Today is Cancelled
I have nothing I want to share with the world today; no mounting proclamations- not a whisper or thought. There are no pressing deadlines, no stressors upon me. Only the familiar urge to write, simply because I’m a writer. Not a paid one, mind you- nor professional. (As proof of my misused hyphen will attest.) Alas, I abuse hyphens liberally, and probably always will-
…I want to write a memoir. (Doesn’t everybody though?) I’m sure we all feel like we’ve lived through unspeakable atrocities that nobody would or could believe. We’ve all gleaned the golden nuggets of wisdom from the trenches of life that we’re compelled to share. (There’s old Charlie, hacking and wheezing across the street. He lives with his father and smokes pot incessantly. He doesn’t let old age stop him from having a good spliff now and again. I call him old Charlie because he’s in his late 60’s or so, and his Dad is even older- maybe late 80’s or early 90’s. At all hours of the day and night, we can hear old Charlie out there, a mumble here or there followed by a short pause of silence- and then the hacking begins again.)
Please do feel free to go meander off and watch Spongebob while I ramble on about a memoir that I’ll probably never write. But do want to. There’s just so much work involved. I have the goods- I’ve already lived the story, and am still, but I think the hardest part is actually starting. Writing that first word and knowing how you want to tell the tale. So many times I’ve written blog posts- completely- whole blog posts written out and then deleted them, simply because I felt as if I had nothing worthwhile to say. But that’s the blogger’s curse. But there’s a difference between me and the stereotypical modern day blogger. Most bloggers collectively know that content is king. For me though, this isn’t a typical “blog”- it’s my diary. My very public, online diary. As I’ve stated before, I want to leave more than a few pictures of me behind. More than a fingerprint. I want to leave an archive. A life in pictures and posts. I never thought I’d still be writing in this thing almost 10 year later! I can look back and read about small walks I took with my kids, or cooking in the kitchen on certain days- what we ate, what we said. LIFE.
And so, back to the memoir. I have an incredible story to tell. How I went from living in an uninhabitable, dilapidated house- wetting the bed and living quite literally like a wild animal. I really don’t care what member of the family reads this stuff and might get offended. Where was anyone at all when I needed help? Where was anyone when I cried at night, alone and afraid, (and very wet and smelly)? Where was anyone when I was molested as a young girl, at age of 9- right in my own house? So no. I don’t want to hear how my life story “offends” anyone. It’s what I had to live through. Everybody else was safe, except me.
From that hell, to growing up seriously disadvantaged. All the cards stacked against me. I should have been a statistic, I really should’ve. Women who’ve suffered less have been. God spared me though. I came through so much hell and hurt and trauma and shame and rage. I was shown grace, and given another chance. God pulled me from the pit and set me on solid ground again.
I look back at it all in amazement that I was able to trudge through the trenches and reach the other side of the river. I stand now in the green, fertile soil; life has come to me again.
I have only one more year to go and I’ll be graduating with my Master’s degree in Psychology and Addiction Counseling. And still, I have no idea what I want to do with my life. For now, Im taking the necessary time off to try and absorb the fact the I no longer have my baby brother with me. For now, I’ll simply exist, and try to make it through each day. I’m giving myself the liberty to not have to do, think, feel, process, or anything else that takes emotional work. For now, I’m in a state of emotional cryogenics. Frozen inside- too numb to feel.
Until another crashing wave comes and drags me under. But then it’s quiet again, and I’ll know that I’ve made it through another rogue wave. There are no smiles within me. No solace. Today hurts. Tomorrow may too, but for now, I’ll distract myself with another adventure game. It hurts too much to think. I know that all of my training is going down the drain in these moments, but it’s o.k. I told myself that I could be in total denial for now and I’m taking my advice!
There will be warmer, better days ahead. As for now though, today is cancelled.
Turkey Bones
Turkey Bones
White clean
Two lovers
Eternally embraced
Lying together
On their mirrored bed of hot silver
Goblets of wine at their feet
They have waited
For their annual feast
Conjoined twins
Twisted at birth
Cartilaged duo
Greedy hands cannot wait
To rip you apart
Destroy and sever you
Ugly dry bones that are good for nothing
But picking at the teeth of an angry fat man
And in the end
You’ve made his dreams come true
Sabbatical
I’m feeling strong tonight. I’ve been reflecting on my life and the directions I want to go in. Sometimes my vision gets a little blurry just like the next guy (or gal) and I find myself at a crossroad, not knowing which way to go. I guess we all do.
I have already enrolled in a prestigious New Hampshire/New England college- it’s a great school. Poor girl like me, I should be doing a tap dance, and, well I did for a little while. But as always, I put my head on the chopping block and engaged in some necessary introspective Q&A. Why am I doing this? What is my purpose? Am I changing lives for the better? Will I be happy?
If I can’t answer every question with a resolute, unwavering answer- then it’s probably not the right decision. I don’t do things halfway- I throw every ounce of my heart into it or I don’t do it. And well, I’ve been waiting for four long years to dive back into my fine art/writing/music and songwriting, and my children’s book that I published almost a decade ago. I’ve done one school book reading in years- one! That’s how busy I’ve been, and that hurts, because there’s nothing like school readings, especially when you’re sharing your own book (and your own life, which my book is- in poems) with a whole new generation. To know that you’re able to influence a child- for the better- and give him or her something that they can carry with them into the future (such as being kind to people, remembering to love, and especially- not bullying their classmates), and hopefully become better people- there’s just nothing that can compare to that.
I’ve decided that I’m not going to immediately work on my BA in Creative Writing: I’ll be taking a year off. I’ve already accomplished something that many people don’t, and that’s self-publishing your own book. [pat on the back] But, I want to actually do something with it. I’m going to shop it around to publishers soon. If nobody bites, I’m going to have to do some grant-writing and such, and that’s ok too. I simply don’t have the necessary funds to do a U.S. book promo and two consecutive books (and promote those too) without executive backing. Without the funding- it’ll sit on the shelf and the best I’ll do is contribute time and energy to Boys & Girls clubs, children’s cancer hospitals, and homeless shelters, personally. That’s alright too, but everything will be out of pocket, and right now, it just wouldn’t be possible.
I’m going to give it a year. If I’m still sitting here a year from now- without one grant, fellowship, or publishing deal (for my fine art and “photo therapy”, the therapeutic photo-program I’m hoping to develop, or a book deal)- I’ll go back to school and work on another degree. I have to follow my heart though, and my heart is telling me to fly…
Canron Rebel digital camera/Helios film lens/back deck.
Rejected: Get Used to it, Kid!
So I just received my second rejection. The first was from the Beliot Poetry Journal (which was really sweet of the editor to tell me that although they were going to pass on my “self-confessional PSYCH ward poetic experience” he’s glad I’ve survived all of the things I’ve been through- haha…love that) and the second was from The New Yorker- a different poem entirely.
I won’t lie. The first one stung. Like a bee. Right in the head. (Obviously, it hit the ego more than the heart, but at least I’m aware of this.) What, I have an ego? YES. I frikking have an ego! Guh…it gets old. I’m fairly certain any artist, musician, or writer knows damn well what I’m talking about. There’s a fine line between wanting to share your art and wanting to feed your ego: this is the truth and it’s how it is. As artists, we like to dress things up like that old beast just doesn’t exist and we simply “are driven to create!” but what drives us? If we’re honest, we’ll acknowledge that at least sometimes, it’s the ego. If we’re in denial, we’ll say, “it’s just something I feel I have to do!” (Etc.)
So, there’s always that battle: self vs. art vs. self and striving to be more than simply wanting to get that little stroke that pushes you to your next piece. This is what I’m always thinking of when I submit new art somewhere: what am I searching for? Simply sharing this piece? What is my message? Am I imparting enough of myself in this piece so that people can feel it? I need to be saying something. Yes, the “praise” and the feedback come with the territory- that does feel like a warm, squishy blanket of “acceptance”- sure it does, but I want to know that I’m making an impression on somebody and adding something- no matter how small- to their lives, or the way they think, see, and feel.
Which brings me back to rejection. As in, “rejected by editors”. Maybe I’m a bit of a sadist, but I’m celebrating being rejected. Yes, I’m serious! I was rejected from the New Yorker,-come on…it’s The New Yorker for crying out loud. Being rejected from The New Yorker is a rite of passage. While the first rejection stung (get over yourself, kid!) I was completely elated by the 2nd one. Tickled. Serious tickled, because although I’ve been writing since I was a teenager (poems, songs, short stories, etc.) and have never had any education there at all- even having dropped out of high school in the 10th grade- I’m still acutely aware of my own ignorance as a writer, and, a poet. By claiming total ignorance, I can open my eyes and mind and have the necessary depth to fill in with an education in Creative Writing. Because I’m going into this saying “I know nothing”, I can learn so much more. Ego deflated!
I’ve created a Poem folder on my laptop, and also, a “Rejection” folder. It’s the rejection folder that will drive me in my art and work far more than any other. It’s proof that I have tried and do try and will not stop trying. I’m copying and pasting every rejection into that folder (dated, filed away).
Failure is nothing more than proof that you have tried.
I also entered my first short story competition last night- the top prize is $3,000. That one is going to hurt. Ha. But, it’s being slapped down in life that I have turned into an art form, so, the more rejections I receive (and there will be plenty); the more food for more art. It’s a self-sustaining cycle but one that holds valuable lessons for me, and I cherish them dearly.
Changing Lanes
It’s 6:57 a.m.
I’m listening to Sonata 3 in C Major BWV1005 by Bach and crying over Sylvia Plath.
I’ve been on this Plath kick for almost a year now. I used to be so harsh and judgmental of her. (“Well that’s what she gets for sticking her head into an oven!”) I didn’t understand her, nor did I try to until I read Rough Magic- her biography by Paul Alexander. Sylvia and I share several things in common. We’re both writers (dare I make such a claim?), perfectionistic overachievers, we both lost our children, we both went mad, and we were both locked away in an institution many years ago- having suffered breakdowns halfway through our college majors (and before)- and then immediately dusted ourselves off and jumped right back into the academic ring- no small feat.
I have a new respect for her, and until I began comparing notes, I had no idea how similar our lives were/are. I think she’s one of the most courageous women I’ve ever known. It’s not easy to have a colossal breakdown (pardon the pun) then pick yourself up again and carry on in the faces of all of the inquisitive eyes and naysayers…dream shatterers…
I’ve been reading her recently published (very private) journals, all night in fact. What a privilege to be able to wile away the hours reading her personal diary! I clearly have a fascination with her, but not only that- her poetry is by far, my favourite of anyone’s- Anne Sexton weighing in at close second. For me, nobody can touch these immensely talented and troubled women, who were both personal friends of each other (In fact, they shared a poetry workshop class and Plath admired Sexton greatly) who took their own lives at their own hands.
I read this in Sylvia’s journal earlier, and this is what made me cry:
Remember about the shadow of past knowledge. Write about your own experience. By that experience someone else may be a bit richer some day. Read widely of others experiences in thought and action– stretch to others even though it hurts and strains and would be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance! Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself. Try always, as long as you have breath in your body, to take the hard way, the Spartan way – and work, work, work to build yourself into a rich, continually evolving entity!
I’m listening, Sylvia. :0)
I received my audit from my University several days ago: my petition to graduate has been accepted and I’m expected to graduate this December on the 7th at the Red Skelton Performing Arts Center. It’s been a long four years! I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to pull off a Behavioral Sciences major- I had to face certain doom and unspeakable tragedy (sexual abuse as a child, institutionalization, the loss of my children, insanity, years of being battered relentlessly by an unforgiving system), but it’s been worth fighting for and I had to prove to myself that I am more than a “label” that has a fancy name of this disorder or that. I will not be defined by a clinical title or even the thought of another person, for I’ve chosen to maximize what I’ve learned in school and minimize the trauma I’ve lived through.
Still, I can’t help but to be heavily influenced by the likes of Plath- she stood up in the face of terror itself and fought as long as she could. But what an incredible talent! I’m going to heed the words in her journal and I’m not going to be ashamed of my past and what I’ve lived through. It’s a miracle just to be alive.
I’ve decided that after I graduate, I’ll transfer over to Southern New Hampshire University, which is a private coed and one of the best schools in New England to work on my BA- not for Criminal Justice- but for Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry. Plath has inspired me, completely, and has reminded that I’m an artist and a writer, and have been my whole life. I have the skeleton already- which is the passion- but I need the BA in Creative Writing so I can flesh out the bones.
I’m already a starving artist, what will it matter?
Life has been a blur lately of exams, cramming, writing essays and reports: I have 5 weeks to go!
And, I have 5 A’s in all 5 classes still. Go me. :0)
Josh stands in the golden hour sunlight down at the River.
Canon Digital Rebel/Super Takumar 135/3.5 film lens
And Heidi, if you’re reading this, thank you so much for your introduction to Plath at Olive Garden years ago. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be doing this whole school thing. xo
m o n o c h r o m e j u n k i e † 