Lightning in my Eyes

I can't seem to scrawl fast enough as my pen flies,
headphones throb,
lightning hits my lawn.
It pours and I love it.
It hurts and I'm in it.
I go anyway and it's like having the best idea I ever had over and over again.
I love it.
It's all like a waterfall I can't swim in but I'm jumping in feet first so fuck it.
This is my day.

All of a sudden something happens: a record,
lyrics,
a memory flash,
A literal bolt of sky fire lands five feet from me.
I feel the static,
see the flash,
smell the ozone: n a r r o w  m i s s.

I'm alive again.

What did it take?
Well I thought not much but now...
yeah this is all so very much...
it's everything,
a touch
a thought
an idea that was brief but not anymore.

Knowing what I want and taking.
taking.
taking.
No that's not all: giving too,
giving.
giving.
and giving until i break.
But breaking now is fine: breaking good
flipped it on ya didn't I.

I took a walk that turned into a run
and for months now
just running and thinking
feet pounding this paved path
knowing not where I'm going but seeing rain
washes me clean and masks the tears that I used to lose every day.
Getting stronger and faster and knowing it's inevitable,
Time used to seem like it was running out but really it was just letting me know:
there was so much more of it.

I'm alive now.

For years and years walking around thinking nothing's coming,
nothing else and nothing new,
nothing ever to take away this hurt and pain and
red
yellow
orange
green
purple
blue.

There was a deep hole that lived inside my head,
needing to be filled and listening to whatever everyone else did and said.
there was an empty place in my heart left by my missing three,
but no matter no more
that place is getting filled up new now
inside me.

No more tears every morning wondering why should I bother
no over-thinking and playing out dreams that don't matter,
So much came from nothing and I've been here all along,
it's just a shame you didn't hear me when I purposefully shut off that song.

Something made me press pause on my voice and I almost lost it.
I feel like these words can't be enough because I was almost gone,
there's rebirth and resurgence and I'll never lose it again.
Soulful not sorrowful,

I am not sorry.

I'm thankful that magic happens when I step on a stage,
spew out these thoughts
and leave someone wondering what comes next.
I always say I never know but I think that's not all true,
There could be so much that happens just based on all this.

You have no idea how much it means when someone looks me in the eye and actually asks.
You have no idea how much it hurts to think of more things we might lose and more things I just can't do.
But yes you do.
I used to believe it but not now.
I know you know too...and if you recall,
When you thought it and I said I know it too...
well who needs words then?
I always do.

I am alive again.

No more crying over shit that doesn't matter because there's nothing else to do,
there is always something else to do...
but that doesn't even matter,
what's done is done and once it's done
its like a war,
this war,
my war is won.
Warring for years with myself to try and figure it out
well take a look,
it's all out.
Once it's out it won't go back in.

It's out and I'm still alive.

We can go around being scared,
saying no,
playing it safe
and wondering what would have been
but we wouldn't know then would we,
wouldn't know and wouldn't care.
It doesn't matter if it hasn't happened,
running scared of what...
some rain?
The fiction factor?
Masks we have to use because the truth is too much pain,
Lies and wasted years and words that don't mean anything because they get used up so quick,
Time that was important once but now it doesn't matter so much
just stagnates and makes me see
how clean the rain has washed my eyes.

I won't comprehend and won't dwell on why
it always fell back into the same patterns
and we let it like sheep,
we let it like cattle and blind leading blind.
Like walking in icy rain without a towel
no blankets on a concrete bed with only a prayer for clear skies
that never worked because it's pouring so hard.
Like a plastic bracelet cold on my skin with a metal strip,
shows them my name but they need to see this
more than my birthday or reason for admission,
Like nothing I can imagine,
nothing I've seen and nowhere I've even been
that's how much I want to find the answer.

I know there is so much more and in time it will get free.
I kept wondering why I even stood where I stood
sat where i sat
slept where i slept
and now it seems pointless because here we are
here i stand
here i sit
here i try despite lightning to sleep

Knowing all I know I can't fathom why:
we would sit in the drizzle like a sprinkler,
drink from a fountain that has no pressure,
stand in the rain staring numbly in the window,
look to skies without answers when the clouds were so low,
settle for a sun-shower when the lightning was waiting the whole damn time?

I've got lightning in my eyes,
Fire in my pen,
Venom on my lips as i spit these words,
No doubts much pain,
Zero regret,
Plenty of rain.
And I'm not leaving.

Why would I possibly leave:

When we could have all the lightning we want and all we have to do to get it is be here.

Would someone please smash that F'n clock?

Sometimes I think that there are all these consistencies in life and I'm just not seeing why they are so important. OK I should re-state that: lately there seem to be many people doing things that are expected of them as if life were a contest to see who could succeed at being "the norm" first. As soon as some people turn thirty there seems to be a panic (not all people--I am NOT generalizing, but I'm also not using names ya dig) to get married, get mortgage, make baby, get pet, make other baby...and it goes on. Sometimes, it's even a race to see who has the most firsts: "I have two but my sister has three and our brother is on his first." You would think we were talking about bowls of food here...

I'm not bitter by any means. Every choice I have made (not to have kids yet and not to be married) has been just that: my choice. But the thing that gets me is that I have so much living left to do before I would be willing to give up my own life to be devoted to a little person's needs, and I'm only thirty three. So what is all of the fuss about? Yeah the clock ticks, and it always will. If an urge to breed kicks in I am sure I'll do just that; if an urge to breed kicks in too late, I would absolutely adopt a child that needed a home. Therefore--what's the rush? There are options in life and it can be really scary how ignorant people can be of those options.

Just last night I had a tearful phone call from a friend who found out she's expecting. She is freaked out; understandably, because she is not in a stable relationship and is unsure which of her two "people she sees" (her words) are the cause of said predicament. After talking for a while, we determined that this is not the end of the world. It's early on, and there are several choices she can make. However, the thing that got to me is that she wasn't worried about maybe needing to go to a clinic, or an adoption agency, or thinking about carrying another human inside her for nine long months. She was worried because of her age. "At thirty something we need to do this while we still can," she sobbed.

I was shocked to hear this coming from someone I know as well as I know her. She is a strong, self-sufficient, independent woman. In fact, I...who am never speechless, was stricken silent for a moment. So I said, "You aren't upset because you are pregnant, or because you would have to make the big choice. You aren't upset because of the possibility of having to tell two people that they may be a dad. You are upset because you are ... the age that you are? Did I get this right? Like an early mid-life crisis, or a late quarter-life one?" Silence...long pause...sniffling...laughter.

I guess that sounded bizarre to anyone who is of the belief that time is of the essence for these things. But we laughed for a few minutes, and she realized that the reason for her distress was really not the worst part of it, and she should focus for a second: on the other stuff. We do tend to remain the age we are whether we marry, give birth, switch jobs, break up, get together...whatever. Now I know it's not easy to make big decisions, and we sometimes tend to take the wrong amount of time to assess the impending damage, but after an hour of discussion, my friend decided that it was at least more important to calm down and think about what she really wants for herself. (my words...but she agreed)

There seems to be this hysteria in the air about having all the marrying and the baby-making done by a certain time or women should just give up on happiness overall. It's also far from being a sole case that I was recently made aware of. It's like a widespread epidemic. Women are freaking the hell out about whatever this clock has to say (I don't personally hear it, but I think it speaks to some people pretty rudely!) I really don't mean to be so negative about all the things that little girls are supposed to dream about and stuff...but...for god's sake women...travel with protection! If you are not sure what you want, or if you don't want to have to count squares on a calendar...be careful in the first place! And if you do have the desire to race to the finish line of "normal" (whoever came up with that term was probably assassinated by someone like me) be ready for the consequences.

I've got another friend who always dreams about how it would be if she didn't get married at twenty two and didn't have four kids. I know that we all want what we don't have but...really? I can't imagine being at that point...in fact I will never be at that point, obviously...but if I was it would be because I chose to be there. I just don't feel the pressure that people talk about when it comes to this crap. OK maybe I shouldn't call it crap...but today it feels like crap: the least important thing on my list. Living up to other people's standards just is not something that interests me.

On the other hand (and there always is another hand) I have friends with husbands and wives who are genuinely nice couples, and I have friends with children that I completely adore. This is not my rant of why the family structure is fucked up--not at all. This is just what I've been thinking about because I once again seem to feel like a square peg with that round hole I'm looking at and thinking about walking away from...again. Not only do I not want to trim my corners, but I feel like someone should take a sledgehammer and make the friggin hole bigger.

If we try to conform to what society expects of us, we end up doing what I fear the most: losing our voices. Not only are we susceptible to the possibilities of failing ourselves, but when we look at what seems to be "the norm" it's possible that we may fail everyone else as well. If that's what happens, no wonder so many people are on medication! (Sure, I'm able to joke about such things now, but only because I've been there too) It would be simple if there was a pill for each of these "epidemics" wouldn't it?

A visit to the doctor could cure the "baby blues" or loneliness, or we could get a pill to hit "snooze" on that damn clock everyone keeps talking about. There may well one day be a prescription for feeling like you should be following all your twenty-something friends down the aisle in a (gulp) white dress. Or an antidote for the need for a little someone who loves you unconditionally (this is where I mention my dog who also does just that) and until then we may just have to hang in there...or better yet lose all the hanging around and LIVE OUR OWN LIVES.

I don't want to appear negligent of other people's wedded, babied, structured bliss. I certainly see how there is joy in such endeavors and am happy for all those who find that joy. I'm just getting a little sick of hearing about things like clocks and "at our age..." and "by now we should have..." and I know with the utmost certainty that I'm not the only one who feels this way. This is where I praise all the women (and men as a matter of fact) in my life for being able to see my side of this equation. If I had not heard you nod in agreement just now I might be a little scared that I'm the odd one out.

Monday night open mic

It just occured to me to post here as well: this is where I go on Mondays & y'all should too. Bring your poetry, your guitar, your drum, and of course your friends. Hope to see everyone at ALOR Cafe on Monday night for open mic! Corner of Richmond Road and Lincoln Ave. 8pm sign up, great people, delicious food, yummy drinks and lots of fun ;-)

Father's Day

After the weekend I've just had, I certainly am inspired to write a great deal about my life. Unexpected things keep happening to me and it's been extremely gratifying. I sold my first article this week, and am really excited about getting my stuff out there. I've recently met some fascinating people, and have lately had such a perfect time discovering how to just be myself again. This has been the most surprising and wonderful time for me. The last few days have yielded nothing but smiles on my face. I feel like I could write quite a bit about things that have happened recently, and I will indeed, BUT... it's Father' Day. So instead of rambling on about me, I'm reposting this piece about my dad.

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads near and far. I know mine is with me today and everyday.

Chasing The Dandelions

When I think about all that has inspired me throughout my thirty three years, I recall friends and family that have made an impact on me in so many ways. More than anything, however, I think about my father. He died when I was twelve after a long illness, and sparked an inspiration that still flows in me today. I have been writing since then, and my passion has only gotten stronger. The way I recall our time together—though it was short, allows the words to flow.


I can remember tossing fuzzy green tennis balls across our hilly backyard until my arms felt like Jell-O and I thought they might come unhinged from their sweaty sockets. I remember the hot summer sun reddening my cheeks and warming my shoulders. It was three in the afternoon and I was nine years old. My catching counterpart was my dad, my best friend. It was a Saturday, and he was trying to teach me how to pitch better for the upcoming softball season. It was a day in August of 1986 that remains as fresh in my mind as this morning’s commute. My minds golden frame holds this memory so tightly, that it is impossible for it to become loosened, or fall apart with age.

Snuggly soft scents arose from the basement windows where my mother did the wash, and the squirrels danced along the clothesline, narrowly avoiding knocking the clean sheets to a dusty peril. We talked about life, however deep that can be at nine. Covering all the major concerns of soccer and baseball, and why mom made me go to bed when I could still hear my friends playing kick the can on the block well after the streetlights were on, made me feel like a real person.

Each Saturday was special. My dad and I would do all the tedious errands that did not fit into a sixty-hour workweek. After a hearty helping of his fluffy scrambled eggs that were legendary in our suburban bubble, we would drive to the dry cleaners, the post office, the bank, and the supermarket. Perhaps it would have been mundane if I was with anyone else, but I was in my glory every weekend. This particular August afternoon I had not bothered to apply the fifty proof sun-slime that my mom followed me around with each morning. It was a bit overprotective on her part, dousing me even as I went down the steps to get the mail. Yes I was fair, but the sticky sloop of lotion onto my shoulders was not a feeling that remotely inspired a fond summer memory. Neither did she, come to think of it.

On May 22, 1989, my father passed out of my life. Though it was a devastating time in my life, it also is the only time of my childhood that I can look back upon, and come away with a smile at the end of my musings, because thoughts of him could never get me mad or produce regret. At twelve years old, you have no idea what it will be like when someone that close to you dies. Sure, I knew what loss was. I lost my grandmother. I lost my dog. I lost my best friend on the block when she moved to California. But I could not comprehend that I had lost the greatest source of support that I had known.

Dad’s gray hair would stiffly remain in its fixed Navy style, even though a slight breeze came about. His Levis were crisp and ironed but his soft flannel shirt signified that it was a weekend indeed. The comforting scent of Old Spice wafted through the freshly cut lawn as I tried to jump for those hard catches that I never thought my arm would stretch to grasp, until I felt the ball in my glove.

As the soft leather was filled again and again with the thwap sound of the ball and the adrenaline surge of “I got it!” I smiled all over as I thought about how I was going to pitch the best on Wednesday and how lucky I was to have dad to teach me. My heart would do a little leap-plunge each time I heard “good catch” or “nice throw.” The dandelions on the outskirts of the yard marked the status of my catches. If I was standing amongst their bobbing, yellow, amused faces, I had made a catch of something thrown farther than I could previously reach. As I practiced more and threw farther; caught higher, the dandelions were more and more within my reach, tickling my Converses with their buttercup heads.

When I had surpassed the dandelions altogether, I was the captain of my grade school softball team, and the starting pitcher in most games. When I had come that far, even when I did not need to be further coached in the backyard, the smiles that wafted to me upon Old Spice breezes kept me throwing and catching with the same heartfelt want to be the best for my dad as it had on that August Saturday in 1986.

Saturdays were my time alone with my dad, and they were filled with trying to make me the best girl that I could be. There was never any pressure, or unreachable expectations. I loved practicing, and perfecting each little task that I did so I could show him what I had learned; show him how much of an impact he had on my life, show him how much I loved him.

When I was in school, just minutes from home, I wished that it could be the weekend every day. When I was invited to a sleepover, I think I was the only grade school girl that pondered whether it would be more fun than Parcheesi on the porch with my dad on a Friday evening. When I had a soccer game, I would look for my coach on the sidelines, and see my dad running alongside him; seeming to be the only parent that looked interested in the game and actually knowing how important it was to their kid to see them there. He was always there.

When I was twelve years old, I was about to apply to high schools, and decide which sport I would take along with me: soccer or softball. Both were my favorites, and it was a hard decision to make. If I went to New Dorp High School, I could play softball, and be attending a school that was five minutes from my front door. If I went to Notre Dame Academy, I could play on the citywide championship winning soccer team, but would have to travel for an hour, taking two busses every morning. As the time to make a choice drew near, I was unsure and nervous that I would make the wrong decision. Yet through all of my uncertainty, there was only one person who was beside me, telling me it was all right to just do what I wanted to do. Assuring me that if I happened to pick the wrong school for me, we would work it out, and I could transfer. If I had chosen softball, and ended up wanting to play soccer in high school, I could switch teams next year, and still be close to home. If I chose Notre Dame, I could always transfer to New Dorp if I hated the commute.

Any time I was stressed about the harrowing decisions of a grade school kid, there were words of reassurance from my dad waiting to console me, You’ll do the right thing or most importantly, I trust you to make the right choice. There was always an “I love you no matter what” following every moment of ten, eleven and twelve year old panic I might have experienced. I was never afraid to ask, and I always did what I wanted rather than follow all the other kids.

As a teenager, my mind was more wrinkled at the edges than it was wrapped around the thought that my dad was gone. I did not remember the sickness, which had devoured his powerful stature to a frail frame in a matter of ten months. I did not see hospital visits in my memories of him. I did not see a single ambulance through the bottom of the whiskey bottle I carried with me, nor did I catch a glimpse of tearful family through the cloud of smoke that I enveloped my exhausted mind with, as I drifted on that discarded piece of plank that was high school. Through the whole damn misery that was thirteen to sixteen, I was waiting to get over something that had not even fully hit me yet.

When I was seventeen years old, I decided that I could not keep my anger in my heart anymore. That heart was now far from empty, even broken another time by then. I refused to let loss become a thing that I had to embrace. I wanted to tell every single person that I had ever met, and then the rest of the world even louder that it hurts! It hurts more than being in three car accidents, breaking ankles skating, cracking kneecaps on the soccer field, jamming fingers on the basketball court, and breaking your nose in a fistfight. It was a worse pain that cutting your wrists, having your stomach pumped for combining Valium and vodka, and by all means, it hurts far, far worse than losing a child.

And then, the pain was dulled for the first time in six years. For the first time since I had a little piece of my existence rubbed away as I held a cool cloth to my dad’s balding head after radiation and chemotherapy in the same week, to form the first of many fruitless cocktails that only made my best friend suffer more...I felt less. Not less love or less memory for the man who was my life. Certainly not less of an empty space in my heart where the Dad Place was. Yet for the first time since he was gone, he was right there with me.

As I sat in the woods behind a schoolmate’s house, furiously scribbling in my black and white notebook, sitting amongst dead leaves, broken glass, and burnt remnants of someone’s house, I felt my father blow my hair out of my eyes, tell me to put down the joint, and peel me off of the crumbling foundation where we sat passing the days from eight to four. I walked back up to the road, got on a bus to my mother’s house, which I had never felt was a comfortable place for me. It was surreal the way the brown oak door loomed over me. It took every ounce of strength I had to knock on it. The door I used to peer out of for his car each evening was stupendously huge. In the putridly rose colored living room, the words refused to come. Collapsing on the kitchen floor in tears, where I used to do my homework while my dad ate dinner, he managed to squeeze a single word out of me, “sorry.” And the numbness coursed down my pink cheeks in streams of frustration and years of pain and loss.
It’s a powerful thing; the hate a young girl can feel for the world. More powerful is the hate she can seethe onto the people around her. Even stronger is the reckless thought that no one else has been where she is. No one feels what she feels. Yet most overwhelming of all is the process of learning how to spill her anger, hate, and her love onto a page. I think this girl may have exhausted the supply of blue medium point Bic pens in the early nineties trying.

Though I had been through the mill by age eighteen, I also had seen that the pain of my own and that of others around me was only growing. I decided to erase the opaque specter that had been inflicting so much hurt with my pencil, and redrafted my life in ink. Not only did I manage to find consolation and understanding in a mom who was there all along, but I found that she was hurting as much as I was. She had not only lost a husband, but for a while, her daughter was simply gone from life.

“Pick a sport by what you feel better doing. Would you rather beat the crap out of something for four years, or be constantly running after something you never know if you will be able to catch and control?” At first I thought that this analogy between softball and soccer was too dramatic. But it did narrow down my choices. I could control anything...right? As long as there are words to express it, I will sit each afternoon on the porch with my dandelions and tell my dad all about it. There are so many choices that a young person must make. Losing someone who had always been there for you can undoubtedly make those decisions all the more terrible. Yet it is crucial to remember that there is always someone who knows what you are feeling.

I know now that as I live day to day, that my father is right here, with me. He is in my heart, my thoughts, and in my mother’s eyes when she tells me she is proud of me. I always think about how wonderful the years that I shared with my dad were. Remembering the trips and outings that he would take me on was a huge part of how I began to write. I will never forget all of the fun we had, all of the laughs that were between only us. And at the risk of sounding extremely wistful, I will never overlook how special the inspiration of my dad was in getting me through all of the rough times I have had. Whether I brought them on myself, or life just kicked me in the ass, he has always pulled me through. I finished college, moved out on my own for the right reasons, and begun to understand the incessant ramblings that fill 23 black and white notebooks with the pain of life and loss. Through cherishing memories, I have learned to love myself.

Seven Eleven

Solitude
Solidarity
Loneliness
Alone
Self
Selfless
Selfish

* put self on shelf and do not look directly at it

Sacred
Scared
Silly
Sensuous
Sexual
Senility
Seniority
Superiority

*supremely aware of sensual need and scared that I hold it sacred

Home
Homeless
Helpless
Hope
Hopeful
Hopeless
However
Helpful
Hole

*wholeheartedly feeling a hole in my heart but knowing what I need

Drowning
Drowsy
Doubting
Denial
Debating
Decisions
Dismissal
Doesn't know
Don't leave
Don't say

*my dear I don't doubt that despite all the debating and deciding that you know I want you here

Missing
Missed
Mixed up
Messy
Misunderstood
Miss Sixty
Mister Salty
Mr. X
Mine
My
Mind

*just sit and stay a while with me

Lists and the Fiction Factor

Truth can be a real bitch sometimes. That's the first line that came out this morning and therefore, it's gonna stay put. I try so hard sometimes to apply the "everything is fiction" rule to my work. I know I know, there isn't really a rule that says that...but I sometimes just need there to be one for sanity's sake. Thinking about how much of my own heart and soul goes into my daily rantings, I need something that will keep me grounded when it comes to writing...at least for writing.

I feel the need to make a list.
Lists put things in perspective.

Things I feel today:

• love
• inspiration
• stress
• cramps
• conflict
• curiosity
• frustration
• hope despite the stress and conflict
• occasional disappointment
• longing to be someplace I am not right now
• less and less of an inability to say what I really want to say

Perhaps the last one is the best for me right now...however when I look at the impulse to put the big L word at the top of the list I guess that isn't exactly saving the best for last. Hmm how should I read this? I feel like I always read things from the bottom moving upwards unless it's a story. Therefore first would actually be last, therefore saved and then...oh man do I over-analyze everything or what?! Then again, each day in life is a story.

At the risk of exasperation, I make many lists as I sit in my office grading papers and thinking about where I would rather be or who I would like to spend time with. I make lists at home and then I run out of the house with a monstrous page of ideas and end up sitting in the park with a notebook and pen. I make lists about everything. How many things I need to do today, this morning, this afternoon, by the end of the week...then I look at them and cross off half the stuff and say "Realistically what can I do?" and they shrink in size quite a bit.

This morning I was thinking about how I could apply the "everything is fiction" rule to my own life, and to these never-ending lists. It's amusing actually, because about five months ago, this might have worked. I would look at pleasurable things that happened and I would think "Wow this is surreal, so it's kind of not really happening"...fiction! Or maybe I would see something hurtful happen and not want that visceral truth that I know is coming and would just toss it aside saying "I can't even believe that happened"...fiction! However for the past few months it's not easy to do so. The fiction factor has decreased drastically.

Looking at why, I think I know basically what's happening but there are a great deal of things that I need to consider. For example: is it safe to feel all these things and really let them be real? I see as I re-read that this is not exactly forthcoming and well... to be honest I can't always be detailed with every single thing. On the other hand, I seem to be getting to a point of no return. I have reached a new part of my life and am feeling really really good about some parts of it. Others...well other parts just make the cramps worse.

So what to do when life hangs between letting the fiction rule slide a bit and letting the truth just take it's hold on your heart? I have to say I have always had a preference for narrative non-fiction; an inkling to follow my Austen-like heart. Could that be my answer? Maybe...But the scary thing is, it's always been safer to write fiction.

Some of the best advice I've received:

• write like everybody you know is dead
• tell people how you feel
• don't say it if you wouldn't ever get over someone saying it to you
• be yourself
• write it down even if it hurts
• do it anyway

The last one was always my favorite...but these days I'm looking at # 2 as being most important.

Whether it be truth that is stranger than fiction, or fiction with autobiographical stuff in-between the lines, or even just a novel with characters that never existed, I am still a voracious reader. The question is can I keep writing in a way that will allow me to express truth, fiction, and perhaps most of the realistic lists... I just don't know...but I really want a lot of things right now, and that usually means yes. I guess that's why they call it rough drafting--it's never easy. It's never smooth. But sometimes you have to get through the rough before you can even think about stuff flowing smoothly.

Thinking of life as a rough draft is like

• comfort
• consolation
• hugs
• blankets
• kisses
• eyes you can look into for hours and never get tired
• sleeping next to someone you adore
• Cheerios and whole milk
• a sloppy kiss from a giant doggie who steals your heart
• your favorite sneakers
• macaroni and cheese

I could go on quite a while with things that comfort, but I think you get what I'm saying.

Therefore: life is a rough draft and it will forever be rewritten. I guess I just want as much comfort as I can have without needing to rely on fiction all the time. Is that too much to ask for?

One Foot on Each Side of the Bridge

This weekend I went home to NY again. Not only did I see many good people, and enjoy the company of friends I've missed, I did an impromptu reading at a bar, saw some amazing art, won a painting, and spent two days just being myself. There was no stress, and nothing wrong for two whole days. No work to worry about, no reason to have to think about running to another state to do whatever it might be that needed doing. Granted I was free from responsibility and had a rare two days to spare...but it was a lot of fun.

I can't do it all the time, just pick up and go. There are those inevitable things that are required of me. As a professor with two weeks left in my quarter, I must grade a bevy of young writing, and I look forward to doing so. As a mom to a four year old doggie son I have to make sure he's walked, fed, and usually in my lap when I'm home...definitely enjoy that part too. As a homeowner, I of course have to make sure to be home a lot of the time and do house stuff, and the usual adult stuff that pops up day to day. I have to say I sometimes even don't mind that. Would I rather write a story than a mortgage check? That's...a no-brainer. But not everything can be simple, and for now I'll do both.

Thinking about the past few months and how much time I've spent working on writing, doing readings, submitting articles, stories, poems, and working on the book; I keep coming to the same conclusion. Work on what you feel most passionate about and everything else will fall into place. Many people have spoken these words to me: all from extremely different walks of life. All of them are important to me in some way: family, friends, significant others, all trying to understand why I'm so very unsatisfied with my life.

Now that I've begun this resurgence of creativity, I am not at all dissatisfied with my life. Things slowly have started to crawl into place. Not everything can be perfect or have the timing that it needs to have, but when it works, it works pretty well. Am I absolutely certain about anything? No. I still don't have that...never did, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. I see many changes happening and also some constants that remain and I accept and adore them all. It may not be possible to just uproot my brain from negative places it had been planted in the past, but I'm optimistic about plugging it in to some positive outlets nearby.

That said, there is so much to think about and I've got no starting point besides these pages, hence so many ramblings of late. Trying to work it out and keep sane is a tough one. I'm really thankful for all the support I've received and can't wait to see what happens on the next page.

Young Voices Writing to be Free

As I sit here showing Freedom Writers to my developmental writing class, I'm remembering the first day I taught a tough crowd. There were thirty plus kids sitting on windowsills because there weren't enough desks in the room. We had to take turns stealing chairs from the next room pretending nonchalance.

Everyone was looking at their schedules scratching their heads. Wearing yellow, wearing blue, flying red or black high above their heads. All in one place in a truce because the state is paying for it. Well isn't that nice.

No one paid for me.

Not enough seats...no student loans to pay back: two or three whole years for free. No air conditioning, no problem. These kids were in school for free and...it took me eight years to get a BA. Nobody guarantees balance in life. Things are often more available to some than to others.

People taunt and test because they can't stand their own lives. Talking shit about other races and creeds because of their own insecurities.

"Can I please get outta here?" says the white kid in the class...

Hatred because of color and beliefs. What a weak basis. We all die and we all rot in the ground. When we die nothing  matters. No colors on rotting bones no beliefs in skeletal remains with organs removed. No system of beliefs just bodies falling apart until they're gone.

It takes a Holocaust to make gang members see that there is something fucked up about gangs. It takes fights and guns and drugs and dead friends for kids to find common ground. Well this is not a new idea, so why is it that this film impressed me in a new way this time around?

Teaching people how to write seems like a new experience every time around. Can we even really teach people to write? I like to think of it more as...helping them find their voice. So why even write about it, this process, this struggle to speak? Well it parallels life really.

Each time I write something I need to find the correct words. Every sentence has to flow with the one before it and the one after it. There can be no fragmented running-on of sorts. It has to work, flow smoothly, be perfect. Sadly, college students feel that they have a certain sort of perfection expected of them at times too. What they do with it is a different story.

Sometimes they drink it up and dull the necessity of handing it in on time. Some of them sleep in and think that by missing class on the due date they won't get a negative response. I didn't do that when I was in school...racking up debt and student loans. Maybe if it were free I wouldn't have cared as much...somehow I doubt that.

So we watch the film and we get up to the part where they are back in the start of a semester in their sophomore year. A chubby Mexican kid in desperate need of a haircut reads from his journal, telling the tale of being evicted along with his whole family. Thinking he should have "asked for something cheaper at Christmas."

"Miss English are you crying?" jokes a young student sitting in his dress blues with a giant poster of a brain and its contents across his desk. "Don't worry I'm gonna write you one of those letters at the end of this quarter" says an enthusiastic Caribbean transplant with five names--a fascinating story in itself. The twenty year old mother of two between them alternates shoulders to lean her painstakingly styled bouffant upon, popping her gum and interjecting "I don't really get it" and "What did that mean?" as she crosses her Louboutins at the ankles.

I see it all in a new light again. No matter where we go, or who we teach, we end up with a different perspective. These are not the same kids that sat on windowsills and smuggled chairs down the sweaty corridors, but they sure do have a sense of style...

Not sure what to expect over the summer with the next groups of incoming minds, but then again it wouldn't be as much fun if we did.

My Heart

Sometimes it is a hole,
that sucks me into the ground.
Sometimes it is a presence,
that is strong enough
just to sway my mind.
Once it was a love,
that introduced security.
Once it was even a universe,
that i slipped into to trip on a comet.

Sometimes it is a person,
some days a girl,
who loves to be told that she
does not know how to take control.

Last week it broke down,
and became a quivering bunny,
as it sweat and cried,
whimpered in pain and confusion,
I saw it from the outside,
Reached in--pulling.
Put a few pieces on each other and...
watched it suck me into its hole again.

Slowly standing up,
I gained some insight to myself.
Then I knew finally,
what it would be today...
It would be my mind,
I would think with it.

One day it will be intact,
but for now it is the one thing
I can call my own:
my heart.

Asylum

Indecision...
To which misconception shall I quote my omniscient uncertainty?
Where did it begin or end?
Of which source did my petulant dream originate?
Which womb of insanity was it
that spit out the wailing fetus of my
primal instinct to repel security.
to rebel against all odds that held me in,
behind the faded curtain of their jealousy
because:

"She's not just some chick...Don't you know who that is?"

so what
SO WHAT
I scream from the icy pits of hell
where my soul alone exemplifies my desire
to be free from the clenched fists of hope,
tight around my hair,
unmoving,
like my life...

Stopped at an intersection,
where there will never be any green lights,
or chances to run in the street as the sun
rises
over desolate hills of my own world.
Sanctuary from fate where are you?
Why have you not come to save me?

I remain alone in the caves of torture
and oppression.
They tie me up in here with those terrible white straps.
Release me
let me go
I just want to let go of it all...

Please stop feeding me Jello and zapping my brain.
I just want something I can never have:
Freedom from you.

Screaming a Dream

Dream it:
but you must
dream it loud,
from the heart.

Feel the radiance
of the beating
strobe.

Let the hard persistent
beats enter your soul.
Close your eyes,
and let the dream take over.

It controls your body,
shake and twist,
your mind is ripped open,
shredded at the seams and
Dreaming: you flow freely across the floor,
float over the grass,
lakes and pavement.

Dream it.
Know it.
Love it.

Scream the dream.

Once More

One last time
I beg of you
for acceptance
relaxation and peace.
Love to appear
in the streets of silence
shutting down
the burning waterfalls,
the hateful shivers,
the repulsion as I
shake in fear.

One last night
I pray to whoever listens,
for me to be not alone
in the cloudless black sky,
on an empty barren field,
in the cold biting air,
where no one can hear my screams.

A single kiss,
that will lead me astray
from the mundane tasks
of my everyday bores,
the stress in steady patterns,
with intervals of painful memories.

A lonely kind of together
where the two make one,
but do not have an obligation,
no necessary explanations,
or problematic stations.

If I could wish one last wish,
to receive half as much as I've given,
to at least be heard
and understood,
or at least to understand what I hear.

Yet as hard and as intensely as I try,
I can not comprehend my indecision about where I want
my intentions to lead.
I do not want much,
yet I don't know how much of what I want,
or what it is that I would rather be,
besides with you once more.

Harsh Cries

Harsh guttural cries...
emerge from the darkest night.
i have felt her hurt.
open wounded flesh...
floats in a dirty salt sea,
drifts away from her.
Tubes and veins frighten...
arterial blood awakes,
in a lifeless soul.
Clawing for a taste...
needs to lick skin in hunger,
one alone will do.
Satiation no.
Quenching waters quiver far,
away from this hell.
Spindly fingers twitch...
meatless spine lurches forward,
unclosable mouth.
Eyes if that at all...
unblinking terrify she,
No one hears her cries.

Writing Down The Bones

I've been thinking a lot lately about what gets me inspired. Where it all hails from and how it will either stay and play or leave me drowning without words to scrawl. I see patterns in my work, and I embrace them. I see bipolar tendencies and anger and smiles and laughs and sex and alcohol and even PMS.

There was a book I recall from an English Comp course called Writing Down the Bones. My instructor did the unthinkable, and used HIS own work as a text. We all rolled our eyes heavenward and sighed around his ego...but later I realized there was a reason published writers get academic freedom and I now embrace that too.

"So, what do you do?" he drawled lazily through the unoccupied right side of his mouth. Left hand and lips taking turns with a Newport 100.

"I write...and I teach..you know like for the money part of it."

"What do you teach? Teach kids how to write?"

"Yeah pretty much."

He gazed sleepily downwards and brushed the hair from my exhausted eyes. There was that sparkle of mischief I know and look forward to seeing again.

"And how are the kids of New Jersey?" he says; stretching his sculpted torso across the futon. Inquisitive blue eyes not leaving my face-searching for so much more than he speaks of.

"Well, they aren't really kids. Some are just starting out but many are adults returning to school after working for years or having kids. It's tough to teach at the developmental level. Rewarding but tough."

"Isn't it frustrating that you have to start from scratch? Doesn't it get annoying when kids don't know how to even spell and they're in college? Shit, I remember this one guy that couldn't even stay in the same tense when he read his stuff in class. It was ridiculous. I didn't have much patience for school. Now I know why."

I ponder this and decide to be honest. It's not easy to be honest when everything else we have is based on deception... but writing is my passion and so I tell him. I explain how it feels to have all these low-income and recently laid off students who either last one quarter or they face the odds of living in projects, being on welfare, unemployment, food stamps. BUT here they are doing something that no one in their families have done before...

"Well that's very Michelle Pfeiffer of you. I mean...isn't it?"

All I can do is stare.

I wonder about a lot in those few seconds:

Should I get dressed now and just flee the scene?
Should I stay and continue what I know is a discussion that someone without much passion for the craft will know nothing about?
Are we going to fight?
Do we even know each other enough to have a fight?
If I stay is it worth it I mean the sex is incredibly original...

But really? Did he just refer to Dangerous Minds?

I light a cigarette and simply say "I learn more from the youth of Newark and Paterson than I do anywhere else."

What I want to say is that sometimes there are things that people don't understand because they haven't been there, and it's a bit cruel to antagonize me with a reference to a film based on something that is reality and that I see everyday.

Recently one student a "KID" of 26 in school for the first time, told me ignorance is bliss. His writing--much like mine is filled with raw emotion, drinks, and smokes. He hides behind fedoras and bandannas: even though flying colors on campus breaks the rules. He knows he has tons of heavy shit to say yet all those words are somewhat of a mask for his own real narrative...

It's all about falling into a haze of comfort, or swallowing a pill chased with Heineken to forget: stories not meant to have concrete plot or direction, but in the end they do...their direction spirals downward. The plot thins rather than thickens as the next freewrite becomes about a party, a gun, a court date.

I am not their critic.

Much parallels my own work: The Fear, loss of self, direction confounded in the name of uncertainty. I share some examples for license to create, as building blocks. Telling stories of mistakes and things that I learned from.

The result usually sounds something like: "We like you cuz you not fake. Ya show us ya shit and don't pretend to be somebody you ain't. You be real Ms. E. We can't usually just SAY what we feel...especially in school."

AND I SEE IT YET AGAIN! After all the time spent on degrees and years of practice as a writer--there it is: We can't say what we really mean. An inability to speak the words we really feel...

Until we do.

There are so many nonsensical things that we can say, spewing forth verbal diarrhea without thinking. No meaningful thought, just words exploding from our mouths and our flip-top heads are all too eager to expel them into the night sky.

Out of all the words, meaningful or just taking up space, lies or truth, I've learned the most from these KIDS and therefore added,

"Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment. Michele Pfeiffer's a hot talented woman who knows what she wants: and so am I."

He yawns and looks at the clock, "You wanna get some food or just stay in bed? Cuz I could take a lesson from that song from when I was a kid about the hot teacher..."

Do I even need to mention the age difference?

And I realize why I'm here. In the world of words that's so complex, with all the needs of others, and the tact that is necessary to go through life, sometimes it's easier to just write down the bones, and focus on the basics.

Eat sleep sex water cigarette occasional glass of wine...coffee.

I completely see why I keep coming here.

This is my sanctuary from having to think and set an example. Here I'm just writing down the bones.

Saved by my Pitt Yet Again

I was just at the gas station and the attendant looks in the window and says "Is that a pitbull?" So of course I'm ready for an insult or for him to take two steps back since this suburban bubble subscribes completely to the false sterotypes that all pitbulls are evil...

I reply, "Yes, he's a pitbull pointer mix." As I stare at this man who I expect to start walking slowly away, he grins and comes back with "Wow that's cool I have never seen a pitbull smile." And sure enough when I look over my shoulder, there is my little man grinning right at the dude selling us gas.

These little things that happen to brighten my life seem to occur at the best possible times. For example, today, I worked all day and then went to the dentist for a painful filling replacement...what it replaced I can only assume I ate because one minute it was there and another..well it needed replacing. In between the filling and the exxon excursion I crunched Advil and laid sorrowfully on my sofa contemplating what mushy food I could eat for dinner...and why I was still numb after four hours (as I seem to have built a tolerence for lidocaine)

But I digress. Rudy came into my life almost four years ago at a time when I needed a new start, new location, new...everything, and he gave it to me. The little dude gave me hope at a time when hope had been buried under an ocean of lies and tears and hurtfulness and gross deception. Rudy bolted into my arms...literally, as I sat waiting to meet him at St. Hubert's Animal Shelter having driven two hours to see him. He won my heart, hogs my bed, drools while watching me cook, and gives the best doggie hugs. He even licked my tears away on several occasions and tends to shake when I cry. I am never not amazed by Rudy.

Since he does the littlest things to make me feel better on a constant basis I thought I would give him some props. This one's for Rudy. I'd love to say that this one is a nice frosty beverage but that would hurt my tooth too much, so this one can be a hug.

I really love my little dude.

Reaching the Dandelions

When I think about all that has inspired me throughout my thirty three years, I recall friends and family that have made an impact on me in so many ways. More than anything, however, I think about my father. He died when I was twelve after a long illness, and sparked an inspiration that still flows in me today. I have been writing since then, and my passion has only gotten stronger. The way I recall our time together—though it was short, allows the words to flow.

I can remember tossing fuzzy green tennis balls across our hilly backyard until my arms felt like Jell-O and I thought they might come unhinged from their sweaty sockets. I remember the hot summer sun reddening my cheeks and warming my shoulders. It was three in the afternoon and I was nine years old. My catching counterpart was my dad, my best friend. It was a Saturday, and he was trying to teach me how to pitch better for the upcoming softball season. It was a day in August of 1986 that remains as fresh in my mind as this morning’s commute. My minds golden frame holds this memory so tightly, that it is impossible for it to become loosened, or fall apart with age.

Snuggly soft scents arose from the basement windows where my mother did the wash, and the squirrels danced along the clothesline, narrowly avoiding knocking the clean sheets to a dusty peril. We talked about life, however deep that can be at nine. Covering all the major concerns of soccer and baseball, and why mom made me go to bed when I could still hear my friends playing kick the can on the block well after the streetlights were on, made me feel like a real person.

Each Saturday was special. My dad and I would do all the tedious errands that did not fit into a sixty-hour workweek. After a hearty helping of his fluffy scrambled eggs that were legendary in our suburban bubble, we would drive to the dry cleaners, the post office, the bank, and the supermarket. Perhaps it would have been mundane if I was with anyone else, but I was in my glory every weekend. This particular August afternoon I had not bothered to apply the fifty proof sun-slime that my mom followed me around with each morning. It was a bit overprotective on her part, dousing me even as I went down the steps to get the mail. Yes I was fair, but the sticky sloop of lotion onto my shoulders was not a feeling that remotely inspired a fond summer memory. Neither did she, come to think of it.

On May 22, 1989, my father passed out of my life. Though it was a devastating time in my life, it also is the only time of my childhood that I can look back upon, and come away with a smile at the end of my musings, because thoughts of him could never get me mad or produce regret. At twelve years old, you have no idea what it will be like when someone that close to you dies. Sure, I knew what loss was. I lost my grandmother. I lost my dog. I lost my best friend on the block when she moved to California. But I could not comprehend that I had lost the greatest source of support that I had known.

Dad’s gray hair would stiffly remain in its fixed Navy style, even though a slight breeze came about. His Levis were crisp and ironed but his soft flannel shirt signified that it was a weekend indeed. The comforting scent of Old Spice wafted through the freshly cut lawn as I tried to jump for those hard catches that I never thought my arm would stretch to grasp, until I felt the ball in my glove.

As the soft leather was filled again and again with the thwap sound of the ball and the adrenaline surge of “I got it!” I smiled all over as I thought about how I was going to pitch the best on Wednesday and how lucky I was to have dad to teach me. My heart would do a little leap-plunge each time I heard “good catch” or “nice throw.” The dandelions on the outskirts of the yard marked the status of my catches. If I was standing amongst their bobbing, yellow, amused faces, I had made a catch of something thrown farther than I could previously reach. As I practiced more and threw farther; caught higher, the dandelions were more and more within my reach, tickling my Converses with their buttercup heads.

When I had surpassed the dandelions altogether, I was the captain of my grade school softball team, and the starting pitcher in most games. When I had come that far, even when I did not need to be further coached in the backyard, the smiles that wafted to me upon Old Spice breezes kept me throwing and catching with the same heartfelt want to be the best for my dad as it had on that August Saturday in 1986.
Saturdays were my time alone with my dad, and they were filled with trying to make me the best girl that I could be. There was never any pressure, or unreachable expectations. I loved practicing, and perfecting each little task that I did so I could show him what I had learned; show him how much of an impact he had on my life, show him how much I loved him.

When I was in school, just minutes from home, I wished that it could be the weekend every day. When I was invited to a sleepover, I think I was the only grade school girl that pondered whether it would be more fun than Parcheesi on the porch with my dad on a Friday evening. When I had a soccer game, I would look for my coach on the sidelines, and see my dad running alongside him; seeming to be the only parent that looked interested in the game and actually knowing how important it was to their kid to see them there. He was always there.

When I was twelve years old, I was about to apply to high schools, and decide which sport I would take along with me: soccer or softball. Both were my favorites, and it was a hard decision to make. If I went to New Dorp High School, I could play softball, and be attending a school that was five minutes from my front door. If I went to Notre Dame Academy, I could play on the citywide championship winning soccer team, but would have to travel for an hour, taking two busses every morning. As the time to make a choice drew near, I was unsure and nervous that I would make the wrong decision. Yet through all of my uncertainty, there was only one person who was beside me, telling me it was all right to just do what I wanted to do. Assuring me that if I happened to pick the wrong school for me, we would work it out, and I could transfer. If I had chosen softball, and ended up wanting to play soccer in high school, I could switch teams next year, and still be close to home. If I chose Notre Dame, I could always transfer to New Dorp if I hated the commute.

Any time I was stressed about the harrowing decisions of a grade school kid, there were words of reassurance from my dad waiting to console me, You’ll do the right thing or most importantly, I trust you to make the right choice. There was always an “I love you no matter what” following every moment of ten, eleven and twelve year old panic I might have experienced. I was never afraid to ask, and I always did what I wanted rather than follow all the other kids.

As a teenager, my mind was more wrinkled at the edges than it was wrapped around the thought that my dad was gone. I did not remember the sickness, which had devoured his powerful stature to a frail frame in a matter of ten months. I did not see hospital visits in my memories of him. I did not see a single ambulance through the bottom of the whiskey bottle I carried with me, nor did I catch a glimpse of tearful family through the cloud of smoke that I enveloped my exhausted mind with, as I drifted on that discarded piece of plank that was high school. Through the whole damn misery that was thirteen to sixteen, I was waiting to get over something that had not even fully hit me yet.

When I was seventeen years old, I decided that I could not keep my anger in my heart anymore. That heart was now far from empty, even broken another time by then. I refused to let loss become a thing that I had to embrace. I wanted to tell every single person that I had ever met, and then the rest of the world even louder that it hurts! It hurts more than being in three car accidents, breaking ankles skating, cracking kneecaps on the soccer field, jamming fingers on the basketball court, and breaking your nose in a fistfight. It was a worse pain that cutting your wrists, having your stomach pumped for combining Valium and vodka, and by all means, it hurts far, far worse than losing a child.

And then, the pain was dulled for the first time in six years. For the first time since I had a little piece of my existence rubbed away as I held a cool cloth to my dad’s balding head after radiation and chemotherapy in the same week, to form the first of many fruitless cocktails that only made my best friend suffer more...I felt less. Not less love or less memory for the man who was my life. Certainly not less of an empty space in my heart where the Dad Place was. Yet for the first time since he was gone, he was right there with me.

As I sat in the woods behind a schoolmate’s house, furiously scribbling in my black and white notebook, sitting amongst dead leaves, broken glass, and burnt remnants of someone’s house, I felt my father blow my hair out of my eyes, tell me to put down the joint, and peel me off of the crumbling foundation where we sat passing the days from eight to four. I walked back up to the road, got on a bus to my mother’s house, which I had never felt was a comfortable place for me. It was surreal the way the brown oak door loomed over me. It took every ounce of strength I had to knock on it. The door I used to peer out of for his car each evening was stupendously huge. In the putridly rose colored living room, the words refused to come. Collapsing on the kitchen floor in tears, where I used to do my homework while my dad ate dinner, he managed to squeeze a single word out of me, “sorry.” And the numbness coursed down my pink cheeks in streams of frustration and years of pain and loss.

It’s a powerful thing; the hate a young girl can feel for the world. More powerful is the hate she can seethe onto the people around her. Even stronger is the reckless thought that no one else has been where she is. No one feels what she feels. Yet most overwhelming of all is the process of learning how to spill her anger, hate, and her love onto a page. I think this girl may have exhausted the supply of blue medium point Bic pens in the early nineties trying.

Though I had been through the mill by age eighteen, I also had seen that the pain of my own and that of others around me was only growing. I decided to erase the opaque specter that had been inflicting so much hurt with my pencil, and redrafted my life in ink. Not only did I manage to find consolation and understanding in a mom who was there all along, but I found that she was hurting as much as I was. She had not only lost a husband, but for a while, her daughter was simply gone from life.

“Pick a sport by what you feel better doing. Would you rather beat the crap out of something for four years, or be constantly running after something you never know if you will be able to catch and control?” At first I thought that this analogy between softball and soccer was too dramatic. But it did narrow down my choices. I could control anything...right? As long as there are words to express it, I will sit each afternoon on the porch with my dandelions and tell my dad all about it. There are so many choices that a young person must make. Losing someone who had always been there for you can undoubtedly make those decisions all the more terrible. Yet it is crucial to remember that there is always someone who knows what you are feeling.

I know now that as I live day to day, that my father is right here, with me. He is in my heart, my thoughts, and in my mother’s eyes when she tells me she is proud of me. I always think about how wonderful the years that I shared with my dad were. Remembering the trips and outings that he would take me on was a huge part of how I began to write. I will never forget all of the fun we had, all of the laughs that were between only us. And at the risk of sounding extremely wistful, I will never overlook how special the inspiration of my dad was in getting me through all of the rough times I have had. Whether I brought them on myself, or life just kicked me in the ass, he has always pulled me through. I finished college, moved out on my own for the right reasons, and begun to understand the incessant ramblings that fill 23 black and white notebooks with the pain of life and loss. Through cherishing memories, I have learned to love myself.