E: In my own case, the feeling manifests as a call to something ancient, it feels like, in my marrow...I want to chant the saga of my fathers and their fathers before them, I want to carve my own tale on the pages of the world and shout a battle cry into a wall of enemy shields; I want to slay giants and woo the noblewomen of Faerie...I want to shout at the stars that I exist, and call on the gods to witness my deeds, and at the end of it all, I want my own people to sing of me for generations.
A: I want to tell my younger self that I will make it far away from him. I want to tell her not to wish the seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years away. I want to tell her not to trust her mother no matter how tempting it is. I want to tell her she is worth it. I want to tell her that she deserves better and to never forget it, even when it feels like she won't get it.
June 29, 2009
June 28, 2009
Some days, like today
I have so much pent-up sexual energy it feels like there is a constant porn film playing in the background of my head. Good God. Is this what it's like to be a man?
June 22, 2009
Snippets
"I don't want you to hate me," he said, stifling a sob. I put my arms around him.
"I don't hate you," I replied. "I love you."
* * * * * *
"Why can't you talk to ME!?" she shouted. "What kind of crazy fuck goes to a shrink?!"
* * * * * *
"You need to fight for yourself. Fight for yourself like I know you would fight for me," she said tearfully.
* * * * * *
"Even after all those years and all those hard times, my heart still beat faster when I heard his footsteps on the stairs," she said, a far-off look in her eyes.
* * * * * *
"I'm leaving him and he knows I'm leaving him," she typed to me.
* * * * * *
"I think it would be really something to know you," she said shyly, standing at the entrance of my cubicle.
* * * * * *
"I came to see you," he corrected. "I know you're moving to San Francisco and I thought you might like someone to go with you." Hope was written on his face.
"I have someone I'm going with," I said gently. His face fell.
* * * * * *
"I know it sounds boring, but I think it's the boring things I remember most," he said wistfully.
* * * * * *
"When I'm with you I remember things better and when I look at you it feels like home," she cried desperately. "You can't go!"
"I don't hate you," I replied. "I love you."
* * * * * *
"Why can't you talk to ME!?" she shouted. "What kind of crazy fuck goes to a shrink?!"
* * * * * *
"You need to fight for yourself. Fight for yourself like I know you would fight for me," she said tearfully.
* * * * * *
"Even after all those years and all those hard times, my heart still beat faster when I heard his footsteps on the stairs," she said, a far-off look in her eyes.
* * * * * *
"I'm leaving him and he knows I'm leaving him," she typed to me.
* * * * * *
"I think it would be really something to know you," she said shyly, standing at the entrance of my cubicle.
* * * * * *
"I came to see you," he corrected. "I know you're moving to San Francisco and I thought you might like someone to go with you." Hope was written on his face.
"I have someone I'm going with," I said gently. His face fell.
* * * * * *
"I know it sounds boring, but I think it's the boring things I remember most," he said wistfully.
* * * * * *
"When I'm with you I remember things better and when I look at you it feels like home," she cried desperately. "You can't go!"
June 12, 2009
Tonight
Tonight I'm singing the blues in dark, smoky jazz club. I will saunter across the stage as my voice reaches out to the lonely souls in the room. In between songs I'll toss back some whiskey--it adds to the sultry, huskiness of my voice--and tell stories of loss and longing. Then with a nod of my head, the band behind me will strike up the next song, and we will play late into the night.
Or, I could just do laundry.
Or, I could just do laundry.
10 things that are true.
1. It means a lot that she still writes to me.
2. I can't open that box.
3. I tried to take care of you.
4. I didn't take care of myself.
5. I miss having a grandpa.
6. She inspired me to sign up.
7. I am intimidated by the suddenness.
8. I can't stop imagining horrific crashes of cars and planes when I drive.
9. She walked across the bridge with me to help me feel less afraid.
10. French onion Sun Chips are best.
2. I can't open that box.
3. I tried to take care of you.
4. I didn't take care of myself.
5. I miss having a grandpa.
6. She inspired me to sign up.
7. I am intimidated by the suddenness.
8. I can't stop imagining horrific crashes of cars and planes when I drive.
9. She walked across the bridge with me to help me feel less afraid.
10. French onion Sun Chips are best.
June 11, 2009
June 10, 2009
June 7, 2009
All mixed up in the wash, hot water bleeding our colors
My best friend is here, and it is heavenly. Cindy and cooked chili for lunch yesterday, and then went out for Eritrean last night. We lay in bed talking before we went to sleep; there's something so cozy about laying in the dark with a close friend chatting away.
June 4, 2009
I will censor no longer!
I hate my job.
I love my medication.
And that day in the band room? I knew. I posed. I was fully aware of what I was doing. So sue me.
I love my medication.
And that day in the band room? I knew. I posed. I was fully aware of what I was doing. So sue me.
May 28, 2009
Round 2
After the first round of rejections, I'm submitting more of my writing for publication. My friend suggested an online journal called "Bent Pin," and from there I found a link to litmags.org--a site that lists literary magazines, the types of submissions they take, submission guidelines, etc. What a gem! As a result of this I submitted work to both "Memoir (and)" and "River Teeth." Plus, I found other possible destinations for my work if these fall through, including: "New England Review," "Cherry Bleeds," and "Apple Valley Review."
I'm excited.
I'm excited.
May 27, 2009
May 24, 2009
In regard to "Ode to Medication #3: The Missing Piece"
It is proving more challenging to write than I would like. The final product should capture my hopes for it as well as my fears of it. It should be full of the detailed images of pleasure and comfort and contentedness that I wish to recapture. It should be fairly vague and elusive yet clear, vibrant, and concise. It should make my eyes sting with tears of self-recognition. All of the pre-requisites ensure that it will never meet my expectations and will slip through my fingers like fine, soft sand.
May 20, 2009
Your regular dose of Tom Waits
And I'm glad that you're gone...but I wish to the Lord that you'd come home...
Memory
As a child I used to worry a lot. I used to worry specifically about something happening to my mother. At this time in my life I was convinced that my mother was the most beautiful, intelligent, and wonderful woman in the world. I also worried that she was going to forget about me or leave me. I did everything I could to be near her.
One morning I sat on the furry orange couch in our dumpy little trailer. I faced backwards, looking out the window on the gray rainy day. I was busy thinking, “What will I do if my mother dies?” I couldn’t bear to be left alone without her. The logical answer, of course, was that we would have to die together. But what if we didn’t die at the same time? Obviously I would still have to be buried with her. The prospect of this was overwhelming.
My mother came out of her bedroom to find me with my head on my arms sobbing into the couch fuzz. “What’s wrong?” she asked in alarm.
“I don’t want to be buried alive with you!” I blubbered.
One morning I sat on the furry orange couch in our dumpy little trailer. I faced backwards, looking out the window on the gray rainy day. I was busy thinking, “What will I do if my mother dies?” I couldn’t bear to be left alone without her. The logical answer, of course, was that we would have to die together. But what if we didn’t die at the same time? Obviously I would still have to be buried with her. The prospect of this was overwhelming.
My mother came out of her bedroom to find me with my head on my arms sobbing into the couch fuzz. “What’s wrong?” she asked in alarm.
“I don’t want to be buried alive with you!” I blubbered.
May 18, 2009
Overheard at grocery store this evening
Woman: What kind of pasta sauce do you want?
Man: I don't care. You can pick. Your sauce always ends up watery anyway.
W: No, it doesn't!
M: Yes it does. That stuff the other night was so watery I couldn't even eat it.
W: You were probably just drunk.
M: Well, everything tastes good when you're drunk. Everything except your pasta.
Man: I don't care. You can pick. Your sauce always ends up watery anyway.
W: No, it doesn't!
M: Yes it does. That stuff the other night was so watery I couldn't even eat it.
W: You were probably just drunk.
M: Well, everything tastes good when you're drunk. Everything except your pasta.
May 15, 2009
November 2001
We sat on the edge of the bathtub waiting in silence. I imagined that this could be the moment when everything changed, the point at which we departed from the path we were on and went down another for the rest of our lives. We might look back at this day in the bathroom affectionately, saying, “We freaked when we found out. Remember that?”
After another moment he looked at his watch and said, “Okay.” I bit my lip and got up and went to the sink to have a look.
“It’s negative,” I said quietly.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah, negative,” I responded, looking at the test again, just in case it had changed all of a sudden.
He let out a deep breath. “I’m kind of disappointed,” he said softly. I looked up in surprise.
“What?” I asked incredulously.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m relieved. We can’t handle a kid right now. But I’m kind of disappointed, too.”
'Scratch that,' I thought. 'Maybe THIS is the moment when everything changed.'
After another moment he looked at his watch and said, “Okay.” I bit my lip and got up and went to the sink to have a look.
“It’s negative,” I said quietly.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yeah, negative,” I responded, looking at the test again, just in case it had changed all of a sudden.
He let out a deep breath. “I’m kind of disappointed,” he said softly. I looked up in surprise.
“What?” I asked incredulously.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m relieved. We can’t handle a kid right now. But I’m kind of disappointed, too.”
'Scratch that,' I thought. 'Maybe THIS is the moment when everything changed.'
An offer
He absentmindedly rubbed my five year old back as he watched a baseball game. My attempts to get him to talk to me were met with distracted one-word answers, and I wanted more of his attention. I only knew one thing that might work—it was what men liked.
I took a deep breath. “You can if you want,” I told him.
“Hmmm?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the television.
“You can if you want,” I said a little louder this time.
This took his eyes from the screen and he looked into mine. “I can what?” I flushed a little, not wanting to spell it out for him.
“You know,” I said simply.
“Hon, I don’t know,” he said. He hugged me and went back to watching the game.
I took a deep breath. “You can if you want,” I told him.
“Hmmm?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the television.
“You can if you want,” I said a little louder this time.
This took his eyes from the screen and he looked into mine. “I can what?” I flushed a little, not wanting to spell it out for him.
“You know,” I said simply.
“Hon, I don’t know,” he said. He hugged me and went back to watching the game.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)