of clover that are my yard, inspecting the various beds.
Everything is plump and ready to burst, The Daffodils bloomed last week, but the Irises are more stubborn. They'll be well worth the wait though, same with the Cala Lilies. They're my favorite - sunshine on a stem, such a flawless shade of vivid yellow.
Cala Lilies are the perfect woman of the garden, strong and elegant, vibrant and hardy, determined and feminine. They're certainly not petite, but they're gorgeous.
Every plant we have is a rescue - plants Scotty has brought home from yards where customers asked to have beds removed or thinned or redesigned. Nothing we have bloomed last year, we got them too late in the season to see them decked out. This spring will be a succession of surprises, we didn't know the Daffodils were Daffodils until they bloomed. We have a rose bush off the corner of the back patio, and no idea what color the roses will be. The Azalea will be a color surprise too. I'm hoping for pink or lilac. White would be OK, except for the horrible brown color the flowers turn after they've passed their peak.
And the Dogwood, my Mona Lisa, is just a day or two from full bloom. She's gorgeous in Spring, and in Fall, with her scarlet leaves and berries. Eventually we'll have to move out of this house -- it will be Mona Lisa that I miss the most when we do.
I walked intrepid through the masses of clover that are my yard, inspecting the various beds.
Everything is plump and ready to burst, The Daffodils bloomed last week, but the Irises are more stubborn. They'll be well worth the wait though, same with the Cala Lilies. They're my favorite - sunshine on a stem, such a flawless shade of vivid yellow.
Cala Lilies are the perfect woman of the garden, strong and elegant, vibrant and hardy, determined and feminine. They're certainly not petite, but they're gorgeous.
Every plant we have is a rescue - plants Scotty has brought home from yards where customers asked to have beds removed or thinned or redesigned. Nothing we have bloomed last year, we got them too late in the season to see them decked out. This spring will be a succession of surprises, we didn't know the Daffodils were Daffodils until they bloomed. We have a rose bush off the corner of the back patio, and no idea what color the roses will be. The Azalea will be a color surprise too. I'm hoping for pink or lilac. White would be OK, except for the horrible brown color the flowers turn after they've passed their peak.
And the Dogwood, my Mona Lisa, is just a day or two from full bloom. She's gorgeous in Spring, and in Fall, with her scarlet leaves and berries. Eventually we'll have to move out of this house -- it will be Mona Lisa that I miss the most when we do.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Blast from the Past
It's rained for days now. That's the thing about Winter and Spring in North Carolina, they're wet, and unbelievably short. Basically we have summer and fall. We had a whopping 1/2 inch of snow for the whole season, and our temperatures will be well into the 80's at least within a few weeks.
I spent many of my childhood years in New York and New Jersey. I remember snow, lots of it. I lived in Coxsackie(Cook-sock-ee) NY for 3 years, and my children laugh at me because I tell them I walked to school in a foot of snow, uphill in both directions, but it's true. There were buses, but only for the kids that didn't live in city limits, so we walked. The town was about a mile long, we lived on one end and school was on the other end, and there was a hill in the middle. Therefore, we walked uphill in both directions.
God I hated New York. I was just the new kid, I was always the new kid, the skinny little bucktoothed new kid that talked funny. We moved SO much when I was a kid. Never in any house more than a year, never in a state for more than three until I was almost 13.
Let's see, here's my line up:
Born in Idaho, lived there for 2 years
then moved to Indianapolis Indiana, stayed there about 2 1/2 years.
My sister was kidnapped and raped there -- snatched out of her bedroom window, she was 14, I was 5) so we moved to NJ.
We lived there till I was almost 7.
Then we moved to North Carolina. Stayed for 2 years or so.
Then my Dad left and we moved to New York when I was 9 1/2 or 10-ish.
At 12 we moved back to North Carolina.
We stayed in NC for the rest of my life, but we never stayed in the same house more than one lease term. I did manage to make it through highschool in the same school for 4 years though.
If I hadn't been such a dumb ass I'd have graduated at 16 in 1989. Instead, I got married and had Tommy in 1989.
At some point in there I learned not to make friends, not to get too attached, never to get comfortable and to try not to watch the clocks or calenders because it was just a countdown to the next upheaval. I remember when Mom told me we were moving to New York. We were eating pot roast at the table in the house on Smith Farm Road (I memorized road's names, never, people's names - the memory map of my childhood) and I had finally made friends. There was Melissa and Theresa that lived in the neighborhood, Robert that I kind of had a crush on, I was in girlscouts and public school.
"We have something to tell you kids, I have a surprise for you all."
(here I get all excited - we're going to the fair or the movies, summer camp maybe!)
"We're moving to New York, to stay with Aunt Ellen!"
and I laugh.
and I laugh
and I laugh
and I laugh,
until I have tears rolling down my face, and everyone is looking at me funny, and Mom looks strange and scared, and I think, "She thinks I've lost my mind" and I just keep laughing until I ask if she's kidding and she says no, and the laughter devolves into jagged sobs and I run to my room.
As you age, memories fade and get vague and fuzzy. I think it's nature's way of encouraging us to heal, to become the adult we want to be without so much of the baggage.
This is one memory that isn't any less vivid that the actual event. It was the moment, I think, that I realized I wasn't normal, I wasn't allowed to be normal. I'd never be normal. I don't think I ever told anyone I was moving. I remember how I told them I was going with them on the field trip to Raleigh, only I knew I wasn't because we'd be in New York by then.
So I show up in New York, the skinny little bucktoothed girl that talked like a redneck.
I spent many of my childhood years in New York and New Jersey. I remember snow, lots of it. I lived in Coxsackie(Cook-sock-ee) NY for 3 years, and my children laugh at me because I tell them I walked to school in a foot of snow, uphill in both directions, but it's true. There were buses, but only for the kids that didn't live in city limits, so we walked. The town was about a mile long, we lived on one end and school was on the other end, and there was a hill in the middle. Therefore, we walked uphill in both directions.
God I hated New York. I was just the new kid, I was always the new kid, the skinny little bucktoothed new kid that talked funny. We moved SO much when I was a kid. Never in any house more than a year, never in a state for more than three until I was almost 13.
Let's see, here's my line up:
Born in Idaho, lived there for 2 years
then moved to Indianapolis Indiana, stayed there about 2 1/2 years.
My sister was kidnapped and raped there -- snatched out of her bedroom window, she was 14, I was 5) so we moved to NJ.
We lived there till I was almost 7.
Then we moved to North Carolina. Stayed for 2 years or so.
Then my Dad left and we moved to New York when I was 9 1/2 or 10-ish.
At 12 we moved back to North Carolina.
We stayed in NC for the rest of my life, but we never stayed in the same house more than one lease term. I did manage to make it through highschool in the same school for 4 years though.
If I hadn't been such a dumb ass I'd have graduated at 16 in 1989. Instead, I got married and had Tommy in 1989.
At some point in there I learned not to make friends, not to get too attached, never to get comfortable and to try not to watch the clocks or calenders because it was just a countdown to the next upheaval. I remember when Mom told me we were moving to New York. We were eating pot roast at the table in the house on Smith Farm Road (I memorized road's names, never, people's names - the memory map of my childhood) and I had finally made friends. There was Melissa and Theresa that lived in the neighborhood, Robert that I kind of had a crush on, I was in girlscouts and public school.
"We have something to tell you kids, I have a surprise for you all."
(here I get all excited - we're going to the fair or the movies, summer camp maybe!)
"We're moving to New York, to stay with Aunt Ellen!"
and I laugh.
and I laugh
and I laugh
and I laugh,
until I have tears rolling down my face, and everyone is looking at me funny, and Mom looks strange and scared, and I think, "She thinks I've lost my mind" and I just keep laughing until I ask if she's kidding and she says no, and the laughter devolves into jagged sobs and I run to my room.
As you age, memories fade and get vague and fuzzy. I think it's nature's way of encouraging us to heal, to become the adult we want to be without so much of the baggage.
This is one memory that isn't any less vivid that the actual event. It was the moment, I think, that I realized I wasn't normal, I wasn't allowed to be normal. I'd never be normal. I don't think I ever told anyone I was moving. I remember how I told them I was going with them on the field trip to Raleigh, only I knew I wasn't because we'd be in New York by then.
So I show up in New York, the skinny little bucktoothed girl that talked like a redneck.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Isn't she lovely. . .
Isn't it Beautiful?
I'm in love with it, and the creator hereof is simply amazing.
Thanks again Erin, you rock! No oatmeal here!
. . . so the Easter eggs are done, my fingernails will be odd colors for a while but it was fun! And now we will all eat the 3 dozen eggs we dyed and fart for a week! Between the fart-jet propulsion and the sugar buzz, it should be interesting around here for a while.
Thank goodness it's getting warm enough to open up some windows - and to send the children out to play!
It's 2 a.m. again. I'll be damned if it doesn't happen every night. I'm really going to bed now.
I'm in love with it, and the creator hereof is simply amazing.
Thanks again Erin, you rock! No oatmeal here!
. . . so the Easter eggs are done, my fingernails will be odd colors for a while but it was fun! And now we will all eat the 3 dozen eggs we dyed and fart for a week! Between the fart-jet propulsion and the sugar buzz, it should be interesting around here for a while.
Thank goodness it's getting warm enough to open up some windows - and to send the children out to play!
It's 2 a.m. again. I'll be damned if it doesn't happen every night. I'm really going to bed now.
Friday, March 25, 2005
I thought
I have thought far too much about my childhood and my past lately. It's the full moon, it makes me think far too much about everything. A few days from now, I'll laugh at myself for how seriously I've been taking myself and my situations lately. The rising of a full moon is a lot like 'PMS' - I don't actually claim PMS, I think it tends to be an excuse for women (like religion is for some people) to justify bad behavior. Not that PMS doesn't exist, I'm sure it does, but not in every woman in creation, every damn month. My point being that the full moon completely effects my mood, my actions and reactions, and I have no control over it. I'm not even cognizant of it at the time, only in retrospect.
Part of me says I should tell Scott to point it out to me when I'm doing it, but that might just be sentencing him to his own demise.
It's Friday night. No one is on. People other than me have lives, dates, TV shows, places to go. I just sit here. It's disgusting. I'm more addicted in the last 2 or 3 months than I ever was before I went off line for a year.
Fridays suck. I don't even have the money to go rent a fucking movie. I watch National Geographic onDemand for shits and giggles. There's an email I need to send. I won't send it, probably never. Sometimes things are too hard too akward to say. I find that to be particularly true when that person is going through something you've already experienced. I always hate coming off like, "I've been through it, I know how to handle it, let me give you instructions."
You know what I hate? Liars, manipulators. People who become whatever they think will fit in best or be most adventageous. Hypocrits are assholes too.
In some ways I am a hypocrit though. A writer who preaches to read, and I don't. Basiacally anti-religion, and hoping to see Alexis again someday. Alexis. There's another subject I've been dwelling on lately. It's not even any kind of anniversary. I think it's more to do with Terra than I like to admit.
Part of me says I should tell Scott to point it out to me when I'm doing it, but that might just be sentencing him to his own demise.
It's Friday night. No one is on. People other than me have lives, dates, TV shows, places to go. I just sit here. It's disgusting. I'm more addicted in the last 2 or 3 months than I ever was before I went off line for a year.
Fridays suck. I don't even have the money to go rent a fucking movie. I watch National Geographic onDemand for shits and giggles. There's an email I need to send. I won't send it, probably never. Sometimes things are too hard too akward to say. I find that to be particularly true when that person is going through something you've already experienced. I always hate coming off like, "I've been through it, I know how to handle it, let me give you instructions."
You know what I hate? Liars, manipulators. People who become whatever they think will fit in best or be most adventageous. Hypocrits are assholes too.
In some ways I am a hypocrit though. A writer who preaches to read, and I don't. Basiacally anti-religion, and hoping to see Alexis again someday. Alexis. There's another subject I've been dwelling on lately. It's not even any kind of anniversary. I think it's more to do with Terra than I like to admit.
Babies
Sometimes the tracks my thoughts run are a bit twisted, you know how it is, watch TV, something reminds you of something which reminds you of something etc. . .
I often realize at some point in the middle of one of these trains that I've left one country and entered another.
How does one start with newly applied braces, and end up with pot pourri and Alanis Morisette? I'd explain but it would take much longer than the few seconds it took my poor poor brain to make that trip. I really have to re-get all my Alanis - I love her. People used to say I look like her. Someone today said I look like Rainbow Harvest. I didn't even know who that was.
I'm expecting mail, maybe tomorrow. That makes me very happy.
My flowers are so pretty in my garden. It's sad though, I have this nice area for my garden and nothing is growing except my Daffodils. last summer I killed my Jade, my Hibiscus, and my Lilac. All that's left is my tiny little rosemary tree. Budha looks lonely and forlorn.
My cat had her kittens a few days ago. One was stillborn, one died last night. I don't know what she's doing wrong. Her first litter of 6 all died. *sigh* I try to tell myself I don't care, that I don't get attached, but I do. I mean come on, when Sissy, our dog, had her first litter, poor thing didn't know what she was doing at all. She had the first pup in the middle of the yard. We thought it was dead when we found it, it wasn't moving, didn't seem to be breathing, and was cold. I ended up reviving it, wrapping it in a warm towel to warm it up and gave it back to her an hour or so later. A week later, one got smooshed down between the cushion and the wall and I found it. It was dead, but still warm, so there I went reviving another puppy. I fell in love with all nine of those pups. I'm pretty sure Sissy was confused as to whether they were her puppies, or mine. Now we think she's preggo again. :
I've got to stop adopting every stray that shows up in my yard, I can't afford to fix them, and I can't take how wrapped up I get with all the damn litters of various species.
It's 2 am again. I don't know how it gets so late while I'm not looking. I've got to start sleeping. I'm miserable, exhausted, moody, emotional, and my bags have bags.
I often realize at some point in the middle of one of these trains that I've left one country and entered another.
How does one start with newly applied braces, and end up with pot pourri and Alanis Morisette? I'd explain but it would take much longer than the few seconds it took my poor poor brain to make that trip. I really have to re-get all my Alanis - I love her. People used to say I look like her. Someone today said I look like Rainbow Harvest. I didn't even know who that was.
I'm expecting mail, maybe tomorrow. That makes me very happy.
My flowers are so pretty in my garden. It's sad though, I have this nice area for my garden and nothing is growing except my Daffodils. last summer I killed my Jade, my Hibiscus, and my Lilac. All that's left is my tiny little rosemary tree. Budha looks lonely and forlorn.
My cat had her kittens a few days ago. One was stillborn, one died last night. I don't know what she's doing wrong. Her first litter of 6 all died. *sigh* I try to tell myself I don't care, that I don't get attached, but I do. I mean come on, when Sissy, our dog, had her first litter, poor thing didn't know what she was doing at all. She had the first pup in the middle of the yard. We thought it was dead when we found it, it wasn't moving, didn't seem to be breathing, and was cold. I ended up reviving it, wrapping it in a warm towel to warm it up and gave it back to her an hour or so later. A week later, one got smooshed down between the cushion and the wall and I found it. It was dead, but still warm, so there I went reviving another puppy. I fell in love with all nine of those pups. I'm pretty sure Sissy was confused as to whether they were her puppies, or mine. Now we think she's preggo again. :
I've got to stop adopting every stray that shows up in my yard, I can't afford to fix them, and I can't take how wrapped up I get with all the damn litters of various species.
It's 2 am again. I don't know how it gets so late while I'm not looking. I've got to start sleeping. I'm miserable, exhausted, moody, emotional, and my bags have bags.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Shiny Things
So the braces are irritating the hell out of Kassi's gums. Nothing unexpected there I guess.
I never had braces, so I have no idea what to expect really, but they sure sent home plenty of literature. She's pretty well convinced wax is the latest miracle of medicine - that and Tylenol.
There was some discussion about Nickleback at MTC today. That song "Figured You Out" is just too real to not love. I mean seriously, how can you possibly NOT love a song with lyrics like that?
You guys like my banner? Silly me, I really like it. I'm not usually so pinky-girly but I really like that stupid damn banner. Oh, if you use Firefox you can't see it. Fuck if I know why, but Scotty can't see the banner in Firefox. It also fucks up my actual webpage and makes my text boxes solid instead of 60% opaque. Everyone says Mozilla Firefox is the new thing. Fuck that, I don't want anything that stops me from seeing things the way they're supposed to be viewed.
So, there was the third useless entry in two day. Isn't this fun?
I should consider doing my free writes in here. . . probably not.
I never had braces, so I have no idea what to expect really, but they sure sent home plenty of literature. She's pretty well convinced wax is the latest miracle of medicine - that and Tylenol.
There was some discussion about Nickleback at MTC today. That song "Figured You Out" is just too real to not love. I mean seriously, how can you possibly NOT love a song with lyrics like that?
You guys like my banner? Silly me, I really like it. I'm not usually so pinky-girly but I really like that stupid damn banner. Oh, if you use Firefox you can't see it. Fuck if I know why, but Scotty can't see the banner in Firefox. It also fucks up my actual webpage and makes my text boxes solid instead of 60% opaque. Everyone says Mozilla Firefox is the new thing. Fuck that, I don't want anything that stops me from seeing things the way they're supposed to be viewed.
So, there was the third useless entry in two day. Isn't this fun?
I should consider doing my free writes in here. . . probably not.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Pretty in Pink
Three hours later, I have all my colors changed :) It's an all E blog. Trust me when I tell you, it will be these colors forever, so if you don't like them, shut up :)
Look I Did It
lol, gee, all I had to do was change to an exceptionally green blog template to get the damned links on here. Eventually, I will muddle through the code and change these colors and such :)
I Hate My Computer
Seriously, I hate my computer. It isn't my computer's fault really, it's my brain's fault I guess. I've been trying to add links to my blog for a week, and I can't do it. I add the bastards in my code, and no matter what I do, it makes my profile and archive list go alllllll the way down at the bottom. I'm not totally HTML retarded, I just can't figure out what the problem is. I think that maybe they can't fit in the alotted space vertically, so the whole thing gets shifted to the bottom, so that there's enough room. Fuck I dunno. I'll try more later, and if I get it, I swear I'm going to get drunk in celebration. I've been so pissed about it, I've nearly deleted my blog twice :
I guess I'm a Walmart Shopper after all.
I guess I'm a Walmart Shopper after all.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Wisteria Whispers in the Garden
The Shadow of Grief
This solitude passes
like the first breeze of spring
through crocus blooms
tender, silent
and undeniable.
It is the ghost of grief that haunts me,
a whisper in the garden of my dreams.
No longer is it the honeysuckle nightmare
that cloys at the fence with sickly sweetness
or the suffocating kudzu cloak
in the hot August sun.
It has become the scent of wisteria
charming and gentle
in the shade of the hollow water oak.
Poetry
This solitude passes
like the first breeze of spring
through crocus blooms
tender, silent
and undeniable.
It is the ghost of grief that haunts me,
a whisper in the garden of my dreams.
No longer is it the honeysuckle nightmare
that cloys at the fence with sickly sweetness
or the suffocating kudzu cloak
in the hot August sun.
It has become the scent of wisteria
charming and gentle
in the shade of the hollow water oak.
Poetry
Erin's Poetry tips #'s 1 - ?
I have been writing poetry tips. I read them and they seem like blather, but everything I write seems that way to me. Others are apparently finding them helpful, and worded simply enough that they're easily understood. This is a good thing I suppose. I worked on one for nearly 2 hours tonight. I am completely unsatisfied with it. Everyone else always appreciates my writing more than I do. I have begun to judge my work by other people's opinions at times though - and that is a frightening thing.
I have to work on that.
I wrote an article a long time ago that I posted as one of my tips - it was about internet poetry forum politics. One of the things I didn't stress as much as I probably should have is the way familiarity and friendship causes people to be less objective, to forgive some things based on a poster's personality or past or style. I think that has happened for me at Moontown. They are family. I would never trust my sister/mother/brother/friend's opinions of my poetry in real life - no objectivity. Same applies here, they love me too much to tell me I suck.
Vickie is normally honest with me about my mistakes and weaknesses. I appreciate that very much. But when she says she had to work to find a problem, well, I still feel as though 4 1/2 years with the same peer group has vaguely tainted the level of critique I'm going to get. Besides, even if she isn't biased, the rest are. So I posted at Wild Poetry Forum, to get an outside, unbiased, completely objective crit.
Then their damn site went down.
Just my luck.
I have no interest in finishing my web site. I forget how time consuming it can be - particularly when I'm so out of practice with Dreamweaver, (not to mention that what I have now is 2 versions newer than what I was used to) and any knowledge I once had about HTML has left me.
I think if I lived closer to Erin, it would make for a very interesting life
I keep trying to tone it down for fear of freaking her out, and she says the same thing to me.
We fear alienating each other. If she were my neighbor, she'd be sick of my face. I think though that we'd have one helluva time getting to that point ;)
I was afraid I'd be worried about MTCers finding this blog. That I'd be so uncomfortable saying all the inner ugly things that needed expression. I was wrong. I'm glad my friends have found me, and know the things that matter about me now. I have to admit - that post about my past wasn't easy, but at least it isn't some creepy weird skeleton in my closet.
Dance bitch DANCE!
Oh there are probably more in there, but they're quiet for now.
I have to work on that.
I wrote an article a long time ago that I posted as one of my tips - it was about internet poetry forum politics. One of the things I didn't stress as much as I probably should have is the way familiarity and friendship causes people to be less objective, to forgive some things based on a poster's personality or past or style. I think that has happened for me at Moontown. They are family. I would never trust my sister/mother/brother/friend's opinions of my poetry in real life - no objectivity. Same applies here, they love me too much to tell me I suck.
Vickie is normally honest with me about my mistakes and weaknesses. I appreciate that very much. But when she says she had to work to find a problem, well, I still feel as though 4 1/2 years with the same peer group has vaguely tainted the level of critique I'm going to get. Besides, even if she isn't biased, the rest are. So I posted at Wild Poetry Forum, to get an outside, unbiased, completely objective crit.
Then their damn site went down.
Just my luck.
I have no interest in finishing my web site. I forget how time consuming it can be - particularly when I'm so out of practice with Dreamweaver, (not to mention that what I have now is 2 versions newer than what I was used to) and any knowledge I once had about HTML has left me.
I think if I lived closer to Erin, it would make for a very interesting life
I keep trying to tone it down for fear of freaking her out, and she says the same thing to me.
We fear alienating each other. If she were my neighbor, she'd be sick of my face. I think though that we'd have one helluva time getting to that point ;)
I was afraid I'd be worried about MTCers finding this blog. That I'd be so uncomfortable saying all the inner ugly things that needed expression. I was wrong. I'm glad my friends have found me, and know the things that matter about me now. I have to admit - that post about my past wasn't easy, but at least it isn't some creepy weird skeleton in my closet.
Dance bitch DANCE!
Oh there are probably more in there, but they're quiet for now.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Fart Knocker
What exactly IS a fart knocker? If you call someone a fart knocker, what the hell are you saying?
I think fart knocker sounds like a horrible word for a gay man. I just heard the word used on a movie on Disney. So what does fart knocker mean? Did that little girl just call the ice cream man gay? If she did, old Walt would roll right over wouldn't he? Or maybe not, hell, he didn't have a problem with Snow White shackin' up with 7 men. Maybe he was a visionary -- ahead of his time. What the hell do I know? I don't even know what a fart knocker is. I wonder if the 7 dwarves were fart knockers?
~
I wrote some yesterday. Some, meaning plural, more than one. It's unprecedented. Well, at least for the last year and a half anyway. I used to pump the shit out like, well, like the shit it was.
I'm going berserk wondering what the hell JAW magazine is going to say. I'd prefer a quick rejection to an agonizing wait. Besides what the hell am I doing starting to make submissions at a time when I'm not really writing?
~
Talked to L for the first time last night. She's fucking great. I've known D for so long. They want me to come to their wedding next year. What an amazing concept, I'd really love to go. I won't hold my breath though. It in't exactly the kind of thing that actually happens in my reality. We'll see. I need to check airlines for prices, start prepping Ma for a weekend of babysitting all the kids, budgeting out whatever it would take for me to get there. Therein lies the problem. It's always about money.
I think fart knocker sounds like a horrible word for a gay man. I just heard the word used on a movie on Disney. So what does fart knocker mean? Did that little girl just call the ice cream man gay? If she did, old Walt would roll right over wouldn't he? Or maybe not, hell, he didn't have a problem with Snow White shackin' up with 7 men. Maybe he was a visionary -- ahead of his time. What the hell do I know? I don't even know what a fart knocker is. I wonder if the 7 dwarves were fart knockers?
~
I wrote some yesterday. Some, meaning plural, more than one. It's unprecedented. Well, at least for the last year and a half anyway. I used to pump the shit out like, well, like the shit it was.
I'm going berserk wondering what the hell JAW magazine is going to say. I'd prefer a quick rejection to an agonizing wait. Besides what the hell am I doing starting to make submissions at a time when I'm not really writing?
~
Talked to L for the first time last night. She's fucking great. I've known D for so long. They want me to come to their wedding next year. What an amazing concept, I'd really love to go. I won't hold my breath though. It in't exactly the kind of thing that actually happens in my reality. We'll see. I need to check airlines for prices, start prepping Ma for a weekend of babysitting all the kids, budgeting out whatever it would take for me to get there. Therein lies the problem. It's always about money.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Cross-Limbed
Cross-Limbed
I sat cross-limbed, thin-lipped,
elbow to knee, and ear to God.
I listened and feared
His word; above all,
I believed.
You quizzed me
about a floating zoo.
Remember?
You made me feel
stupid for not knowing.
I was eight,
tight-lipped,and afraid.
In Christian School,
I wore red, white and blue;
I told you I never knew
God was patriotic.
My ignorance was reflected
in the disdain on your face.
I know now that red symbolized
The Blood of the Lamb,
white was Truth,
blue was Loyalty.
You should have dressed me
only in red, smeared it across
my silent lips.
His little whore,
I listened and feared
but you lied.
I remember.
Poetry
I sat cross-limbed, thin-lipped,
elbow to knee, and ear to God.
I listened and feared
His word; above all,
I believed.
You quizzed me
about a floating zoo.
Remember?
You made me feel
stupid for not knowing.
I was eight,
tight-lipped,and afraid.
In Christian School,
I wore red, white and blue;
I told you I never knew
God was patriotic.
My ignorance was reflected
in the disdain on your face.
I know now that red symbolized
The Blood of the Lamb,
white was Truth,
blue was Loyalty.
You should have dressed me
only in red, smeared it across
my silent lips.
His little whore,
I listened and feared
but you lied.
I remember.
Poetry
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Email Recall
Know of any way to do that? To take back an email after it's sent? Yeah, me either, and I suppose I'm glad. I submitted to JAW Magazine a few minutes ago -- they're one of very few print publications that take email submissions, and I'd regret snatching back the submission I suppose. But until I get some sort of response from them, I'm going to be a bit nervous. I'm not really a patient person. It's been 15 minutes already, and I don't understand why they haven't emailed me back!
OK that was sarcasm for those of you who don't get that sort of thing, don't go leaving me any comments about that comment!
I've printed out my poems for Ploughshares too, and the cover letter. Tomorrow (assuming I still feel brave) I'll get some stamps and mail them off. I figure if I'm going to be nervous, I may as well do it all at once, right? Ploughshares says to wait 5 months before sending a query. Good grief!
OK that was sarcasm for those of you who don't get that sort of thing, don't go leaving me any comments about that comment!
I've printed out my poems for Ploughshares too, and the cover letter. Tomorrow (assuming I still feel brave) I'll get some stamps and mail them off. I figure if I'm going to be nervous, I may as well do it all at once, right? Ploughshares says to wait 5 months before sending a query. Good grief!
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Keyword Search: Erin Monahan
So, Scotty got me a present. A secret present. I now own a domain name. I used to own www.poetic-acceptance.com but it expired while we were offline. This is the sad replacement for that, and there was never anything there anyway. I had intended to make it a forum board/support group site for grieving parents. It never happened, because I can't do .php
Now I own
drumroll please. . .
www.erinmonahan.com
It feels a bit egomaniacal, owning a site with my name. Especially since I really don't know what I'm even doing with it yet. I suppose at first it'll be basically an archive of my poetry, at least until I find a use for it that actually serves a purpose. It won't be a bereaved parent message board though. That's just too damn emotionally draining. I'd be all caught up in the stories of others who'd lost children, and constantly reminded of my own grief. I've finally gotten to a point in my life where I don't feel guilty for not thinking of her every minute of every day.
Vickie sent me the link to JAW Magazine. She thinks I should submit. I told her I would, and I will. I suppose if I'm never going to be anything more than mediocre, I may as well know it and accept it now. If I'm going to be rich and famous and the new thing to take the world by storm, I may as well get on it eh?
What a load of crap. But I suppose I have to start somewhere to get to wherever it is I end up. JAW Mag is as good a place as any. At least it's actually a hardcopy magazine, which is a sight better than a web based Ezine eh? I'm thinking about Ploughshares too, maybe not quite as seriously though, baby steps Erin, baby steps.
I have been unbelievably bored this evening. Moontown has been down, database upgrades or maintenance or some such thing. Doesn't Kyle know he's supposed to do that between 5am and 6am? Sheesh, these non-poet types!
However, that means I spent a lot of time on AC today, reading and commenting. There are a lot of cool people there. If the format were more personal/interactive, I'd love it a hell of a lot more than I do. There's a few folks there that are really talented, and a few who aren't so, but are awesome people, with a great attitude toward C&C, which is a good thing, a very good thing.
I spent a lot of time with Trish today -- who, for those who don't know her, which is all of you -- is my best friend, and I don't care if that sounds like elementary school. We've known each other since we were 11, and have been through hell and back together. She has a 4 year old with Cerebral Palsy, and just found out that she's pregnant. God bless her, I'm convinced she's insane, but she's an amazing mother, and I have no worries about her making it work. Anyway, she's always had a hard time with pregnancies, and has had several miscarriages, so when she fell this morning, she was pretty concered about the baby. She spent the day here, if for no other reason than to know she wasn't alone if anything happened. It was nice, other than being worried for her, and chasing Terra and Ethan (her nephew that she babysits, he's 1). We don't spend enough time together anymore.
Now I own
drumroll please. . .
www.erinmonahan.com
It feels a bit egomaniacal, owning a site with my name. Especially since I really don't know what I'm even doing with it yet. I suppose at first it'll be basically an archive of my poetry, at least until I find a use for it that actually serves a purpose. It won't be a bereaved parent message board though. That's just too damn emotionally draining. I'd be all caught up in the stories of others who'd lost children, and constantly reminded of my own grief. I've finally gotten to a point in my life where I don't feel guilty for not thinking of her every minute of every day.
Vickie sent me the link to JAW Magazine. She thinks I should submit. I told her I would, and I will. I suppose if I'm never going to be anything more than mediocre, I may as well know it and accept it now. If I'm going to be rich and famous and the new thing to take the world by storm, I may as well get on it eh?
What a load of crap. But I suppose I have to start somewhere to get to wherever it is I end up. JAW Mag is as good a place as any. At least it's actually a hardcopy magazine, which is a sight better than a web based Ezine eh? I'm thinking about Ploughshares too, maybe not quite as seriously though, baby steps Erin, baby steps.
I have been unbelievably bored this evening. Moontown has been down, database upgrades or maintenance or some such thing. Doesn't Kyle know he's supposed to do that between 5am and 6am? Sheesh, these non-poet types!
However, that means I spent a lot of time on AC today, reading and commenting. There are a lot of cool people there. If the format were more personal/interactive, I'd love it a hell of a lot more than I do. There's a few folks there that are really talented, and a few who aren't so, but are awesome people, with a great attitude toward C&C, which is a good thing, a very good thing.
I spent a lot of time with Trish today -- who, for those who don't know her, which is all of you -- is my best friend, and I don't care if that sounds like elementary school. We've known each other since we were 11, and have been through hell and back together. She has a 4 year old with Cerebral Palsy, and just found out that she's pregnant. God bless her, I'm convinced she's insane, but she's an amazing mother, and I have no worries about her making it work. Anyway, she's always had a hard time with pregnancies, and has had several miscarriages, so when she fell this morning, she was pretty concered about the baby. She spent the day here, if for no other reason than to know she wasn't alone if anything happened. It was nice, other than being worried for her, and chasing Terra and Ethan (her nephew that she babysits, he's 1). We don't spend enough time together anymore.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Lost Among Friends
I lost my writing, years ago, before I really knew what poetry was. I used to write about the things teenagers, lost in the woes of teenagerdom, write about. Then, I didn't appreciate the act of writing, I used it, as my own ever-ready whore. Then I met my first husband and dumped her like the whore I considered her. Too bad I didn't know then that I'd need her more than ever over the course of that marriage.
When I did rediscover writing, I treated it just as poorly. It took a long time to really appreciate poetry the way I do now, and I'm sure I have a long way to go, considering I've only just begun to disover contemporary poets who have already passed away. I'm afraid I'm still a bit hung on the old-fashioned beliefs regarding poetry, and I'm OK with that, which I'm sure will be my own poetic downfall.
I'd love to be a published poet. Of course I would, wouldn't I?
See, I don't want to just be 'published' at all. What I want, if I were to be honest, is to be famous. When I die, I want teenagers and unseasoned writers to discover my books after I die and re-evaluate their beliefs. If I'm going to be published, I want to be great. I can be mediocre in the comfort of my own livingroom thank you very much. So I suppose what I'm saying is that I want to be a poet. A Great Poet.
And I have little doubt that I'll never become that, because somewhere inside, I dread the idea of having the responsibility of being a great poet. I don't want to see my face at the bookstore, or have book signings where I shake hands and say nice things to strangers. I have no interest in speaking at any literary conventions, or writing poems on themes that some publisher chooses. I am selfish. I want to be great, but I don't want to lose my strangely comforting sense of anonymity. I'm a very private person, I don't like dealing with people I don't know, or kissing asses of people I don't like.
So many people tell me I'm so damn good. Maybe I am, I don't know, I lack the ability to be objective. Most poets worship every word they write, I am the opposite, I hate them all. I think of every poem I pen to be another bastard child I despise. They are a constant source of pain and embarrassment. And yet, I cannot stop giving birth.
Regardless of how I feel about my own work, I can't deny that others call me talented. What does that mean? The only people to comment on my work are considered friends. None of them tell me I suck -- and the only publisher ever to offer to publish me was a vanity press.
I will probably die not knowing whether I am right, or they are, and that's what bothers me I think.
The only real way to find out is to submit to publishers, which is to take the chance of becoming a mediocre published poet, because I know without a doubt that I'm not Great. I'm too shallow for that, or at least, my work is.
So instead, I sit, reasonably comfortable, among friends, and write.
When I did rediscover writing, I treated it just as poorly. It took a long time to really appreciate poetry the way I do now, and I'm sure I have a long way to go, considering I've only just begun to disover contemporary poets who have already passed away. I'm afraid I'm still a bit hung on the old-fashioned beliefs regarding poetry, and I'm OK with that, which I'm sure will be my own poetic downfall.
I'd love to be a published poet. Of course I would, wouldn't I?
See, I don't want to just be 'published' at all. What I want, if I were to be honest, is to be famous. When I die, I want teenagers and unseasoned writers to discover my books after I die and re-evaluate their beliefs. If I'm going to be published, I want to be great. I can be mediocre in the comfort of my own livingroom thank you very much. So I suppose what I'm saying is that I want to be a poet. A Great Poet.
And I have little doubt that I'll never become that, because somewhere inside, I dread the idea of having the responsibility of being a great poet. I don't want to see my face at the bookstore, or have book signings where I shake hands and say nice things to strangers. I have no interest in speaking at any literary conventions, or writing poems on themes that some publisher chooses. I am selfish. I want to be great, but I don't want to lose my strangely comforting sense of anonymity. I'm a very private person, I don't like dealing with people I don't know, or kissing asses of people I don't like.
So many people tell me I'm so damn good. Maybe I am, I don't know, I lack the ability to be objective. Most poets worship every word they write, I am the opposite, I hate them all. I think of every poem I pen to be another bastard child I despise. They are a constant source of pain and embarrassment. And yet, I cannot stop giving birth.
Regardless of how I feel about my own work, I can't deny that others call me talented. What does that mean? The only people to comment on my work are considered friends. None of them tell me I suck -- and the only publisher ever to offer to publish me was a vanity press.
I will probably die not knowing whether I am right, or they are, and that's what bothers me I think.
The only real way to find out is to submit to publishers, which is to take the chance of becoming a mediocre published poet, because I know without a doubt that I'm not Great. I'm too shallow for that, or at least, my work is.
So instead, I sit, reasonably comfortable, among friends, and write.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Christmas, So Soon?
It's the evening of March 12th. March TWELFTH! Already. In 2 months, summer vacation starts. We're already 2 1/2 months into this year, and it has flown, which means that summer vacation will start, roughly speaking, tomorrow.
We better start Christmas shopping!
The rent's behind. Seems like we're always behind, and when we get really behind, we fight. I hate the fighting. I just get all freaked out and start yelling. I know what I'm saying isn't the problem, it's how I'm saying it. I'm not sure how I figure pissing him off is going to pay the rent, but at the time, it all makes sense.
People I know are hurting, physically, emotionally. I hate to know that, and be so unable to help. I wish J would email me back. I wish there was something I could do for Erin. I wish Vickie would let me, and others for that matter, in. I wish Scotty would let me in for God's sake, but then, I haven't exactly given him much reason.
I suppose if I had to describe my recent mood pattern in a word, "helpless" would do it.
I liked last weeks "introspective" better.
We better start Christmas shopping!
The rent's behind. Seems like we're always behind, and when we get really behind, we fight. I hate the fighting. I just get all freaked out and start yelling. I know what I'm saying isn't the problem, it's how I'm saying it. I'm not sure how I figure pissing him off is going to pay the rent, but at the time, it all makes sense.
People I know are hurting, physically, emotionally. I hate to know that, and be so unable to help. I wish J would email me back. I wish there was something I could do for Erin. I wish Vickie would let me, and others for that matter, in. I wish Scotty would let me in for God's sake, but then, I haven't exactly given him much reason.
I suppose if I had to describe my recent mood pattern in a word, "helpless" would do it.
I liked last weeks "introspective" better.
Playing With Words
You see, I never read anymore, not even Stephen King, whom I adore.
You see, I have never been a reader of poetry, other than on the web.
I know this is a failing. I can't write poetry without first reading it. I preach it, but I don't practice it, but at least I don't pretend to. I just sit around feeling bad for not doing it.
I've been writing a sort of handbook to the internet poetry poster lately. I don't even know how I got started, boredom I suppose. I post a tip each day, and I feel so arrogant doing it, preaching the ways to be a good poet when I have never laid eyes on the words of Jack Kerouac or Charles Bukowski.
Tonight I made an effort to change that and discovered a few things:
A.) I don't like Bukowski.
B.) I'm not all that big on Kerouac.
C.) I was right to fear that if I read the contemporary poets it would threaten whatever "style" it is I have now. After just a few hours of reading, I am re-evaluating everything I considered 'right' for my poetry.
D.) Aside from all of the above, poetry is a good place to hide from marital discord, even poetry you don't like.
So. It looks like I'll be playing with words again, assuming I can find any to play with.
I wonder if I can find a woman named "Words" and just play with her instead?
You see, I have never been a reader of poetry, other than on the web.
I know this is a failing. I can't write poetry without first reading it. I preach it, but I don't practice it, but at least I don't pretend to. I just sit around feeling bad for not doing it.
I've been writing a sort of handbook to the internet poetry poster lately. I don't even know how I got started, boredom I suppose. I post a tip each day, and I feel so arrogant doing it, preaching the ways to be a good poet when I have never laid eyes on the words of Jack Kerouac or Charles Bukowski.
Tonight I made an effort to change that and discovered a few things:
A.) I don't like Bukowski.
B.) I'm not all that big on Kerouac.
C.) I was right to fear that if I read the contemporary poets it would threaten whatever "style" it is I have now. After just a few hours of reading, I am re-evaluating everything I considered 'right' for my poetry.
D.) Aside from all of the above, poetry is a good place to hide from marital discord, even poetry you don't like.
So. It looks like I'll be playing with words again, assuming I can find any to play with.
I wonder if I can find a woman named "Words" and just play with her instead?
Saturday, March 5, 2005
Bullshit
Ugh.
How's that for clarity?
Just one of those days. It's bullshit, all of it. I care too much. That's the problem, I care too much.
I like to pretend I don't have an addictive personality. That's a damn lie I can't even convince myself of.
How's that for clarity?
Just one of those days. It's bullshit, all of it. I care too much. That's the problem, I care too much.
I like to pretend I don't have an addictive personality. That's a damn lie I can't even convince myself of.
Wednesday, March 2, 2005
Finite (and Endless)
Finite (and Endless)
The night gasps, swallows
the silence, while the juice
of collapsed stars seeps
down her gibbous chin;
it gleams
with their waning breaths.
Her throaty laugh reeks
of black holes, grief,
and greed.
She raps on my window
lest I forget, with raucous raindrops
that liquefy the world beyond
and leave it distorted, drowning.
Beyond the blink of midnight,
a baby cries, frightened
by the obsidian absence
in her mother's eyes.
But Mama just wipes her lips
on a sullied sleeve
and whispers
goodnight.
Poetry
The night gasps, swallows
the silence, while the juice
of collapsed stars seeps
down her gibbous chin;
it gleams
with their waning breaths.
Her throaty laugh reeks
of black holes, grief,
and greed.
She raps on my window
lest I forget, with raucous raindrops
that liquefy the world beyond
and leave it distorted, drowning.
Beyond the blink of midnight,
a baby cries, frightened
by the obsidian absence
in her mother's eyes.
But Mama just wipes her lips
on a sullied sleeve
and whispers
goodnight.
Poetry
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