You're My First Love

Monday I sat incredibly still for the first time in two years.

Added the last line breaks, capitalized the D in dad I forgot to, took out a few commas, and saved my 54 page manuscript-thesis as a complete and finished document.

Yesterday I packaged up two of these little babies and sent one to Mark Wunderlich and another to Ed Ochester. And as soon as I stepped outside the post office, I felt differently than what I anticipated. Empty. I felt empty. And maybe 'empty' isn't necessarily the *right* word; but I didn't feel great or light or unburdened.

I found a baby bird, almost dead. I brought the tiny thing back to life with care, intention, and food, lots and lots of love, mornings of conversation and even my own breath, sometimes. And, as time went on, that thing got gorgeous. She preened and perched everywhere; she fluttered throughout the house and slept quietly on my pillow. I loved her, you know? And when I sent her into the sky (when it was time); she didn't even turn around to watch me wave.

That's how I felt. Is that the same as empty?

This is Your Heart, It's Alive, It's Pumping Blood

I admit it, okay?

Most of the time I do not think I'm a deserving human. I don't know where it originated; actually, I have an idea but I don't want to get into it today. But now that my poetry is being combed through by professional poets the issue is getting recognized. And called out. It's terrifying in all the ways it could be and therapeutic in ways I can't understand.

First things: 1) In your letter you say (casually), "I, mostly, am the worst person." No. You aren't. Dick Cheney is the worst person. You know what else? I think this steady self-deprecation of yours is really some kind of mask -- something you deploy to ward off the world and to beat others to the punch -- or something. 

That is an excerpt from the letter Mark Wunderlich wrote. To me. Yes, THAT Mark Wunderlich. And this Mark Wunderlich - and even THIS Mark Wunderlich. This man is my poetry mentor during my final term with the Writing Seminars at Bennington College. Can you believe the goodness? My luck? Can you? I can't. I still can't. I'm overwhelmed.

I ripped open my correspondence with Mark as soon as Andy put it in my hands, sat down on our kitchen floor and sobbed.

You rely on writing how you're a bad person, how you hurt other people, how you had an affair and everyone hated you, etc. Life is too fucking short. He goes on: I wonder what would happen if you just wrote a poem about being awesome? About how much you love the parts of your body, or your mind...? What would happen? 

The letter went on and on with the most beautiful, personal, soul exposing words. He went through ALL of my poems and personally noted each one. Every single poem has his handwriting all over it. I am lucky. I am overpowered by what I get to experience, moved by my mentor, and down right scared to address the juggernaut of self-hate. But how exciting to think that I might deserve attention from an incredibly important poet, to think that I might be better than what I give myself credit for, to think that maybe, just maybe, I'll be okay.

Sweet Potato Pie and I Shut My Mouth

Today I held 87 poems in my hand -- hot off the press -- I held 87 of my own poems in my own hand and had the incredible urge to cry.

I haven't had much experience with pride but today is the day I french kiss self-satisfaction. I might even get to third base. I held my poems in my hand. They aren't all great, most of them aren't even good, but they are mine. Each little word and line break hatched from intention. Each stanza a pick ax for mining my emotion with craft. Each a micro-universe. Each one breathing. And it's me, I'm the creator.

I can't stop touching the pages.

Today is pulsing.

Feelin' Myself

I put my bed by the window because why wouldn't I? Why not wake up and look right out to a virgin Vermont morning, Green Mountains in the background? Why not be taken with a baker's dozen of crow minding their own business against a hazy-blue sky?

Sorry I'm bragging again. But I can't stop.

This is hallowed ground. I feel like I paint it like this: writers and deer and birds frolicking and bonding around a crackling fire, a world where poetry is even more a blood line than usual - and other people acknowledge the importance while braiding a bear's fur... I mean, it's not REALLY like that, but kind of. And books stacked up to my knees wherever I walk. And (this is a truth) a Red Tailed Hawk living in the trees near my room. Chickadees screaming their names and hopping from branch to branch -- and me, a part of it.

When did it become a reality that I, a poor girl from flat-Indiana, might actually be a writer by way of the mountains of Vermont?

Amen.

Freeze Tag

Brett Elizabeth thinks I'm a better writer than I actually am - she decided to tag me in this blog-fellow-writing-linkage activity that I surely don't deserve. She did it, though. She extends too much grace to me. She's my writing mentor, overall life coach and best friend - so, if she asks me to do something, I will.

The rules: get tagged. Tag two people. Answer questions. Hope your tag-ees answer the questions. The two people I'm tagging: amazingly smart, witty, and genuine Katie Pruitt and Danee Pye who is a crisp well of creative ideas, grace, and elegance. Once, they both worked together to keep me alive. I owe them more than I give - I regret it almost on a daily basis. (I am sorry)

They both deserve your readership, but mostly, your respect as amazing people and great writers. 

The questions:
1. What are you working on? 
MFA. That's what I'm working on -- holy shit. And life. I can't express the amount of overwhelming all things are right now. I'm lucky if I can spit out a poem once a week. This winter was a wick to all goodness in my life - sopped that shit right up and has left me a shell. Summer is working her sweetness and I'm trying to pick up the little pieces of shiny that might be left and shake them down into this hollow mess of a heart. School and staying alive, that's what I'm working on. Artistically, I'm working on line breaks. And how to handle negative critiques. I have in my headspace an idea bumping into braincells -- I'd like to write a series of HOW TO poems. I have two that I loved writing; I think it'd be fun. And also, poems on or about or mentioning saints. But those are future messes to tidy up at a later date.

2. How does your work differ from other writers in your genre?
I don't know. I'm figuring that bullshit out as a I go. I'm a strong defender in the idea that no poem is original - I'm' just telling it from my fucked up perspective. So, in that way, I guess I'm different: I'm a foul mouthed hillbilly who has a serious drinking problem laced with an ever decreasing self-worth. Putting it that way, though, tosses me in the bag with lots of you chumps out there, right? :) I once had someone tell me my voice can sometimes be "Southern Gothic". I'll hold on to that. Oh, he also said I had a knack for creating moments and disregarding narrative. I don't know if that was a positive.

3.  Why do you write?
Like Brett, and I suppose many writers, I've written forever. There was never a genesis like, it just always was. I have a weirdly saturating sadness that I can't understand - so I put words together. Over christmas I found an early story (holla' to my fiction roots) I had written maybe in the first grade called A Sad Day. It was about a baby bird who died. AAaaaaand, there you go. Basically: I write because I have to, you know?

4. What is your writing process? 
Well... that has changed significantly since I've started this Bennington gig. I used to get really sad (so easy to do), drink cheap wine or whiskey, and write the night away. Now, I get all fizzy-stomached and nervous and think about how shit is going to get shoved through a meat grinder. I try to suppress that. And then I write. Lately, I haven't been happy with anything I've created. And it's been a hurtful few months. It'll happen again. In the mean time, I carry my notebook where ever I go. I get ideas from phrases I hear during the day or standing in line for coffee or wrangling the ache I have for western adventures. It comes and goes and if it's not there, I write anyway. Not so much a process. Just a way of life, right?

Thanks, Brett. Love you.

I Want to See What You Got in Store

I just had an quick, but meaningful, email interaction with Major Jackson. Let that sink in.

What the hell happened? How did I stumble into this luck? How is THAT poet even reading my words and AND AND and taking the time to comment? He called specific moments in my poetry "magical". He called my heart a fledgling. He calls me by name. I'm still shaking my head in disbelief.

And this morning, I had a question. I asked it. He responded in THREE MINUTES. If I ever take this opportunity for granted, please, please, please someone punch me in the throat. 

This sounds braggy, I know, but that isn't my intent. (Maybe a little, but moving on...)

I get to learn and sharpen my craft and panic and ball my fists, shake to the sky and drink and dance (like, literally dance) with other writers, some of them famous as hell, twice a year - AND correspond with them all year. I'm lucky.

Holy shit.

And even if we bare bones this whole overwhelming situation: I was afforded the opportunity to learn to read. To learn to write. To punch my emotions until I vomit them up in poem form. To have people who encouraged that from an early age (even if it was misunderstood).

So glad I didn't die from rabies.

Heart Beat Runnin' Away

What can I say? I drink beer now. Any beer. I don't even care. I listen to pop hip hop/pop music. I don't care - I've turned into a stereotype that pretentious college-Erica would hate. But I have something that college-Erica doesn't have: first of all, I'm skinny. Take that! I'm skinny AND I'm just getting better looking!!! Second, people are people, you little bitch. Quit being so stark about rules and the rights and wrongs and all the bull shit that you get so wrapped up in, that's what i'd say. I don't even know what I'm saying.

I got a deep tissue massage today and it was all the things: good. bad. healing. sad. But whatever. Please, don't ask me about it.

I, also, researched Shore Birds of Indiana. 44 of them. More than 44 shores. I think.

Seriously, though, MAYBE I've had too much beer, but can you believe life? And, like, everything that goes along with it?
Don't answer that.

Also, do you know when I started liking the Violent Femmes? You don't know this, but let me tell you. 6th grade. Sixth GRADE. I hadn't even started my menses when I knew all the words to Gone Daddy Gone. Jealous? You should be.

Do jelly fish feel pain? No, seriously. Do they? Because, if not, what do I have to do to be a jellyfish? I drink too much Miller Lite. And wine.

I wrote a poem today and it sucked. I can't believe I"m going to poetry school; i guess i can't even believe poetry school is real.
WTF.

Tell it like it is

Life, lately, is strange. Staggering, in both good and bad ways, I try to maintain. I think I'm succeeding, but if I'm not, don't tell me. (I need some kind of illusion.)

Anyway, sometimes I fall back to terra firma after a good poem or two (please, don't ever watch this procedure. It's embarrassing: lots of sobbing, lots of snot. The last time this happened, I was at Henry's. Alone. My poor server...)

Typically, I don't do cross-over here: this blog is what it is, my poetry blog is what IT is, but I need to tell you about these two poems. I NEED TO. So, I'm going to post them here. I am. Don't read them if you don't want to. But, believe me, you'd be missing out.

What I Learned from My Mother by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewings even if I didn't know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.


What my mother taught me: by Shara McCallum

When God closes a door, there are no windows.
When the Big Bad Wolf knocks, he knows how to get in.
Be afraid of the dark.

Don't scream.
Don't run.
Don't make wishes you can't keep.

If you drag a horse to water enough, she will drink.
If you don't play with fire, it will find you and burn.
Even careful chickens get caught by the hawk.


Say it with me: HOLY FUCKING SHIT. Right? Goddamn this juxtaposition. My heart is still beating, y'all, but it's beating outside my body, bloody and on my desk. (It's a shame really, because I really like this desk).

And before I start sobbing (again), can you even believe words? Can you?
I can't.

Come away with me on a bus

How can I tell you about a day off that is so perfect it doesn't have words? Not sure I can. It's impossible, because as I've already said, no. words. None. A rest. A day like oatmeal, but with sugar. Oatmeal with laundry. Does that make sense to you? Because I've had 3 whiskeys and one wine. But that doesn't take away from a good day off and a good evening with friends who are good at laughing and making me laugh.

I don't know. My blog is sometimes so pretentious, don't you think? It's all "feelings" and "sadness" and sometimes I feel like I segregate people.. and honestly, if we are serious, I'm so sorry that I do that. I just don't know how to separate myself from how I feel. But honestly, isn't that okay? Who fucking knows.

I don't know what I'm saying. I've had too much alcohol, I feel like it's a summer's night. But, let me assure you, it's not. I'm like, super cold. It's still winter, with a seriousness.

Life is a little bit nuts.

Life is like a never ending thing, except, if we are honest, it's the most temporary thing ever. And how beautiful. And how devastating. Do you get that art is so like that? and if we are all philosophical, if a+b=c and b+c=d then a=d, temporary is beautiful. That means life is. And if life is temporary, shouldn't I just quit the shit that makes me miserable? Who fucking cares? All this shit is so short term.

Which brings me to my next point... and be prepared. It's fucking serious:

YOLO.

Just: YOLO.

take everything away

Everyone knows a writer.

Don't tell me that doesn't make you feel overwhelmed. Because I know how it makes me feel. All void-y and let down and like maybe, just maybe, somehow I got short changed. Don't worry, I'm well aware that this whole post (up until now and probably on and on and on) is a snug Woe Is Me sweater. I get it. And tomorrow I'll be fine.

And if we're honest, I'm fine right now.

Kind of.

settle down, it'll all be clear

Allow me to transcribe an entry (by me) out of my grandma's wellness journal. Yes, we keep a wellness journal. This may be the most hurtful thing we've ever gone through and besides wanting to remember everyday, I think it's the most important thing to monitor. I know you weren't judging me, but I felt the need to explain...

"Woke up @ 3:00 am - took Seroquel to sleep, but still woke up. Finally went back to sleep @ 4am - didn't wake up until 6:00am./Did not have very good morning - messed up a recipe & it hurt her feelings./Throughout the morning she became agitated on and off./As the day went on she got a little better./Started her Paxil mid-day. Will start tomorrow for longevity @night time./Her spirits got better towards evening./ Morning sugar: 80 Evening Sugar: 116."

Boring, I know. But let me tell you - it's nice to tell someone everyday how one of the most important people in your life is doing, even if it is just a $2 notebook from Wal-Mart. Sometimes when I finish I feel devastated. Others, light. But altogether, better, you know? Writing can do that. Strike that - writing does that is what I meant to say.

I snatched a few moments from the universe this afternoon to tell you that my writing is the love of my life - I wish I had more time these days to be the suitor she deserves, but I don't. I do pine for the quiet tip taps of my keyboard and crafting a sentence with my own hands -- one day, I'll be married to words. Right now, I'll be content with the moments we get to make out in the sunshine.

I Would Not Leave You in Time of Trouble

I'm up early on purpose. To write. If I'm going to live up to a label that I have plastered over my heart, it seems like I should carve out time and space in this little life of mine to work towards it.
Rewind a little: I actually talked about myself using the word "writer" yesterday.. I mean, I was utterly uncomfortable doing it and was talking with someone who is also a writer, so I felt safe(ish). But I did it.
I'm scared about doing that, though, you know? "Writer" implies creation; emotion provoking words being strung together with intention. I mean, I suck mostly, but I like the idea. So, I'll go with it.

Which, then, brings me back to this moment - this quiet, calm moment. It's early, the curtains are still closed and the cats have disappeared back to our bed. My tea is getting cold, but I'm not. I'm okay. At least, existing in this wonderfully dim-lit space in time, I'm okay.
My brain keeps lining up things for me to do, to accomplish today or this week or ultimately forever. But I can't right now. All I can do, all I can imagine myself doing today or this week or forever, is to write. Write away.

Model Broad with a Hollywood Smile

I have a friend who writes. I mean, I write. I do, but it's stupid. It's not like the way she writes. Her words are serious with emotion and it's an emotional-provoking joy ride. You get that? Do you get what I'm saying?

My high school english teacher reiterated that poetry is supposed to evoke emotion. She said that at least 2 times a day during the poetry lesson. She did. And it never got old. It still doesn't. When I read poetry, I think, "Does this make me feel?" If no, then screw you - your poem is only a half-breed. (Wait - Can you believe I just said "half-breed"? Cause I did).

But Brett's poems? Her poems are magic. The pages are heavy (heavy!) with feeling. Sincere with the thought of, "Yeah, I totally get it". Read this:

"Alright, fine, I will get up
and do the dishes
if you think up a contraption
or way for me to do them
here from the floor"

Get it? Yes, because every damned person on this planet gets that from time to time. She's a writer. A real, legit, beautiful dew-drop-touching writer. Most days, especially when I write, I want to be like her. Seriously. Every April she and I write a poem a day every day and she, really, no lie - is my mentor.

Read this book. Buy this book. Know that she is a sincere word-smith - every word she pieces together breathes humanity in a way that breaks your heart into a brillion pieces.

Anyway - buy this chapbook, love this chapbook and know that this woman, this writer, is insanely talented. Her words are gold compared to mostly dirt from other assholes.