Tuesday, November 20, 2012

To the Absurd, may it forever be meaningless...

She wished that someone was watching. And that it mattered somehow. When he came over, at first he just helped her rake some leaves. That was fine. They always worked well together. But when he came inside and sat in her office and called his recent ex girlfriend a whore who won't put out and broke up with him because his dick was so big, she wished there was an audience. Someone she could turn to in shock. A witness to such absurdity. She wished someone was watching when another one called himself an unraveling sweater, pulled her in, and sent her off again. She wished someone was watching when she broke apart at night and pieces of her floated away like offal in the sea. But no one was, no God, not anyone. The universe was not invested in her story. Nothing would save her, and she was the only witness to such absurdity.

Friday, November 9, 2012


A mind full of the same old stuff is the same as being empty. I'm brilliant and dumb, depending on the context, so how can I be anything at all? I grew up in a house where the sensory input conflicted with the narrative (analysts-speak), so it's no wonder I'm confused, always and forever. Stated in more concrete details: "You have a good and brilliant father who loves you" --- sensory input: a closed door, smell of aluminum, the hallway with the refrigerator (contents: Budweiser and decade old hunting meat) and at the end of it?  A gentle shove off, and not much more. Dad = basement. When I got him to look up from his magizine it was like magic.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I'm a derivative of an awake person. Of a hopeful person. Once firm, now floppy. Can't knock a Weeble-Wobble down, but you can pop that fucker. I'm too weary to feel disappointed now. But I'm no damnfool (yes I am), that will come later. It's one of the defining qualities of curses: Inescapable. Onward! I suppose... live to bleed-out another day.

Saturday, October 27, 2012


I've traveled a road that I fear is a circle, as I find myself in familiar grounds now. Acting a fool, except now I feel old, and worry about my skin and what I'm going to die of.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


If I were more of a narcissist, and I am --albeit a wounded one--, I might think that the wind and the calamity last night came from me. That was certainly happening in my chest cavity, my neck, things were tumbling down the streets; I didn't bother to chase them. I just sat, dumbfounded at its persistence, and clenched in pain. Until the wind started and the branches started breaking and the power outage resonated my own short circuit, and then I felt calm. And I fell asleep to the howling and the banging of my blinds. So, of course, it wasn't from me, but I could appreciate it.

Monday, October 15, 2012


Things seem strange to me right now: unusually bad. Death in my family, and my neighborhood, and all my friends have broken hearts. I am speeding toward a cliff myself. But it's too late to stop, fueled by an intense fantasy. Winter is just about right then; it's time to retreat, allow my loneliness something real to cling to, instead of vagary and unrooted malaise. I don't feel weak though, just weathered. This is likely to change if I do end up off that cliff; not sure my hope parachutte will open anymore.

Saturday, October 13, 2012


Dear ---,

Maybe you don’t consider yourselves as misogynists. But you are. If you would watch a woman breaking in front of you, set aside the fact that you know what you are doing to her, and still take what you want under the thin excuse that you explained yourselves, if you disregard her time, diagnose her problems and presume to know the solutions, if you run hard and fast from your fuck-ups and tell yourselves and others that your happiness is the ultimate priority, if you won’t look at her in a crowd but enter her in the dark, if you live accidentally, if you are one-dimensional and childish, if your excuse is heartache and fear, then you are misogynists and your punishment is your own metallic and bitter taste, your own desperation. For those of you who are calculated and Machiavellian about it, the accumulated pain and hatred that you cultivated will destroy you, give you cramps and make you fat and tired; it will give you illness and bad luck; flies are burrowing in your soul and your life force is dwindling; you will fail. I’m not worried about what will happen to you.
I am worried about the women. My friends, my family, I wish I could scoop out the shit you have been served. Don’t believe it, fight it, expand like a flood light. And like light and sound, there is no place your heart can’t reach.  I see what generous creatures you are. Even in your most derelict-form you choose to destroy yourself instead of another, and even though I know it’s all you can muster, it’s a beautiful act. Now fight. Don't negotiate, wait, figure, or resign; fight.

Monday, October 8, 2012


Writing here was supposed to help me. Now I'm feeling stifled. Censuring everything is beginning to piss me off. I want to write his name all over this fucking page. I want to write it out plain, to hell with being beautiful. Self consciousness is the death of art am all I'm doing here is looking right at myself and judging it. Trying to make it readable, interesting to other people. I've dragged myself though the ball sweat stink of pretension. It's fucking funking.
What I really want... really really really... is to write out my obsession. How these thoughts have blotted out every moment that don't absolutely require me to think of something else, moments for instance like talking to my boss, or making a left turn in traffic... or riding, not then. How it feels to watch yourself go crazy. Watch yourself climb a up the fucking water tower in a lightning storm, and not even bother to coax yourself down. I'm in danger. There is no doubt about that. The gap between fantasy and reality is probably getting bigger and bigger each immeasurable moment. And yet... there I go.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Knock on Wood

I had a series of unfortunate events. All related to money, which I moderately value. (And when I say moderately value I mean this: say for instance that I was asked to move and the reason was money. There was more money over there... that direction. I wouldn't go. Not if that was it. But say there was love, over there, that direction, I'd go. Not tomorrow, but let me get the money worked out, and then I'll see you there. )
I'm not sure where I  picked up my superstitions, and damn me for not realizing they were there sooner, but one bad thing makes me fear the next. A speeding ticket is a sign that I'm on the wrong path, and a lost phone is a harbinger of more loss and sorrow. I once got locked out of my sister's house with a 3 year old for hours in the vicious sun, then the transmission fell out of my car on the way home, and then I got dumped over dinner. I tried to be nonchalant about renting a car for 280 dollars just to get to the lousy date... nothing was going to stop me, but should I have been paying closer attention?
No! Fear mongering. What are you, a Republican? No sir! Superstitions are for the lazy, the victims of the world whining that the universe cursed them into always loosing raffles. It's for the control freaks and the paranoid.  It's a trap; most of the time, your car accident wasn't about you or what you deserve; it just blows.
Fine, I admit it. I'm superstitious. But I'm not pretentious enough to claim I know the language of all these messages.  But strike me down in my very chair this moment if I am wrong! Nope... I'm still here. But did I just tempt the fates? Jesus, superstitions are for the mentally ill...

Wednesday, October 3, 2012


I've overindulged. I'm icky with dirty water and the same muggy thoughts swirling in whirlpools. It's time to leave this bath for now. It's out; I'm clean and I'm ready to romp in some other field for a while. I'll check back in with you later, sweet man, and fear disappointment some other day.

Monday, October 1, 2012


I said before that being with you was like honey in a bowl. I was right. Now I’ve got the pot flipped over and I’m waiting for you to come out (before I had my snout in it). I suppose gravity pulls only as fast as gravity will pull. And if you are honey, then I am water. I spill.  And when you come out, I’ll tell you my secret. I would have told you before, but you never asked the right question, or gave me a sure enough sign I could trust you, or even just some extra time. That’s all hogwash now. As soon as I see you roll over the edges of your container, I will invite you to the swampland of my soul where my shame resides and show you, whether or not I leave that place alone, I will show you.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Is everybody okay with the word "Vagina"?

            Piper visited the doctor in the spring. Dave only left a month earlier when she got the automated reminder call. Six months ago something came back abnormal. Now they wanted to do a biopsy. And that was as much as she knew. Abnormal and biopsy were bucket-words filled with a multitude of possible meanings, but in her resignation, she didn’t ask for clarification. She just showed up.

            Piper remembered to bring her own book for the waiting area. She’d forgotten enough times and had to restrain herself from ripping out page after page of the parenting magazines. So she stared at the book, and stopped listening or looking or receiving any information that her nerves may have sent her. This was also a part of the routine. Ever since the thing had started bleeding she was making more than regular trips to these closets of prodding. At first it was the debilitating cramps followed by the discovery of an unusual shape, invisible from the outside. The delicate ecosystem of her body was always in crisis. Bacteria at war with yeast. They couldn’t live together peacefully. Sometimes famine, sometimes pestilence, and sometimes even violence. Every new lover meant at least one trip to the doctor, whether for a UTI or birth control. She felt like it was a confessional with the lights turned way up, a place she was forced to debrief her shame, to silently admit that another one didn’t work out.

            Usually she went into the offices that like looked like hotel kitchenettes, but because today was a more elaborate procedure, she was led into a full sized room cluttered with carts and unhooked machines. She sat in the corner and waited for the nurse to come and take her blood pressure. Above the sink was a grid of small plastic drawers. Each drawer had a black and white diagram of the tool it contained. They all appeared to be variation on a basic structure: a wire loop on the end of a stick. The concept, Piper imagined, was very similar to the method used in her ceramic classes from college. Use the wire to circle the block of clay, then close it in on itself to lop off the head. This is what would be happening today.

            The nurse came in and balked when she saw Piper, red and puffy faced. She handed her tissue after tissue and said nothing except that the doctor would be in in a few minutes and undress from waist down please.

            Piper’s legs where white and blotched with yellow and rosy spots. She tucked the paper as best she could behind her and waited. The doctor asked her what was wrong; she answered honestly; she didn’t know. The doctor asked her if she could be pregnant; she told the truth. The doctor asked her if she had been smoking; she lied. The doctor was a stout and gregarious woman and talked openly about sex and vaginas and used the phrase “perfectly normal” over and over. But Piper was too far gone to appreciate it, wet faced and mentally choking the puppies on the poster tacked to the ceiling.

            Then something wasn’t perfectly normal. Something was different from the all too familiar routine. The doctor had retreated. They never do that, not without an announcement. (I’m taking my fingers out now…) From behind the tissue paper screen between her knees, Piper heard the doctor at the sink scooping up handfuls of water into her face and then spitting it back out. The nurse, the official tool-passer-offer, had shifty eyes and an open mouth. Splayed, she felt only annoyance at the delay, and because she had set aside her sharpness, she hadn’t realized what just happened.

            Piper was given permission to sit back up, and she did and choked down some more emptiness and readied herself for a cursory conversation, a handout and an insincere farewell. But the doctor returned to the sink, scooped up more water from cuped hands, swished it around in her mouth, and spit it out again.

            Piper crunched her face into a question when the doctor turned.

            The doctor laughed in a short burst. “Well, my tenaculum was hooked on something, and when I pulled it out, I accidentally smacked myself in the face... well, in the mouth. Job hazard.” She laughed again, and left in a hurry.

            When Piper got into the car, she took a moment to sit and gape. Then rested her head back and smiled. She didn’t feel so beaten down anymore, so wounded or damaged: a thrift store item. Her vagina had taken revenge, and deflated the doctor and the day with damp awkwardness. Piper was going to be fine, and the doctor was clearly having a worse day than her. She figured, okay, an undesirable insertion, so be it, but the price is a flying vagina lick. She started her car and began what would be an aggressive drive home.


Wednesday, September 26, 2012


These are the things I saw as I was falling asleep last night:
My gray lit room and one angular light beam, dim, from a crumb sized electronic button. (I'll wait for the battery to die instead of rolling and reaching and and turning the thing off) A cream figure against a darkened receeding room. The orb in the blackened window. I thought it was the moon at first, but it was only your lamp light reflecting, reflecting. He reflecting back to me gray flashing words on a white field, "Gwen is typing..." The quick click and his flattenedface is gone. A sunspot man, a blue aura in dark.

Monday, September 24, 2012


What is it about lying in bed and looking up? Or in the hallway, for that matter, waiting for work to begin. It seems I need to put you in the tumbler, and wear down your edges. Make you shine. But careful not to lie there too long, lest you turn to dust, unrecognizable from the raw thing you began as. It seems I need to put you in a story, just it case this doesn't turn out to be real, and then I'll something to show for it.
I'm not suffocating you anymore, protecting you from my curse. I'm airing you out, because there might be a chance that I'm not damned, even though it terrifies me to say so: temp the Temptress. And whether you turn out to be dust or diamond... it doesn't have anything to do with me.

Thursday, September 20, 2012


I can’t think. Being with him was like a puppet show. Our papier-mâché heads bouncing off one another making contusions and craters. The track-lights turned to the bed. Being with you is like water, like honey in a bowl, the light refracting around the waves or the slow moving pours. You’re clouding the walls of my mind with breathy-fog and I can’t see out. I can’t think.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Dialogue Exercise (Fiction)

The phone rang in three short tones. She looked away from the computer screen, which had turn into a white aura in her spacey eyes. Laura was paging her. She picked up the receiver.
                “Patricia is on the phone for you.”
                “Oh God. What does she want?” She placed her elbows on the desk and slouched.
                “She wants you.”
                “Tell her I died and it was very sad.”
                “Very funny. You should turn off that space heater. You look awfully pink today. Good luck.” She scooted her rolling chair closer and looked around. It was a slow time of the day. No one was loitering at the front, trying to get reception on their phones. No one needed a key from her or her to un-jam the copy machine. No clumsy and bumpy-head child needed ice. She touched her cheek, and her hand felt cool. Not surprisingly, she was warm.
                She clicked over to line one.
                “Willow Falls Elementary School.”
                “Hi, it’s Patricia” She looked down at her chest. A sprawl of rosy rash.
                “Hi Patricia, what’s going on today?”
                “I just wanted to know if I should bring Sampson in tomorrow. He hasn’t had a fever since this morning, and everything. I thought he was getting the flu cause he was complaining a lot, and I had the flu last week but now he seems to be okay and everything.” She moved to her computer and opened a file on the desktop named Patricia Call Log and began to type: October 4th10:45 am…
                “If he doesn’t run a fever again today or tonight, I would bring him in.”
                “Okay well I was just checking cause I wasn’t sure. So that’s why I called. Did you get my message?”
                “Yes, I did, thank you for calling Sampson in this morning” She was a lousy transcriber. She pinched the phone between her ear and her shoulder, and the words she ticked out were a mess of pushy constants: but bnow he sefms ok andeverthig…
                “I wasn’t sure if I should wait for you to get in or what so I thought I’d just leave a message. Uh if you could make sure Sampson brings his jacket home tomorrow too, I would greatly appreciate that and everything.”
                “Sure thing”
                “Cause it’s fall now and I’m not sure exactly when he’s gonna need that…”
                Laura must have seen she was off the line, and paged her again. Now she was staring at the email she had gotten late last night: I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about you that night, quiet and sure, and your hair falling apart as you moved… She let the phone ring just one more time, then picked it up without looking away from the screen.
                “Did you put that in your log?”
                “I’m a diligent secretary.” She closed the email and looked up at the expectant and guilty looking child approaching, surely for a late pass.
                “What are you going to do with that anyway?”
                “It’s the preface to my suicide note.” She said it just before the boy entered earshot and mouthed I’m late.
                “I’m leaving this world… and everything...?”
                “Exactly,” she smiled sweetly at the thin boy and wrote out the slip. They get enough admonishment from their teachers, and she made it a point to forgive him.
                “Hey, did you ever hear from No Show Joe?” The boy slinked off.
                “What do you think?”
                “You really chased him away.”
                “He deserved it.”
                “Yes, yes he did. Oh, Amy’s here. Bye.” She hung up the receiver and put her face in her hands. Still warm. She picked up her pen and clicked the button in and out on her teeth. She felt his hands on her head, on her arms, and then slammed her own hands down to shake them off. She sighed and sat up straight and returned to her computer, circling the mouse over the litany of duller emails and tried not to compose her response.

Friday, September 14, 2012


My writing teacher keeps reminding me about plot. You can have the most beautiful description of a man, a lake, a moment, a vivid inner dialogue the strikes anyone with a  heart, or a metaphor so lovely that it seems that swimming was only meant and invented to be compared to love, but no one will continue reading if there is no plot. Without conflict we are bored. Sometimes that aligns with real life, and sometimes it does not.

Why read any of this? My musings on postmodernism are intelligible enough, right? No. No, that’s not why. There is conflict here. Will I resolve my inner demons? Will I find love? Revenge on those who have wronged me? I’ve been trammeled, raped (that wasn’t even the worst of it), dismissed, elevated, rewarded, punished, heartbroken again and again. Will I discover happiness without love? Could this be an anti-resolution resolution? Will I discover my self-delusions? Will I find God?  How will I change? What little nuance about life will I uncover that will change the whole game? There is a story here. A good one if it resolves neatly.

Today the wrong one came around, wanted me, then cried over his mistreatment of me. I was just cleaning my floor after I misread an invitation for a party. I was home when I shouldn't have been home when he called and said he was just down the street. "Why did I ever leave this?" he said. He was referring to my ass, admittedly, but you don't sob over someone's ass. How's that for plot? And here is the next turn: I don't care anymore. You have a beard now. That's lovely. I'm worried about your anxiety. But why tell me about your dates? Then take your pants off? Then tell me not to cry? I'm not crying. My body belongs to someone else. I'm inclined to be tender to you, despite how you wrecked me. But nothing here is attached to you anymore. Not the plants that need watering or my body that needs touching. I imagined it so many times. Saying no to you. It is sad saying no to you. But. Go on. Go on and study and work and cavort.  Maybe next time I won't be home.

There is a story here, and I suppose it all depends on how I spin it.

An Open Letter to My Painting Students

Dear Painting Students,

                Today your monochromatic paintings were due. I wanted to make you see value in the absence of color variation. Can you force someone to see value? Something we look about every day, and yet somehow it’s invisible? I explained it to you, but not until I took the brush from your hand and said, “It’s dark here. And here it’s light.”  Then you painted every other apple the same way. During the critique, you said the things that I said to you. I hadn’t realized you were listening. I often felt useless in class as you nodded at me. I saw you tease each other and imitate me. “Slow down! Slow down!” You all could get away with murder with me as your teacher, but you don’t try. Why not?
                And you, sweet thing, couldn’t do what I asked. “Don’t paint with water, paint with paint!” And I walk three steps before you drench your canvas with gray water.  But your painting, with all the drips and broken figures and colors all wrong, yours is my favorite. And I told you so. I don’t think you believe me. I want that damn painting in my house, Batman and all. Everyone else… your paintings look like something I would paint. How did that happen? And just as I look at my own work, I love and hate them all.
                The channels that it came across, I don’t understand. I’m a dirty and wounded girl standing in front of fresh flowers using the word value over and over again. Values I accidently sent into your brain.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Priests and Scientists

Am I a priest or a scientist? A scientist, of course. I can't help it; I was born in the post-modernist age of the 80's.

The strength in the scientist is the ever forward, fluid movement. We want to find out why things work. What's the context? You tell us one thing, but we want to know what motivated you. We feel deceived. We will continue to ask questions, and peel away layers. And if we discover we were wrong, or our theories don't match up to the evidence, okay, we are flexible, and will change the beliefs again. Limitations are our enemy, and everything is God. And sure, everyone was invited but now this party is pure chaos. Our reality is fragile. We are tormented by our understandings constantly morphing and by our mistrust in our own sensory experience. Sometimes it seems there is too much to know, too much complexity, we’ll never get to the bottom of it. At times it seems hopeless.

You – modernists and priests -- search to discover the one reality; you believe in the pure. And when you know that purity, you have faith in it. And through that basic truth, the world makes sense. There is solace in that ultimate knowledge. You have a foundation with which to build on. Your life is more quiet than mine. But what happens when that foundation has a flaw (say for instance some inherent prejudice). What then? You built an entire world on that belief, and now it has to come down.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

When life gets you down, just...

I feel like poking my eyes out with aphorisms. Like life's study flashcards off the interweb. Facebook is clouded with aphorisms, and I'm not fooled by the sarcastic ones either. Scroll down for another one, and another, and another until you realize your beer is gone and you missed your yoga class. You walk away and forget every one. It was bad enough when they were only on magnets and in end-table books. Now just look to an email signature to remember what life's little joys are....

Aphorisms are like puff paint, with equivalent value. These white-fonted-purple-backgrounded one-liners are judging me, and I know you posted that shit as a passive-aggressive dig against your ex to show her how happy you are now. Do you really believe that, or like everything else, are you trying to control people's perceptions of you? I doubt an aphorism ever changed anybody's life (its author was changed by life), and ironically, it's making me depressed.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Planning the next step

The first step was cleaning my house. That was obvious. The dirt and the hairballs and the unfolded laundry reset to the beginning of their cycle. The next step was cleaning myself, which reminded me that the next step was to replace the shower-head.  Then the strategy becomes more complicated. I could do any number of things here. There are stacks of paper to be filed and one hundred and fifty partially read books. Or I could go on the offensive; leave on my bike, drop in on anyone. Planning is not the hardest part, and tomorrow is a landmine. Not giving up is very dull.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012


I suspect I’m not alone. Alone in the feeling that my hope is a wretched thing that ruins its object... like a child I can’t control, a beast that sees what I see.  I concede, though, that when I picture a drooling and vicious creature devouring my dreams, most people just say something like, “ I don’t want to jinx it, but…” and then go on to tell you about a job interview.
When I become aware of something I want, my Hope (or shall I say: my pet monster that affects things outside of me?) sees it for the first time too, and begins to stalk it. I must keep it out of my attention, continue to tell my Hope, “Now, I don’t actually want this. I don’t actually believe that I can have this. See, Hope, I didn’t even tell my mother… if I wanted it, I would tell my mother.” All in a lame attempt to trick my Hope, distract him away from taking that which I want away from me.  It never works.
The elaborate metaphor aside, hope is what rescues us from disaster and tragedy. Why live another day after you lost a child if you didn’t hope things would get better? But hope is also the instrument of disappointment and depression. The unfulfilled desire has the power to ruin a life. Buddhism will tell you that wanting is the root of all suffering.  This is nothing new, fine, but I can’t reconcile it. I can’t get it fucking straight in my mind. So I should give up on everything, not desire anything for myself, and only then will I find happiness…? Let it go, Gwen, let it go, let it go, let him go, let it go….. well fuck, that didn’t work. Now what?

Sunday, September 2, 2012

A meditation on a memory

(written sometime in July)

I am awake, but quiet. There is a delicious taste in my mouth. I am imagining it still there and my languid thoughts muscle me down. No swimming today but I kick to a cool side of the bed. Your lascivious breath warms and wets my ear, blows into silk and sunless pathways to the southern tip of me. It circles in my belly, and a little lower too.  I am dreamy (always) but, should you call my name twice, summon me back, (Gwen, Gwendolyn) and press me here once, send me away. Farewell pain. But there is nothing for my silly mind to add to this. Embellishments are not for you; your auburn fur adorns your chest perfectly. I am sleepless, but you are not, and I am grateful. I flutter back to the warm side of the bed where you are prostrate and pinked and just a little bit damp. Can I keep you? I fear not. Sweet -bodied air and a switch-backed road, and you will sustain me for just one day. Then I retreat to the space between my ears, the sunless space between my ears, and think nothing of my aches, but of this early morning when I am awake, and your restful mind may think you are somewhere else, but you are with me.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Blue Moon

Last night I was given a gift, at the beginning of the evening, the first of many: A man rode by on his roller blades; he had a white beard and a round belly, and he was swiveling at the hips like a little girl in a new party dress, his hands pointing out at his hips dancing instead of skating.
I spent the walk raspberry tongued and light wrapped in a scarf, finally feeling there was no place to rush off to. I walked like the apish man and loved that I made her laugh. The impression of the bicycle was more difficult, but I tumbled into somersaults until I fell apart. I was happy to make her laugh harder. The the full moon, that fickle bitch, tethered to my brain tricked me into thinking it was morning.
And I know, as sure as I know my own name, that I will know her when she is old, just as I knew her as a child.

And as for him... Not him, the burgeoning scoundrel invested in personal glory and casual sex, but him... the one I asked graciously to please leave my mind but he won't go, he slinked to the corner and let me alone for the evening, and I felt loved.

My dad once told while he sauteed a savory sauce for his pile of meat, "I never met a mushroom I didn't like."

Friday, August 31, 2012

Oh sweet distraction.

This weekend I'm getting out of town. Home is lovely, and I crave it all day, but now is a time I should be away. I'm hiking, good on me.
I've done it before, boiled my sitting pool of pain into energy. And I rose like steam. It was cycling before, still is. But it's tricky, so elusive. Sometimes I think I've got it, then I don't. You have to wiggle the key just right, come in at the right angle, talk dirty to loosen it up, but not too dirty or you'll blow the whole thing.  Either way, whether I get it or not, anywhere but home. My stardust ass is going to go sit on some stardust mountain, and the particles will say to one another, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a few billion years, like your new ride."

Didn't hear from P-- today. I feel so lost...

Thursday, August 30, 2012

The State of my Garden

I own my home. And one of the great fantasies I had was of the garden. It would be a secret garden, a refuge. Walls of climbing things and vegetables. It was going to be charming, in the true magical sense.
The actual state of my garden is otherwise. I don't value a green lawn, and it shows. Weeds mowed down over messy edges. It crunches like crumpled paper when you walk over it. Clover weeds with oil drill roots have overrun all the bare spots, and there are many. Somewhere in there was a raspberry bush. Giant rotting cucumbers with cracked skin rest beneath dried beans. I gave away the few corn husks I grew. The eggplant is falling over under the weight of the now gray orbs. I didn't eat one. I pull the carrots and the beets, but I won't get to them all, and the tomato has blight. The cilantro and oregano bolted at the beginning of June, it was so hot, and the peppers look the same as the day I brought them home from Paulino's.
Last year was better, but then again I had help. I tried in the spring. Was out there everyday. Now when I step in it says to me, "Oh, now you've come? Decided to show your face? Well we don't need you, and the little you have to give."
"I couldn't help it this year. I've been uprooted myself."
"Did you want sympathy?"
"No. I wanted to be able to do this. Next year, I promise. I can't heal any faster than I can heal."
"Well be dead next year."

I would like to have a garden party, to post instgrams of lovely flowers and bushes.
Guess it is just not that kind of blog.

Crazy Town

7:50 I walk in the door and the phone is ringing. P--. Yesterday, D- fell on a cactus, and P-- wants to know exactly what happened. Because she pulled out 75 stickers from his hand. Plus he has a bruise. She's keeping him home today.

Her crazy knows no bounds.
Neither does mine, but mine looks a little different than hers.

Mine is a Sit-and-Spin. Sometimes I get launched.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012


I'm feeling my trailer-trash-side tonight. I didn't quite buy boxed wine, but the blush wine counts, I think.

I certainly have red-neck roots, and I don't mean to disregard them this evening. But Budlight was just not what I was in the mood for. My father used to drink Budlight, but even he got sick of it, and the jugs of wine did the trick much better, and then of course the little shooters of vodka were easier to hide. I remember going to Indiana with him and after a long night where he and his brother and the neighbors stayed up in the garage talking, he would pay my sisters and I a nickel for every cigarette butt we picked up. Boiler Makers cups filled with filth equaled gold. I've got red-neck roots for sure.
I filled a jelly jar with wine and headed out for a walk with my dog, Pali. Pali is all mouth. She gapes at me and I think she is like a copperhead with ears.

This night hasn't been as bad as the recent few. For one, the Tin House arrived. Hooray.



Last night I had a tearful conversation with a friend. In the topics we covered, we both mentioned feeling compelled to communicate, our situations similar and not.

She loves a man who does not love her back, or will not. He was there last night, eating his ice cream and looking over our heads, stepping away to talk on the phone. Leaving early. Never when you ask, is what he was saying to her, only when I want it.

And, beyond reason, warnings, attempts, and sanity, she will not let him go. In the middle of the night, she sends messages to him, desperate for .... anything? in return. She's written letters describing her impossible and broken heart. She delivers him constant praise. Adores his brilliance. Excuses that fact he's a fucking dick.

She is always reiterating herself. Sometimes with pictures, sometimes with drawings.

My compulsion is different. I'm compelled not to say anything for as long as I possibly can. He got a burst of it, rushing out of the cracked dam, but he can't know now how often I think of him. How sick I make myself. He knows so little; I know even less.

My relationship

I am in a relationship, in fact, with a woman named P--. I talk with her everyday, very often the first person who I utter hello to.
She is the mother of a student at the school where I work. Without fail, she calles me every morning to give me an update of her son, tell me about a shopping trip she needs to make, another unnecessary doctor's visit, a complaint. Then she calls me throughout the day with other innane ramblings. She says "and everything" every four words. It doesn't matter that I am not his teacher, as I've reminded her. "Hi Gwen, how's he doing?" Uh- I think that you are aware of this, not totally sure, but I'm the secretary. I don't know how your son is at this particular moment, nor am I going to check on him. You're making him crazy you know... and me.
I've decided to make a log of her calls.
Today she called to tell me that D is hyper hyper hyper and that the bus is late. Just thought I would let you know and everything, and everything, but just so you know. Also he has been up since 2:30 this morning.
I speak with P-- more than I do some of my closest friends. Good morning P--, and everything.


My friend Mo has been talking to people about dreams. It makes me think, and remember:
I once dreamed that I slept with my assailant, who is dead now. I was ashamed, and my family was appalled. Why would I be willing to have sex with the man who raped me?
I once dreamed that I killed my parents with a shot gun. I was of course, horrified.
I once dreamed I slept with my dad. What the fuck is that? "Where were you," asked a friend who I told. "On top," I said.
Once I was napping in the afternoon. I brought my hands in front of me, and I realized that my actual hands were tucked between my legs and I understood I was lucid dreaming. I at once seized the opportunity and decided that I would fuck in this dream. I got up and walked to my bedroom door, opened it and a line of men stood in the hallway. I invited the first one in and he sat on my bed and took off his shirt. His handsomeness started to fade away and he became dumpy and bald, and I fought hard against it and then woke. How disappointing...
When I wasn't talking to my friend Tori, I dreamed that I would go to her house when she wasn't at home and sleep in her bed.
If I could, I would visit you in a dream tonight, because I can't visit you otherwise. You would find me in your bed. You would be confused but relieved. After we kiss, I would ask you, "If you could choose, would you be a boy or a man?"

Upon my thirtieth year

I had the sense tonight that I my life is no longer leading to anything. I'm not building toward some distant manifestation. I've arrived. And my worries are very much the same as they have always been.
This year has been hard, lumped in with some other lousy ones (21 stands out). It began with a sushi birthday dinner, and ended with another one. In between I've lost love, and maybe hope too. I'm not sure who I feel promised me, but I feel betrayed in the promise that if I just kept at it, loved boldly and honestly, that I would be rewarded with happiness. I've worked hard, and I'm stronger against the hurricane winds, not so easily blown over. But my question is, why is there still a fucking hurricane out there? It's unnatural the things that have been ripped from me.
I also have a sense that my hope is insipid. That as soon as I desire something, I begin to destroy it, that I pluck the flower and it is only a matter of time before it dies. I literally fear saying what I want out loud because I will curse it.
It's not a matter of what I deserve or am worth. Those parts of me are intact. But nighttime continues to haunt me, and I am surprised how many nights I've survived when I thought surely the pain would crush me.
I'm not always sad. But this year I am.

Cleaning Crew needed

6/22/12 -
I need to scrap you off the walls of my brain. You are clinging there dry and cracked and still gooey in some places. It's like a special effects bag of vitrials and chicken breasts and corn syrup and real blood was placed in my mind with a charge in. That's what it is like to loose, leave, and remember you. I need a power hose and bleach. I need to eclipse you. All that's left of us is a mess in my mind, almost too big to take on. Thanks for coming by every now and then to shit here too. That's nice. There's no ventilation. I'm becoming a wastral here in this dingy place. I'm smoking cigarette butts from the ash try. I'm picking my nose shamelessly.
You left the dishes in the sink, months old, not your problem anymore. Renting a new, sunny, almost glittered place. Thanks for that too.
How's it going with her? I let you in my bed two nights ago to prove you didn't love her. But I'm a fool, of course. It only proves you don't love me.
Tomorrow I'm riding 100 miles and dedicating to the rage I have for you now, and I'm sure I'll come away weaker, too tired to clean.