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.

Heaven's Waiting on Down the Tracks

Jesus was either 30 or 32 when he volunteered to hang on a crucifix and die for me. Not SPECIFICALLY me -- not that he had visions of a small blonde sometime in the future, pouring wine, bad mouthing creeps, wearing all black and bright lipstick, and writing poetry -- but ME in the large sense. ME meaning you and me and my black cat and your mother and your mother's best friend's brother and his wife and his side chick and the person who checks out your library books. You get the meaning. The man was 30 (or 32).

Now, whether or not his dying for ME did anything in the cosmic scene  -- he felt he had to do it, so he damn well did it. He was a kind man, or at least he was rumored to be (except that one time he lost it and flipped tables (but who HASN'T done that)), who thought about other people constantly. He told the truth, though he sometimes talked in puzzles. And, if you ask me, suffered with anxiety. (How can one be part of the holy trinity and NOT have anxiety? Especially if you got the human third.)

This isn't about Jesus. It's about me. You knew that already, but I needed to point it out just in case. I'm a 32 year old human being. Let me be honest: there are only a select few of you I'd die for -- there are even more of you I'd NEVER think about dying for. I'm not like Jesus at all. But I'm going to start embracing his fervor for doing what I need to do.

I don't know exactly what that means though I have some ideas. And I feel the stir. I feel the stir and I know it's happening.

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.

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.

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.

Only The Good Die Young

I want to tell you about poetry school. I want to be able to say, shyly, "Who woulda' thought, you know?" and you say, in sweetness, "I thought. I always thought" in the kind of way a dad would say. Except we would both know that you've been worried about my trajectory.

Teach me to change my oil, would ya? And while we're at it, can we conquer the country roads with a manual shift?

Let's sit on the porch and gossip about your neighbor lady, but the good gossip. The "can you believe how earnest she is about keeping strangers out of our yard?" gossip. And the "She's honestly still kicking" and "She never NOT talks about her surgery" gossip. We'd start every sentence with: "I mean, I'm not talking bad, but.." We'd finish (probably) a 12 pack of beer and feel fulled up with the meat of a good-goddamned autumn night.

Tell me the importance of measuring twice, cutting once. Tell me the mistakes you've made, that seemed big, but now are small.

Is everything permanent? If not, why does it seem like concrete has filled the little sacs in my lungs?

We should be crazy one night and buy expensive tickets to a rock and roll show. We can sit and eat up the night; poison it with sentiment. If you wanted, I'd let you tell me about when you fell in love with mom, what it was like in the 80s, the first time you heard Guns'N'Roses, why you stayed with mom, what it was like when your children were born... If you wanted, I'd listen all night, after the music died with the moon. Maybe we'd drink a little bourbon and I'd promise my first born would have your name. Girl or boy.

Maybe one day I'd call you and cry, but I'd call you because I just needed your voice to calm me, like it did when I was a tiny with an upturned nose. You'd say, "Did I ever tell you about that time we were in the abortion clinic - and I looked at your mom and your mom looked at me? Did I tell you what I said?" [Silence] "I said, 'I think we can do this,' and so we left." And that would appease me. That would reaffirm me that at least two people in the whole world, so big/so small, loved me before I even existed. And I'd stop crying. We'd probably make dinner plans. Afterwards, I'd help you weed the garden.

Anyway, I want to tell you about poetry school. But you're dead.

All the roads we have to walk are winding

What about this skin I have? What am I supposed to do with it once it's clean from a perfect September? And, while I'm asking questions, what does it mean to wash the shadows off? Where do we go?

But what about the unkind?

But also, the divine?

These questions are irrelevant.

Irreverent.

What Sunshine Do You Bring?

I'm writing this for you. Not actually, because knowing would be something completely different. But I think I'm writing this for you. You eat the day, tenderly, with just a tad bit of salt. And the way you brush your hair? I love it. That's why I'm writing this for you. Also, you walk like pop rocks, and I dig that. You talk to me, sunset colors in your voice. Oh, and the hushed sound of wings ripping through air.

Don't be confused. This isn't a love poem. I don't write those.

I just wanted you to know, that a few times a day, I write for you. In a way that's not actually writing, but in a way where I notice things (because that's what I do, I notice things) and think, I want to write that. I want to write that for you - always.

Here's what I want to say: mortal sins are sins but so are venial sins, but not in the same way.

Love is like that, too.

Love is like that, too. (but this isn't a love poem). It just isn't.

This Old House Is Falling Down Around My Ears

I'm doing the most graceful pirouettes in this dizzying time of interim. A year from now seems blurry. A week from now is blurry. But right now, it feels good to pick up the fruits and eat them, to get red faced with whiskey, to pick apart the scales of the freshwater mermaid.

Life is myth. Or some lives are myth: superstition buried in the sand of Utah, love swirling around, tap dancing with the Tropic of Cancer, destruction with a fancy paper mask.

(Destruction with a fancy paper mask.)

She could hear the highway breathing

Can you even believe all the opportunities available to us to just fall right the fuck in love? Make no mistake in these words, I'm mostly talking about non-humans and poignant moments in time that just look you in the eye and give you the what-for. They are, mainly, set apart by heart beats.

And I can't begin to explain the interrelation of the things and the moments, but I don't have to. If you know about the heart beats, you know about the union.

These little baby companions are there, you know, always.

I can be in a car, and the minute I tell someone about what vacant lots do for me, specifically about the loneliness and the beauty and the desire to stand for days (and maybe decompose), I become aware. There they are. Right there, making my blood move, my skin pulse and my nose a little ruddy button. Falling in love with vacant lots or blue mittens or being called a heifer, those are the moments - being intentional about these moments, that's the love.

It's all very circular. But I suppose, life is like that.

Aint that the way.

where will we go? what will we do?

I wrote a poem today, but it wasn't the poem that I wanted to write. I sometimes walk around with an idea in my blood for sometime before it finds it's way to paper. And, for once, I think that's normal. And please, if it isn't, mind your manners and keep it to yourself.

I like the things I said in On Showing Our Baby The Dead Cat, though I know with my whole heart that these things have been said already. But, it's fine to say some things again.
The story isn't mine, as you well guessed. But an amazing woman's who I call H.

H and I went on some kind of renewing retreat recently to Minnesota, some tiny town on the Root River with eagles and Oriole nests hanging like brown uvulas and snow and love. We were sitting around the fire talking about death, as you often do on Renewal Retreats and this story came up. I swear to you, I didn't do it justice - maybe I'll revisit it once my other poem surfaces.

But honestly, this temporary life we're given is fast. It's the thawing Root River. It's a passing sentiment. It's beautiful and so goddamned full of pain that I'm not sure I can decipher the difference.

And mostly, we all need to walk in the dark past a Post Office in a town with 63 people and hope to see owls. And hope to avoid death for a just a little while longer.

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.

run until we're out of time

Recently, I had a person tell me that I was "quite attractive". Isn't that funny? It's like something I could put on my resume. "Erica Anderson-Senter: finished college with a good GPA, can diffuse difficult social situations and is quite attractive." I thanked the person and quietly noted the formal feel of being not cute, and not hot, but "quite attractive." Fuck it, you guys, I'll take it.

This morning it was cold outside and I overburdened myself with too many things to carry. The most difficult thought I could entertain was how the hell I was going to open the door. As luck would have it, a man was standing near the entrance, so I asked him to help me out. He obliged, but he said he was only doing so because I looked like a nice young woman who voted for Romney. If I had voted for Obama, he beamed with confidence, there's no way he would have opened the door for me. That shit's funny, huh?

Once, when I was six, I got a new baby brother. As the earth would spin, this baby grew up. Tucked in there, between then and now, we had this one shining moment when we jumped hard on my bed in the cold room and sang Farmer in the Dell as loudly as two blonde Andersons could. We sang and jumped and jumped and sang until our feet and throats were bloody with so much love. The moment stayed in time. But, goddamn, how far away.

Once, I overheard my cousin getting beat in her bedroom for not sweeping the floor.

Another time, Monica told me in the gym that daddies pee inside mommies every night. I couldn't handle this, so I ran away crying.

Early, one morning, I watched my childhood home burn to the ground.

Each life composed of tiny, pin-head moments that craft something beautiful. And something awful.

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.

sweeter than a grape on a vine

Waking up with a tiny bit of hope changes a girl. It makes waiting for tea not so burdensome. And putting off chores not such a chore. It makes drinking tea with honey AND milk like a New Year's Eve Party. It makes "Unchained Melody" even sweeter, like the first love story. Hope does crazy things. And that's okay.

I may even just sit here, press these little buttons, make words and sip this tea like nothing is wrong... at least, just for this small moment, this brief sliver of time.

We all know, though, after the tea is finished, I'll stand up. I'll disturb the sleepy, black kitten and life will come back. My grandma is still (mostly) blind, I still have dishes to do and covers to fold, and the songs have moved on from love to betrayal.

Just like life. Never stops.

where i see a lot of stars

I drink beer now. And Merlot. I don't know what's happening.

I actually do, but anyway...

I am assigning phases in life, familiar situations, to alcohol. Okay, you ready?

Sweet reds - flings.
A good, and true Moscato - one night stand or a serious 2 day stint of sexting with a (kind of) stranger. Merlot - A complicated relationship, complete with comfort and conflicting feelings.

Shot of tequila followed by sangrita - a seriously good masturbation.
PBR (or Hamm's) - maybe one kiss on the cheek, or can be subbed out for a fun night with friends.
Drambuie - sitting in the evening sun.

Whiskey and coke - Writing when you're lonely.
Mojito - Wearing a tank top that shows a little too much of your (hot) side boob.
Lemon Drop Martini - well, this one needs no explanation.

So, you see what I'm doing? I'm becoming an alcoholic. But, I don't care. Life is hard - and love is hard - and separating the darks from the lights is hard. Everything is sore, so I drink and become familiar with fake scenarios that give me comfort.

Is that so wrong?

Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

When I was seventeen, I was fighting for my life. And I was scrappy in typical 17-year-old ways. Making out with boys in the back of my car, in barns, at stop signs on desolate country roads, on couches, on beds, standing up, on their door steps, in clothes, out of clothes, at parties in fields and so on and so forth. I had about 4 or 5 guys in my rolodex and a boyfriend. I know - despicable. And mostly, I'm not proud.

Haven't you noticed that life is hard? I was learning that shit on the front lines, and quickly. I had one dad to die, one mom to move away, brothers who had to follow and the entire life my little brain knew vanished - fell in between the railroad tracks on it's way out of town. I was (mostly) alone in the world. So, I filled up on fake comfort, tongues and sweaty encounters. And who's to say I didn't enjoy it? Things were fucked up; I was pretty and without a curfew and had a badass Buick. I don't hate it that I learned life like this. Because I had a chance to.

Two 17 year old kids got killed in my hometown on Saturday. They tried to out-run a train.

They tried to out-run a mother fucking train. Kids, you guys, just kids who will never have a chance to find out that life (kind of) evens out as you get older. Grief is coiled in my stomach for their families and for their friends and for the train conductor and for the first responders and for the void my small town will suffer and for the mercilessness of this world. I'm sick. And I'm so sorry.

Sorry.. but also thankful.

only, I don't know how

I happen to be okay by myself. Which is shocking and unexpected news from someone who rates as a 99% extrovert on all the personality tests. (Let's be honest, I've only taken the Myers-Briggs: ENFJ, gentlemen.) But I'm okay alone. Let me clarify, though, to allow no room for error. I'm okay alone for a small amount of time. And by alone, I mean, surrounded by people. Because here I am on a Friday night, the husband is out of town and I tote my laptop to my favorite pizza place, order wine and listen to the hum of happy families eating. It's still alone, right? Just *not* alone. It's a seriously complicated paradox, but me? I'm okay with it.

It wasn't always so, as it is with every love story. In college I was not okay. The middle of my sophomore year I was a funeral march. Everything was devastating - I stayed in bed for hours and days and hours in a day and months more like, it was foreign to me. The soles of my feet were heavy with pain - why would I want to walk?

And here's the turn around: one night, locked in a study room in the upstairs of the library trying my little heart out to type a Philosophy paper, I called my Nena and cried and cried and cried about everything. I just kept sobbing "I'm so sad" over and over again. She waited until I took a breath (a gasp, a "MAN OVERBOARD" kind of thing) and she said calmly and seriously and full of the softness of a goddamned rose, she said: "pack your bags. I'm coming tonight."

That's the woman who helped build me.

That's the woman who had a major health scare this week - everything is fine, now. But Tuesday I was convinced that every breath I took, every red light I saw on my frantic drive down to her house was going to be forever stayed in my heart as a fucking curse.
Did I mention she's fine now?

She is. And I'm not sure I've ever been so thankful. Because here is the truth: my life is nothing without her joy. Because sharing a bottle of Merlot with her on the north porch in my hometown beats everything. Everything. She is mine and there is no simple way to say it. With her living, I live.

I know you understand.