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.

Look What They've Done to My Brain

It occurred to me, it might not be water pressure - it could be the shower head. I, then, did what anyone would do. I took the shower head off. It was disastrous for a moment, a fleeting and soaking moment, I probably should've waited until I was OUT of the shower, but it didn't seem right.

I had this weird little minute in the shower - water was unpredictable and heavy on my head and hot on my skin. Clark vacated, so I was alone in the bathroom. I don't know how to tell you this without just telling you this: I was having fun. This brief, chance moment in time nothing *really* was happening. Nothing really except everything was happening.

And as I stepped out of the shower (with a clear plan in mind: after work stop by Meijer to pick up a new shower head, new vinyl linings, and maybe, a loaf of bread) I realized that probably (knock on wood) I am coming back around. I survived this summer. I survived last winter. I survived the fall of my humanity. I survived hurting everyone around me (they survived, too). While kicking and gasping and fighting for life, patient people presented themselves to gently hold my head out of the water or convince me, wildly, to not give up.

There were other people, too. People who would theorize about my undoing and let it be known they had their theories. One certain person came to mind this morning: she's just doing this for attention she told one of my friends. He, of course, told me. That's okay, I needed to know who and how and why people were fighting me when I was fighting me. It's a particularly cruel thing to say about someone who, on a good day, could only stand up to lie back down again. And cry.

She's still out there in my immediate surroundings, I haven't seen her and that's okay. I don't really want to. I can't shake the thought that while I was crying myself to sleep she was telling mutual friends caviler-like that I wasn't hurting. Like she knew. Like anyone knew. She's still out there and I'm still out here - needing a shower head.

I'm coming back around. I survived summer and the winter before.

Don't Expect Me to Cry

In middle school, I tried to learn to sew. It didn't work out too well - my  Home Ec. teacher, Mrs. Bunner, looked at one of my seams and, defeated (as one must get teaching middle school kids how to sew), asked me: "What are you doing at that machine, Erica? Riding the wave?" (Don't worry, guys. I told her No.)

I won't forget Mrs. Bunner. Honestly. She taught me how to write a check. And to clean up the kitchen as you go. And that it was just fine that boys wanted to take Home Ec. She was a good lady, really. I shouldn't have called her Mrs. Bun-Head. Not only did it NOT make sense, it wasn't very nice. She also practiced a thing she called Uppers. If she heard a student say something negative about another student, she made the sour-puss say 3 nice things about the other kid. It's a nice ritual, you know? I can get caught up in negative shit so easily. And I do. Even if it was just to make Mrs. Bunner happy, the naysayer would have to buck up and pick out good stuff.

It's a goddamned attitude changer, I'll tell you that much. So, today I'm going to find some Uppers in my life - and even though, instead of being grateful, I want to be mad, I'm going to Mrs. Bunner the fuck out of today. You ready?

1. I have a bike. I have a bike that I love - It's sturdy and big and it folds in half. I inherited very little from my dad -among strong teeth, a slight problem with alcohol and easily toned muscles, he, also, left me this bike.  I ride this fucker with a serious outlook.  I ride it with a backpack and cutoffs and look like a 12 year old boy. I ride it with dresses on. And through high water. And to the bars. I'd ride it to hell and back.

2. Nirvana's Unplugged Album exists. It's so good and it's so good every single time I listen to it. I remember when I first bought this cd. Sirens started sounding: "Alert! Alert! This album will outlast most albums for you, young Erica." It has. I've grown with it. And who would've thought some punk-ass young kids from Seattle could do an acoustic set that would resonate with so many people for so many years? Jesus Christ, you know? Just listen to it. Listen to the first 3 seconds of Oh Me and tell me you don't feel it in your bones.

3.  One day I know I will be far from the spot I'm in now. And that's the best Upper I can think of.

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.

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.)

I Said Things I Meant to Say

My papa tends to things in a way no-one else can.

He is making bat houses this spring. He raises worms. He feeds his birds. His flower garden is unparalleled. He adopts stray cats. He heals my heart whenever I'm anxiously sad. He makes sure his wife doesn't forget her evening pills. He is attentive when anyone is speaking. He loves to watch a good game of ping pong and always cheers for the winner. He might disagree, but it's always respectfully. He compliments servers. He sends me newspaper articles he thinks pertain to me. He lectures about life lessons (I listen).

He shares what he has - all the way from his worm-tea to bean dip to space on his houseboat in the summer, any summer. He fixes things, and paints things, and hangs things for my nena. He knows just when to hug me. He says the phrase, "grab and growl" before any meal. Sometimes, if we pray, he says: "So mote it be" at the end (which might be a freemason thing, but who knows? more importantly, who cares?) He listens to the Babs. He taught me to water-ski, to cry in public, to drive, to shoot free throws, to be kind and most importantly, to be happy no matter my circumstances.

I'm still really working on that last one. I suppose that's one that comes with age.

Have I told you lately that, basically, I'm the person I am because of him? I'm sure my dad was just like him - I never got a chance to know that. But if I'm anything, it's lucky. And loved.

the time for sleep is now

I've been at a loss for words for days and days. I've been a hollowed out and brittle lump of human these past few weeks. I've been longing to do. Just do, you know? Can't really even describe what it is about the NOT doing that kills me in horrific ways. But I can't make myself do the doing. Do you even know what I mean?

So, I wanted to make a list of life changing/shattering events in chronological order, but decided against it. For a few reasons, really. No. 1. You already know if you read my posts. No. 2. It'd make me sad. Steering away from unnecessary sadness might be a good choice. But then, I think, is it unnecessary? I don't know. You guys don't either. Or maybe you do, but chances are, I won't listen.

This year will be great, I mean, I don't want to put a lot of pressure on 2013 - but I'm holding on to a weird hope that a new number in my dates will turn it all around. I shouldn't. Our millennium is just a teenager. And if I remember correctly, 13 was terrible for me. Acne and boys being mean and braces. Damn it. But, maybe this 13 year old, this beautiful, brand new teenager, will be a middle schooler who stands up for the bullied. And maybe he'll get voted captain of his intramural basketball team. He might be the kind of 13 year old who helps his grandma carry her groceries. You know? You just can never tell.

I'm here, guys. I'm here hoping for the best year yet.

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.

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.

my darling, dear, love you all the time

Oh, Jesus Christ, summer. I pine the year away waiting for summer and it's here and then it's gone - just like that. To be fair, it's still summer, but autumn is teasing me. "Right around the corner," I hear her saying. I'm devastated. Broken-hearted, they say in some parts of the country. But it's fine, you know, cycles and spinning and life and all that mumbo-jumbo.

This summer will always be the bat summer, you guys. 2012: The Summer of the Bat. Rabies-Summer 2012. The summer where we learned that yes, in fact, Andy is the brave one of the two of us. The summer where we learned that I know exactly what a bat sounds like, even in my half-awake-kinda-drunk state. We found out that despite Andy being in somewhat mortal danger, my ass will HIDE in the bathroom, lock the door and shut the transom. We learned that rabies is not eradicated from the human species and that the vaccines are incredibly expensive. I discovered that panic attacks can actually make a person long for alcohol, valium, in-patient mental care and sleep... boy, did I miss sleep. But, it's over. We're four days away from completing our Post-Exposure Rabies Regimen. I can chill the obsession of reading about what it's like to die of rabies. I can STOP the google searches "Indiana Brown Bat Flight Patterns", "Brown Bat Rabies", "Bat Babies"... I *can* stop, but probably I won't.

Other things happened this summer, too. Seriously. I took a badass southwestern vacation. Stomach viruses caused me to get a meth makeover.(SPOILER ALERT) A blind girl won Master Chef. I did stand up comedy (not very well). I was invited to participate in a poetry reading. Darth Vader visited the library. And you know, other things, but let's face it. Rabies is scary and I can't get it off my mind. I know the chances of us actually having been bit by that damn bat are really low, but not low enough to where I'll put my life on the line to actually test it. Which means one thing, guys. I actually care about my life.

So, use that. When I start to bitch, tell me, "don't start that belly-aching, girl. You like your life. You got that rabies shot."

And I'll have to agree.

...and your mommy sunddenly becomes your daddy

I have a good life - three boys who love me (one human, two cats), a sweet little downtown apartment with plenty of natural light, food in my mouth and booze in my belly, hot water and warm socks on this ridiculous snow day. I have a job that utilizes my (excellent) people skills and uncanny knack to identify with children. I have literacy on my side, long blond hair and some nasty cool new christmas clothes. I have the internet, so I can know many things in very few seconds, update my blogs and laugh at yours (if and only if they are about things I like to laugh at). Health hangs out with me on a consistent basis. So do my friends.

Sometimes I get sappy, I have to get down on paper (or fake cyber paper, as the case may be) how lucky I am and, equally good, how lucky I feel.

Probably, if you are reading this, I love you. And thanks for being the person you are.

e