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.

Chemist On Campus

I don't know, really. Somedays, it's just like, I can reach my little hands right up to space and grab any random object (like, an asteroid or a little piece of ice cold metal), pop it in my mouth, eat it up and be awesomely strong and unstoppable. Get Usher on my iPod, give me a stretch of road, let me run... nay, let me conquer. Go ahead.

I dare you.

I come up with good jokes on days like this. I can't get over my atoms being forged in the sun on days like this. I can't stop making love to life on days like this. I can't stop thinking about dinosaurs and fossils and kittens and Extraterrestrial Life Forms and dream-catchers and dolphins and bridges and tiny babies sharing my air and also the air of a drunk Moses.

I don't know. Just, put your hands up, right? I need to dance.

And it's a shame this day has to end.

Spaceboy, I miss you

I once had a friend, who travels around like a maniac, say to me, "It just sucks because I miss people where ever I am." And, I guess, that's a terrible way to feel all your life, but also, it's kind of a sweet thing, too, right?

Loving people is never bad. And people loving you is good, too. It's probably just a design of grown-up life. That's just what it looks like. Which, I guess, can be stupid. The thing is: what's it like when the reunion occurs? You know, that's the important part.

My weekend was full of good reunion, good beer and good food. And for that, I'm grateful.

i can offer you a warm embrace

There are lots of different reasons to be sad. I'm experiencing about half of them -- all together. Topping the list, I just really miss my dad. I think that's okay to say nearly 12 years after his death. I didn't know him, but I bet he would really *get* me. I would wager that he might be close to the only one who could - but what am I to do? I wonder if he would wonder at 48, "could I have been more?" But he doesn't get that luxury. Well, fuck, let's call it like it is: I don't get that luxury. I don't get the luxury of being stable or being happy for longer than 4 days in a row.. I just can't get over the idea that maybe it's his fault. There, I said it. Getting mad after 12 years? Probably not normal.

Lots of people don't have dads. Lots of people borderline hate their jobs. Lots of people feel empty and relentlessly void. I am not unique in my trials and burdens. The unhinging of my life is ancient. Survival, really. Survival really gets me down. Understanding how it's done escapes me daily. Mostly, I feel like I'm not a real human. The things I do are tiny and dumb. I have a body that fails and a mind that fails and a heart that does, too.

I'm a mess, really. But when I really shake it down and label what it really is, I feel trite and like tomorrow's biggest idiot. I'm sad about a decade dead dad and about my job. What the hell?

When did life get dumb and hard?

we live half at night

I just told him the other day, we have the nicest room I've ever seen. And I mean it. Well, not really the nicest... with the cracks in the paint and the gaps between the wall and floor. But that's not what I'm talking about anyway.

It's nice. We have a fern in there. And a painting by him of a red-winged blackbird. We have comfortable blue walls and brown floors, a low bed with clean sheets and four windows. Four windows. A cat tree by two of these windows and various old things scattered around in a kind of decorative way.

Do you know how we met? It actually doesn't matter. We met. We liked. We have been together for 9 years. We broke up five times in the first year, well, four almost five. I talked him out of the fifth with a strong arm. And here we are, married.

Aware is an understatement. I become an elevated-aware when I'm in my negativity pit of how amazing this can be. Him and me - keeping each other alive by living this little life. He's good. And funny. And sweet. We both have talked about the severity of the term "soul mate" - there's a lot of responsibility there. We don't believe in it. We don't. We're sure that we weren't designated by the universe to be the ONLY ONE for the other - that's just absurd. But Jesus Christ, I'm happy we designated ourselves for the other. I am.

The best part of my day today was coming home to him making me food with a happy heart.

And he's why our room is the best room ever. I get to retire the day with him breathing next to me. On our separate pillows, under our separate covers, sharing the same air and mostly, the same heart.

see no future, pay no rent

I'm not kidding when I talk about religious experiences in my car. I have them a lot. Once I was listening to Africa by Toto. I don't understand, and honestly, I will never try - but one rainy day I was on my home from Huntington, listening to the radio. I ended up singing about as loudly as a human can and crying my eyes out. It remains enigmatic.

I write - or not really WRITE, but mostly come up with most of my ideas behind the wheel. I do. I just can't stop it. I jot down crazy and messy words that will trigger a memory or a thought I serenely had alone on 600 N. Or I'll text a short note in my phone on I-69 that punches me with poignant emotion...for example:

"Harvest-dust smells sweet, settling in my lungs under a sky I won't ruin with words" or

"Sometimes the tree bark in my blood gives me a rest. And I think the earth is turning like it should."

And let's face the reality, Toto and writing blows any other kind of religion I've tried out of the water.

So, lets not forget about what happened yesterday. The clouds were sickeningly insane. I can't begin to comprehend the overwhelming sense of warmth coursing through my blood. I was driving into the best mixture of moisture, light, dark and earth science. I needed to pull over and dip my hands in mud near a cemetery. Or offer some sort of gift to the universe that might make it think about gracing me with these skies everyday. Or lay flat in the fields near homes nestled comfortably in a county kind of forgotten.

I didn't do these things. Instead, I took pictures.

And I thought, I'll blog about this. I, also, thought that my car just might be the only real sanctuary for a gal like me.

The party's done, the cake's all gone

It happens no matter where you are. You pick favorites. Horse races - favorites. Clothes - favorites. Kids - favorites. Books - favorites. Foods - favorites. Library patrons - favorites. It just, naturally, happens. You connect with something of a likeness. You talk and laugh and talk and laugh and think, "Yep, this is it." I have favorite library patrons/customers - I do. I won't pretend I don't and say things like, "Nope, they all are special" or some shit like that. I will just flat out tell you, I have favorites. It's good to have people who resonate with your soul. I won't apologize for it. Some babies stand out among the mass. Some grown-ups stand out.

If you haven't gathered already, I'm talking about specific library patrons. There's a baby with floppy hair and two, yes, TWO teeth on the same side of his mouth that make him look like a little monster. He knows me. He knows me by my voice because of storytime, he knows me by my smile. He knows me because I love him. This baby has a dad. This dad likes me. We click. We laugh and talk and shoot the shit and laugh again about his family from Louisville and the other babies in storytime. We get each other. He's dapper, you know? Black pea coat, salt 'n' pepper hair, thin framed glasses and a good singing voice - but that's not why I like him. I like because he's nice to his baby and to me and to other parents and because we just have something internal that settles easily and comfortably with one another. We like each other.

Guess what, guys. He just found out he has a brain tumor.

And that's the kind of nonsensical world we live in. Dads get brain tumors. Dads die in fires. Sometimes the dads who deserve to live and be healthy don't and arent'. The Dads who are despicable, you know, the abusers who suck at life, live and are healthy.

This is a somber day, indeed.

god damn it.