Playfully You Dance
Playfully you dance upon my lips,
Tease the corners to separation,
Lightly ease them apart with your ballerina ways.
Force them, gently, with those pointed toes
To bubbly spill.
My soul longs to leak out,
Yet is suppressed
By your gay waltz of
Eternal joy.
You,
Are a liar.
A snake that laughs at the darkness
Which clouds my eyes,
That bursts out the sunshine, which no longer glows.
I can’t handle the burden of this heavy mask.
Layers of wasted, worthless grins
That suffocate,
That hold me under pounding waves
As my head grinds into the sand.
How do you churn from me the purity I know was once lost?
Permanently,
Genuinely,
You crease and indent;
Exploding precious pink butterflies through the dry, caked cracks.
Fluttering away my mask
And establishing glistening memorials
In our never-ending field of daisies.
The rain, thick in the heavy air, falls gloomy and silent until shattering upon the soggy ground. A girl splashes through the waterlogged grass towards the overflowing gutter. She squats in the lonesome street as she gazes into the broken reflection, her rubbery red boots drowning out all the grayness around her. With the sky beneath her she glances up uncertainly, just checking, just making sure. A steady river begins off the pink tip of her nose, piercing the wobbly mirror below. Arms up, eyes squeezed shut, she begins to twirl. Spinning freely, solitarily, in the street. She kisses the rain. Drunk off the purity, she stops; full sunshine smile.
[technically this week i cheated and sent in old stuff i wrote in high school... ha ha]
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Memoir 1
Field Hockey try outs. I’ve stopped screaming. I am in the fetal position, down on the asphalt, in the center of the track. Silence. No more shrieks; no more flapping wings. My body is shaking, tense. It is violent. I cannot stop it. I am clenched and shaking violently and I cannot stop it. My voice is caught inside of me. My body is trembling. I am so tight the tears are being smashed out of my eyes. I am squeezing them out, I am so rigid. I am face-down to the ground. And I am crying and I am silent and the world is silent and they have stopped flapping and they have left and everyone has stopped running.
Everyone has stopped running and they are standing around me. Looking at me.
After the first time it happened, the team got used to it. Once I’d stopped shaking and had pulled myself up off the ground, wiping clear the remaining tears, Coach B said “How about you sit out for the rest of this run.”
And so I did. Sitting next to her on the bleachers, watching the rest of the girls finish off the 2-mile run, we semi-discussed the slight hilarity of the fact that I was scared to death of birds. My only comment on the matter was “I told you so.”
In fact, I thought as I sat there, it had been very good thinking on my part that I had had the clarity to warn the team before my ‘situation’ presented itself. As a result, I believed the matter to have been taken by my teammates rather wonderfully. They knew what was going on when it happened- no ambulance was called, no freak out that I was having a heart attack or some such thing. One look at the sky and all questions were cleared immediately. I mean sure, they didn’t exactly know precisely what the extent of my reaction would be, but one never knows how they are going to react in a moment of terror. “Yes. I believe we handled it wonderfully” I thought to myself.
The girls nearest me had shielded me from the sky with their arms. It was quite kind and thoughtful actually, considering we hardly knew one another. As soon as I had collected myself, their concerned faces were right there, waiting to help me in anyway. Of course I didn’t need help of any sort. The geese were gone; they had flown off for the day. I was safe and I knew it.
“It happens all the time,” I told them, “really, I don’t need anything.” I smiled. “I’m fine now. Promise.”
And I really was quite fine, happy even. Purged. It was over. Maybe I was a little weak, had slight tremble to my body, but that’s just an after-effect, I was all good.
Still, Coach B had me sit out, which of course I did not mind at all. It became an unspoken ritual, fun, in a sense, at least for the other girls. I would be excused from runs if the geese were too close to the track. If they took flight mid-run and I had a panic attack, I wouldn’t have to finish.
I was constantly on the look-out. Aware of every caw, every flap, every movement skyward. That’s how I always was, not just at practice. It’s how I live my life- alert and conscious of any potential incoming bird. I became so in tune with these specific geese (which kind of disgusts me to say) that I could sense when they were going to take flight. How far they would go, how high. I could predict their paths. As a result I was able to strategized where and when to hide myself.
Usually they would be waiting for me on the field. Millions of them. Eating and pooping in a massive gray-brown blob, huge and disgusting and scary. This is where the “fun” came in. I would put on my cleats and shin guards over at the track and then sit inside of the snack bar, safe, secure, and blissfully unaware, a good distance away from the field. Everyone else would run at the flock, sticks in the air, screaming like warriors. I shudder to imagine the chaotic sounds and sights of the uproar as the birds haphazardly took flight. Ugh. Once the deed was done and the coast clear, someone would come fetch me, and we would all resume practice as if nothing unusual had taken place.
I loved that team. They were my defenders, my heroes. No one has ever taken better care of me. Our love was unconditional.
When I think back to those practices, I seem to recall myself as slightly lacking in the skills department and I wonder if the coaches picked me to be on the team out of sheer anticipation of the situations and excitement my phobia would bring to us all.
Everyone has stopped running and they are standing around me. Looking at me.
After the first time it happened, the team got used to it. Once I’d stopped shaking and had pulled myself up off the ground, wiping clear the remaining tears, Coach B said “How about you sit out for the rest of this run.”
And so I did. Sitting next to her on the bleachers, watching the rest of the girls finish off the 2-mile run, we semi-discussed the slight hilarity of the fact that I was scared to death of birds. My only comment on the matter was “I told you so.”
In fact, I thought as I sat there, it had been very good thinking on my part that I had had the clarity to warn the team before my ‘situation’ presented itself. As a result, I believed the matter to have been taken by my teammates rather wonderfully. They knew what was going on when it happened- no ambulance was called, no freak out that I was having a heart attack or some such thing. One look at the sky and all questions were cleared immediately. I mean sure, they didn’t exactly know precisely what the extent of my reaction would be, but one never knows how they are going to react in a moment of terror. “Yes. I believe we handled it wonderfully” I thought to myself.
The girls nearest me had shielded me from the sky with their arms. It was quite kind and thoughtful actually, considering we hardly knew one another. As soon as I had collected myself, their concerned faces were right there, waiting to help me in anyway. Of course I didn’t need help of any sort. The geese were gone; they had flown off for the day. I was safe and I knew it.
“It happens all the time,” I told them, “really, I don’t need anything.” I smiled. “I’m fine now. Promise.”
And I really was quite fine, happy even. Purged. It was over. Maybe I was a little weak, had slight tremble to my body, but that’s just an after-effect, I was all good.
Still, Coach B had me sit out, which of course I did not mind at all. It became an unspoken ritual, fun, in a sense, at least for the other girls. I would be excused from runs if the geese were too close to the track. If they took flight mid-run and I had a panic attack, I wouldn’t have to finish.
I was constantly on the look-out. Aware of every caw, every flap, every movement skyward. That’s how I always was, not just at practice. It’s how I live my life- alert and conscious of any potential incoming bird. I became so in tune with these specific geese (which kind of disgusts me to say) that I could sense when they were going to take flight. How far they would go, how high. I could predict their paths. As a result I was able to strategized where and when to hide myself.
Usually they would be waiting for me on the field. Millions of them. Eating and pooping in a massive gray-brown blob, huge and disgusting and scary. This is where the “fun” came in. I would put on my cleats and shin guards over at the track and then sit inside of the snack bar, safe, secure, and blissfully unaware, a good distance away from the field. Everyone else would run at the flock, sticks in the air, screaming like warriors. I shudder to imagine the chaotic sounds and sights of the uproar as the birds haphazardly took flight. Ugh. Once the deed was done and the coast clear, someone would come fetch me, and we would all resume practice as if nothing unusual had taken place.
I loved that team. They were my defenders, my heroes. No one has ever taken better care of me. Our love was unconditional.
When I think back to those practices, I seem to recall myself as slightly lacking in the skills department and I wonder if the coaches picked me to be on the team out of sheer anticipation of the situations and excitement my phobia would bring to us all.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Poetry 2
Time is Whack
Riding your bike on campus
blazing and fizzing with your yellow shirt on,
I watch you navigate your way through a field of young, budding, intelligences.
Intellectuals.
You wiz by them like a shooting star.
They are startled and don’t manage to make a wish in time.
I say time is whack.
I make wishes on you for them.
When you crash into a tiny girl wearing grey I feel bad,
I was too distracted wishing to be able to shout out and warn you.
Exploration of the Soul
Point your kaleidoscope at the ground.
Inspect the grass like they are binoculars.
Engrave the intimacies of the ant-villagers’ monuments on your foot as you explore.
Go under, go through.
You are Hernando Cortez!
Scrutinize everything as if on a caffeine high:
Your eyes are peeled. Keep peeling.
Unravel until you have found your very core.
At the hub of your eye your being will address itself.
On the metro, when everything is screeching and clanking,
I let my eyes rest lightly closed
and my face falls
relaxed and serene
and I like to remember being with you.
I am waiting inside of the bombshelter where we had agreed to meet
and you are not here.
My innards are grinding themselves into a delicate powder that both looks, and feels, like dust.
and [so] i spiral-climb
to the very top
so that i can better look down
and search
for the decrepit chapel
which houses the relics of
our love.
That chocolate cake was thick and chocolatey and I liked it a lot even though
mr-droppy-eyes didn’t.
But he doesn’t even count because you didn’t lean out the window for him when he came through the gate-
and you did for me.
“come on. come on. comeonbabylightmyfire”
just follow him-
he can wind you through the graves easier and you will find what you are looking for much much faster.
-will you?
Riding your bike on campus
blazing and fizzing with your yellow shirt on,
I watch you navigate your way through a field of young, budding, intelligences.
Intellectuals.
You wiz by them like a shooting star.
They are startled and don’t manage to make a wish in time.
I say time is whack.
I make wishes on you for them.
When you crash into a tiny girl wearing grey I feel bad,
I was too distracted wishing to be able to shout out and warn you.
Exploration of the Soul
Point your kaleidoscope at the ground.
Inspect the grass like they are binoculars.
Engrave the intimacies of the ant-villagers’ monuments on your foot as you explore.
Go under, go through.
You are Hernando Cortez!
Scrutinize everything as if on a caffeine high:
Your eyes are peeled. Keep peeling.
Unravel until you have found your very core.
At the hub of your eye your being will address itself.
On the metro, when everything is screeching and clanking,
I let my eyes rest lightly closed
and my face falls
relaxed and serene
and I like to remember being with you.
I am waiting inside of the bombshelter where we had agreed to meet
and you are not here.
My innards are grinding themselves into a delicate powder that both looks, and feels, like dust.
and [so] i spiral-climb
to the very top
so that i can better look down
and search
for the decrepit chapel
which houses the relics of
our love.
That chocolate cake was thick and chocolatey and I liked it a lot even though
mr-droppy-eyes didn’t.
But he doesn’t even count because you didn’t lean out the window for him when he came through the gate-
and you did for me.
“come on. come on. comeonbabylightmyfire”
just follow him-
he can wind you through the graves easier and you will find what you are looking for much much faster.
-will you?
Writing Sample 6
“Cute dog,” she said to him, aloofly. She snubbed out her cigarette on the plastic green picnic table and bent over to wrap her slender arms around her porcelain legs. She put her chin down on her knees. She was still watching the boy and his yappy white dog. It was jumping on his legs now. The sun was struggling to come out. She could almost feel it on her bare arms. They were across the park. She had said it to him, out loud, but knew he couldn’t hear her.
She began smoking cigarettes intentionally. She liked the idea of knowing what she wanted- it appealed to her. Craving and satisfying. To actually be able to give herself something that she sought. To know what she desired. It didn’t bother her that it was unhealthy, bad for her.
She loved blueberries, but often forgot the fact. And in reality she only sort of loved blueberries. It was always a gamble, with every single one. You could not know if, when you exploded it inside of your mouth, it would be heavenly sweet or bitter and nasty.
She had closed her eyes and was listening to the traffic. She felt for the sun. She could hear an old man watering his garden, mumbling to himself. When she opened them again the boy, and his dog, were gone. She pouted. She was surprisingly sad. She didn’t know him, but she had imagined him to be quite an amazing maniac. And in her mind they had become friends. He seemed enthusiastic about things, as dog people tend to be, and she was desperate for any kind of human friendship. They had sat in the park together, held hands even. He had told her of his devotion to her eyes, and her elbows, and her long willowy fingers. They had picked flowers and gazed down to their insides at the tiny universes cocooned in there. He put one in her hair so that his three universes could make a triangle. The universe of her soul. The universe of his soul. And the universe of the flower. She imagined him to be very romantic.
She began smoking cigarettes intentionally. She liked the idea of knowing what she wanted- it appealed to her. Craving and satisfying. To actually be able to give herself something that she sought. To know what she desired. It didn’t bother her that it was unhealthy, bad for her.
She loved blueberries, but often forgot the fact. And in reality she only sort of loved blueberries. It was always a gamble, with every single one. You could not know if, when you exploded it inside of your mouth, it would be heavenly sweet or bitter and nasty.
She had closed her eyes and was listening to the traffic. She felt for the sun. She could hear an old man watering his garden, mumbling to himself. When she opened them again the boy, and his dog, were gone. She pouted. She was surprisingly sad. She didn’t know him, but she had imagined him to be quite an amazing maniac. And in her mind they had become friends. He seemed enthusiastic about things, as dog people tend to be, and she was desperate for any kind of human friendship. They had sat in the park together, held hands even. He had told her of his devotion to her eyes, and her elbows, and her long willowy fingers. They had picked flowers and gazed down to their insides at the tiny universes cocooned in there. He put one in her hair so that his three universes could make a triangle. The universe of her soul. The universe of his soul. And the universe of the flower. She imagined him to be very romantic.
Short Memoir 3
I never knew how I was going to react to my sister’s blatant lies regarding her marijuana use in high school. We were close, we had to be, we were twins; but at the same time we hid the important things from one another. I would resolve not to be mean; I didn’t know what it was like and I certainly couldn’t understand what she was going through, but as soon as a situation came up, my resolution would dissolve and I became choppy and rude. I didn’t want to hurt her, but it was the only thing I knew how to do
*****
The music is playing a little too loudly as we pull up to the chapel building. My sister parks on the far side of the parking lot, the side against the trees. It’s still very dark out and I can’t see her face as she shuts off the car and leans forward.
"I feel sick" she says.
"No you don’t." I say, irritated. I’ve heard this all before. Almost every morning this whole entire month. Our younger sister has started getting out of the car. My response is adamant in showing that I do not approve, in making it difficult for her, in making her feel bad. I want her to feel bad. I want her to know that I know. To know that I am not stupid.
"I know you’re not sick" I say. She hangs her head lower towards the steering wheel as if folding her stomach up; and in the dark she really does seem to be sick. Right, sick. Not. I grab my purse and get out of the passenger’s seat. I hear her door open and hear her moving slowly on the other side of the car. Reluctantly getting out, faking acceptance, pretending to come with me. I hear her gag herself and I hear the unfriendly sound of bile sloshing against the blacktop.
"Whatever" I dismiss and I walk across the cold parking lot into the church building alone.
She comes into class about 20 minutes later; calmer, nicer, and happier, but jittery and red eyed. She reeks of Clementine lotion. I hate that lotion. No one minds that she’s late, no one ever minds, but me. Our teacher nods, everyone smiles. She’s so funny. So much personality. That girl is crazy. Man, I love her.
I am silent, I look down and I doodle in the margin of my scripture journal. Well I loved her too and I just didn’t know what to do.
*****
The music is playing a little too loudly as we pull up to the chapel building. My sister parks on the far side of the parking lot, the side against the trees. It’s still very dark out and I can’t see her face as she shuts off the car and leans forward.
"I feel sick" she says.
"No you don’t." I say, irritated. I’ve heard this all before. Almost every morning this whole entire month. Our younger sister has started getting out of the car. My response is adamant in showing that I do not approve, in making it difficult for her, in making her feel bad. I want her to feel bad. I want her to know that I know. To know that I am not stupid.
"I know you’re not sick" I say. She hangs her head lower towards the steering wheel as if folding her stomach up; and in the dark she really does seem to be sick. Right, sick. Not. I grab my purse and get out of the passenger’s seat. I hear her door open and hear her moving slowly on the other side of the car. Reluctantly getting out, faking acceptance, pretending to come with me. I hear her gag herself and I hear the unfriendly sound of bile sloshing against the blacktop.
"Whatever" I dismiss and I walk across the cold parking lot into the church building alone.
She comes into class about 20 minutes later; calmer, nicer, and happier, but jittery and red eyed. She reeks of Clementine lotion. I hate that lotion. No one minds that she’s late, no one ever minds, but me. Our teacher nods, everyone smiles. She’s so funny. So much personality. That girl is crazy. Man, I love her.
I am silent, I look down and I doodle in the margin of my scripture journal. Well I loved her too and I just didn’t know what to do.
Writing Sample 5
She kept having dreams about random means of transportation- specifically elevator and metro train. Always going up and usually very nearly missed. To her it seemed obvious these dreams meant something about the direction of her life, yet she couldn’t seem to place any distinct interpretation.
Standing in the doorframe of her pantry, deciding between scooping the peanut butter with Oreos or with whole grain wheat corn chips, she looked down at the floor where the refrigerator next to her bookended a nasty little dustpan and hand broom. As she averted her eyes downwards, a shadowed figure came up behind her and closed the door. She was swept up into the darkness and suddenly overwhelmed by a scent of mismatched and misplaced food. “Well that certainly isn’t mine” she thought to herself. After which she began to freak out.
Panic engulfed her. She banged on the door and tried the door knob. It rattled, but would not open. Who was in her house?! The darkness seemed to be getting darker. She hadn’t been anywhere this dark in years. She slept with a nightlight, always had. Just know she was beginning to remember why.
She tried recalling what she had been taught at therapy, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. As her mind searched back in time, it also discovered the buried fears she had associated with darkness, in turn cancelling out any therapeutic reminders she came across.
Standing in the doorframe of her pantry, deciding between scooping the peanut butter with Oreos or with whole grain wheat corn chips, she looked down at the floor where the refrigerator next to her bookended a nasty little dustpan and hand broom. As she averted her eyes downwards, a shadowed figure came up behind her and closed the door. She was swept up into the darkness and suddenly overwhelmed by a scent of mismatched and misplaced food. “Well that certainly isn’t mine” she thought to herself. After which she began to freak out.
Panic engulfed her. She banged on the door and tried the door knob. It rattled, but would not open. Who was in her house?! The darkness seemed to be getting darker. She hadn’t been anywhere this dark in years. She slept with a nightlight, always had. Just know she was beginning to remember why.
She tried recalling what she had been taught at therapy, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. As her mind searched back in time, it also discovered the buried fears she had associated with darkness, in turn cancelling out any therapeutic reminders she came across.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Short Poem 1
Lamby Rug
I suck my thumb and go back in time to when you spanned larger than me.
I’ll always have a resonating void engulfing my being-
You belong wrapped around my body.
I slide my hand through your foresty hairs and my face sinks in.
I feel like a tongue and I am licking you and you are a smooth expensive truffle.
I want you to swallow me up!
Jonah in a fuzzy lamby-walled stomach.
I could last more than three days.
I could last more than forty days.
Grape Jelly
Nose in jar. Arrival.
Smells like Hudson.
Pure, grainy grape residue
A childhood of juice. Juicing.
Is this ekphrastic?
The art of crushing grapes.
The art of making jelly.
Don’t wait for the toast to get cold this time
Cut it in half-
Part hot now
Part cold later
One can find meaning in anything.
Lick the knife and put it back.
I am a double dipper.
A plane of ruby stained glass lying on the beach.
Cut it in half-
Sideways
The sand is just barely thicker
And only sometimes.
Why is it ruby when it tastes so purple?
I suck my thumb and go back in time to when you spanned larger than me.
I’ll always have a resonating void engulfing my being-
You belong wrapped around my body.
I slide my hand through your foresty hairs and my face sinks in.
I feel like a tongue and I am licking you and you are a smooth expensive truffle.
I want you to swallow me up!
Jonah in a fuzzy lamby-walled stomach.
I could last more than three days.
I could last more than forty days.
Grape Jelly
Nose in jar. Arrival.
Smells like Hudson.
Pure, grainy grape residue
A childhood of juice. Juicing.
Is this ekphrastic?
The art of crushing grapes.
The art of making jelly.
Don’t wait for the toast to get cold this time
Cut it in half-
Part hot now
Part cold later
One can find meaning in anything.
Lick the knife and put it back.
I am a double dipper.
A plane of ruby stained glass lying on the beach.
Cut it in half-
Sideways
The sand is just barely thicker
And only sometimes.
Why is it ruby when it tastes so purple?
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