Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Imaginary boyfriend from high school...

With his light hair
And darker roots
Hazel eyes
And junkyard boots
Cool-cut clothes
Long heavy chains
My imaginary boyfriend
Plays with me games.

Magick We Yearn: Revisited

His warm, light basement is home to energy;
a place for all kinds of magick.
Magick for love and lust,
of sensitivity and pain to take place.
With cords, rope, and the perspiring nakedness
of our flesh, together we make magick.
We tie knots, weave gentle sigils on bellies and goosebumped
chests; we heave love
like boxes and like delicate vases;
together we burrow: digging into holes with sharp,
solid shovels, and at other times with caressing fingertips,
flicking tongues, and soft
thrusts with the spade.
Always, cool lips meet and we suffocate
from bruising pressure.
We chant spells with our sighs and moans of
numbing pleasure–but our spells are never old.
Together we dance and perform ritual–for magick we yearn.

A B C . . .

A B C . . .

A beautiful catastrophic
delirious escape
from gorgeous hills
into jinxed kindness
love me never
or poison quarantine
risks stiff, taut,
universal vibrations
winged xanthic yeast

Monday, November 23, 2009

Makeout Session (Also old)

Make-out session Tuesday January 2, 2007

Inching away
foot by foot
Nearing and nearing
until twitching spasms
occur and do
not cease to
tremble the hands
she hides and digs
into soft flesh
teeth into neck
and weakened knees
bodies embraced and mouths
soft lips touching
more like chapstick than
No invading worm
No searching fingers
Pure outward
Teeth again
Ears, knees, mouths . . .
Until time ends
as does this sensual make-out

Monday, November 16, 2009

Dig Into Love (an old poem)

Dig Into Love

I want to dig into my love for him,
the way I dig my pen into paper--
without tearing it, but leaving
my mark.
All I do is find the music,
uncover the things he likes,
and retain them in the jumbled box I call
my mind:
dusting through his words
I cling to his touch,
all the while I need to
scrape the surface--
and find room for him.

Love: Brief description

The stillness outside is dark
You invade my thoughtlessness.

Fear is a broken
waterfall crashing on stones that jut
Shattering louder with every fall.

Friday, August 28, 2009

First Bar

My first night out at bars and drinking, and the one thing no one ever told me and I never really thought of was my problem. I had to pee. I had to pee like crazy! Hawaiian punch, pee. Water, pee. Tea, pee. Walking from Chinatown to Faneuil Hall, pee pee pee! I was going crazy with all these drinks and all that peeing!
I wore my favorite girl jeans with the purple Indian tank-top with the ripply design in front, and the straps that rounded in a quarter moon rather than a half, showing my bra straps off to the world in back. Wore sneakers, and glad for it. We had so much fun! Becca didn't dress up too much, but the boys were her friends--Dario, her best friend, then Corey, Tom and Bobby, lesser known friends. At first meet Dario struck me as quiet and made me slightly timid. Later I decided he was the most down-to-earth of the bunch, and likely the most intelligent.
Bobby Row drew my attention like a flea, hopping this way and that, drawing me to follow and watch, wanting to join in his jumpy antics, but not wanting to put myself--or anyone else--in danger the way he did. Hyper and talkative, but not very funny at first, simply because he found himself TOO funny. Short red hair, a matted red bear and mustache(?) Medium build. Drunk-walk. As the night wore on he drank more and more and more...more than I've ever seen ANYBODY drink...and he was so out of it. He talked to me very seriously, kept taking my hand and stroking it, and I looked in his eyes sadly, with a slight smile, a sad-for-him smile. He talked to me like Nick did...in that half-slurred redneck-way they have, and I felt like he was lying to me. I don't think he was...but definitely sweet-talkin' me in his drunken stupor.
Tom was cool. He looked very normal, not an easy face to pick from the crowd, but pretty cute, with shortish hair and a lot of freckles and/or pimples. He seemed to read my mind. When he said the word "chick" he said excuse me, looked directly at me, and corrected himself. Later, he tried making me feel paranoid...and somehow he knew I was. How irritating to be so translucent! How naiive I am. At the car (Becca drove me to Rowley) he offered me the front seat, when only moments before, I had told her I'd be shocked if he didn't. He's one of the only guys I have EVER met with manners. They are few.
Corey seemed willing to dance at the bar, but I thought he was kidding when he asked me. Thin and tall, he reminded me of Eddy, that Jewish boy from my Dean's Book class. Apparently he's a sex fiend. Okay then...
Becca is usually very quiet. She seems to sit back and watch the others interact.
It was a good first-bar experience. I finished an entire glass of mudslide, and a third of a glass of Hawaiian punch. After the mudslide I was a little dizzy. But I balanced out and found my way home.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Raining in the Dance

Waking up in the black of night to harsh rumbling and streaks of light across the room is a beautiful experience. I want to feel the thunder rush through me, listen calmly to the rain drops against the window glass, first dripping, increasing tempo to a pounding state.

My off-and-on ex-boyfriend (of two and a half years) and myself used to stay awake through the storms. In the beginning, we were not used to sleeping beside one another, a new experience THAT was, and so I tossed in his bed until we both got up and sat on his mother's couch downstairs. We watched the new grandfather clock with a shocking calm: the shiny clock face, long hand ticking steadily, the smooth wooden top, which curved down like parted bangs around the face. The long gold-colored pendulum swinging from side to side, glinting in the slight light from the neighbor's porch.

Our position went from sitting, to leaning, to lying. The rain started on the windows in the roof, sliding down. The thunder rushed through us. We glanced at each other startlingly--I saw something like love reflected in his eyes. And together we ran out into the night, to dance in the rain, and prance down the street, spinning and touching and loving together. I swear that was when I lost my virginity. Right there in the rain, dancing with this strange boy in his long boxers and random t-shirt, probably still in socks: a love in silent enthusiasm.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Piano and Music

My sister and I are on the search for a dark piano song; so far there has been no luck with us. She is currently making noise on the piano at my side while I try in vain to listen to "Garden in my Room," by Merril Bainbridge.
I don't know much about Bainbridge other than that she is Australian singer from the '90s and is most famous for her "Mouth" song. Her music sounds mostly to be piano and maybe some guitar and bagpipes...her song "State of Mind" might even have some drums in it. Her songs tend to be slow, her voice sensual and low, exotic-sounding, like she's trying to draw one in with her beauty and then she's going to strike them down. Her songs are calming, easy to sing to, and "nice."
Carol of the Bells is the only dark-ish piano song I can think of. Most of the rest are too...chipper or slow. Beethoven does offer a few excellent choices, but for the most part, piano music is so dry. (I hope no lover of piano is reading this...) Troy was the only person I know to make up his own dark-sounding, fast-paced music. We even dated for a bit. I could listen to him for hours but decided not to--in the end-- for the sake of my indepedence.
The one band to not have let me down thus far is Korn. They constantly are changing their music so that it's never the same yet distinctly them. Jonathan's voice is original, like so many others...Serj Tankian comes to mind.
We will continue our search for the dark pianist, and I am sure we will find him or her eventually...feel free to leave me tips if you know of any.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Bethlehem and Loon Mountain

I can feel the muscles in my shoulders (taut like rope) as I roll my arms forward and back. My knees are heavy with weakness. My head feels fine, body warm, the temperature is 85 degrees farenheit outside, and humid. Cassi and I drove home late last night all the way from Bethlehem, New Hampshire.

Yesterday we drove through the quiet “village” of Bethlehem on our way to route 93, and we saw some odd images: an older man, his beard thick and white, a mustache; a top hat on his head, high, but sinking; a cane in his hand. The sights just kept repeating: a man with his beard braided up like a pony tail, walking beside a woman in old-fashioned looking clothing, something one might wear with a bonnet—heavy skirts and a billowy white shirt and vest, perhaps? I decided it must be a Jewish town, but isn’t that a little ironic—that the town of Bethlehem would contain a neighborhood of the Jewish people?

By night, Route 93 had been dark, the road windy and pitch black, by day, they were the opposite. We were down a twisty roller coaster of sorts, high mountains rising all around us, something out of a Jurassic park scene, and I was aghast. Thick green trees rose up the mountains and laid low at places where gray cliff showed through. These are the White Mountains, I thought to myself.

We had to drive through the little town of Lincoln in order to reach Loon Mountain. We stopped at a bookstore with “free Internet!” and where the sections were spelled out: “Fantacy” among them. We stopped at the “Paper Mill Theater,” and learned that the building was still in use, although the entire back half was basically condemned. That was pretty obvious. It was surprising to see that the building was being used at all—scary, really—seeing as it was in such bad shape and had been built only in 1902. The Half-baked Bread is where I bought a sandwich and we each had a half-made smoothie. (We didn’t expect them to taste half-made.)

Loon Mountain is a thing to experience. The actual entrance is a big thing, advertising resort hotels and horse back rides, rock climbing and bike rentals. I made sure we were there at promptly 9:30, opening time. (The ground had not been good to us, and sleep had been lacking.) Nobody else was there. We bought our Adventure packages and started with the rock wall. It was just like those plastic-things at the fair, but slightly taller and with five sections. Cassi made it up the first (her first full rock-climb!) and I went up the second-easiest. Next I tried wall four while she attempted wall five and failed. Our spotter was very pushy and poor Cassi was like, “well can’t I just stop?” I felt a little guilty about that. She couldn’t get over the ledge. He made me get on her wall after so I could show her how to do it. I’d never done it before, but I made it! SO I climbed three rock walls: one-after-another. He tried to push me to climb the challenging wall, but I was SO beat, my fingers, my toes, my upper arms and shoulders.

The jumpy-thing was boring and terrible. It gave us intense, UTI-causing wedgies, and neither of us could do a flip. The harness came up to our chests, pushing my breasts out and making me look ridiculous. The game was short-lived.

Biking. We were given some silver-colored helmets and each chose a hot-blue boys’ bike, with the little hole in the middle (for the testes?) We rode straight up past the condos, past side streets, past little parking lots where we would sometimes stop to rest. But we went high—lowest gear possible, up that road, until finally, Cassi said, isn’t this it? And we turned off on Bear Road or something like that. It was downhill and glorious, and dizzy-Cassandra wasn’t so dizzy anymore.

We came to a left-right choice. Cassi went left, I went right, noticing the big beautiful log home on the hill. I called her over and she came. (She was exhausted and all ready to go, but came anyway.) Some guy in a golf cart offered us cold waters and a tour of the house on the hill. There was a glorious kitchen-living room, big windows, a view of all the mountains across from Loon Mountain. The bedrooms were small but nice, the bathrooms had showers only. The big room led out onto a wooden deck, great for parties and things. Downstairs, there were more bedrooms and a bathtub. Out on the back deck there was a Jacuzzi or a hot tub. They were building houses like this one all the way down the road. The price? $1.8 million.

In the garage he showed us part of a house soon to be begun. It was to be in the traditional log-cabin home, and the corner was full wood, but the length and width logs were thin, filled in with, instead of wood, this foamy, insulation-type material. He called it “green.”
We thanked him profusely for the water (and the chance to break). He told us if we kept going down this slant-like hill we would find the biking paths.

Sure enough, there they were, so down “Serendipity” we went. There were many stones, large and small, and dips (some filled with puddles) and it was actually quite fun and frightening. We stopped to rest again at this big stone bench, and we went out on the Saco river to just relax. Soon we headed back, and coming up the slanted hill was a lot easier than I had expected—and we were back down to the adventure area in only a few minutes.

The gondola ride isn’t much more than a mile long. The guy at its peak said it was either 900 or 9000 feet tall. There were caves on top of the mountain, but they weren’t very much fun since Cassi had grabbed her 11-pound backpack and the squeezes were tight and moist. Just like the rain we had the night before.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

I hate writing!

In the book "Bird by Bird," the author says to write 300 words EVERY DAY. She says, if you feel you have nothing to write about, to write about the reasons you hate writing. So here it is.

I hate writing because it is the opposite of living. If I want to DO something, there is always a choice to be made: to do it, or to write it? Imagining doing the thing is different from actually going through it, and-gods forbid-possibly getting bored of the thing!

I hate writing because it requires me to sit still for entirely too long. My butt starts to hurt after 20 minutes. I need to run around and exercise, call someone, check my e-mail, go to the library...
I hate writing because it is so often required to be organized. I like random. I'm bad at organizing.

I hate writing because it's so easy to put down crap. The words in my head don't equal the words on the page: my writing looks dumbed down, whereas in my mind it felt true and beautiful and formal.

I hate writing because it takes so long to read, and most people won't bother. A lovely voice or a beautiful painting can be taken in within minutes, but reading a true piece, word by word, takes far more time to appreciate.

I hate writing because my sentences and paragraphs, and my characters and scenes, are always flat in comparison to those of my favorite authors-they seem so original and lifelike.
I hate writing because I am afraid of what other people will think. When they read the way I write, they see inside the way I think (although it is somewhat more organized on the page:) and my opinion is freely expressed, and sometimes altogether made up, and I worry that they might not realize that I’m not really a lesbian, I’m just trying to write about someone who is, or they might think I really agreed with the Bush administration, when really I HATED it.

I understand that a big part of writing has to do with style. Your subject damn well better match your style, and your story and characters better make sense in there too. I know that if I write a story in which I am, say, a lesbian, and a Bush-lover, and my reader believes it, then that’s a great thing! I just wove a lie that they fell into! But I’m not a very good liar, and I worry that this might never happen. And if it does, like I said, they might actually believe me...

Since writing is essentially make-believe, and therefore false, it is a little bit like lying, which I hate. So I hate writing!

Monday, July 13, 2009

The Ordinary Oldens

Old people are interesting. I say this because it is obvious that they have been through a lot--they look it, and sometimes they act it. And yet, so frequently, they are boring. I don't mean this as an insult, just a fact. I am chauffer for my boss's husband, who is 92, not "allowed" to drive, and is a formed Medical Doctor. I know he has a billion exciting stories to tell me, but instead we are constantly repeating: "Nice day," "too much rain," "how was your weekend?" It's very simple and tedious. I can stand tedious, much to my amazement, eight hours a day for seven hours a week. It doesn't bother me too much. (I think this is because the "farm" and his very active wife make up for the slow-going calm that he gives off.)

What I really want to write about is how old people change physically. Carlene is 72 now. A couple of years ago, she was sitting in her armchair, wiping up a line of blood on the back of her hand, when she turned to me and said, "I hate getting old. Your skin gets as thin as paper." She can't hear me when I talk to her. "You need to speak up! I can't hear you goddammit!" But Tom (her husband) will just quietly repeat what he's said two or three times until you realize he can't hear you. It's all very strange to me.

Walking slowly is good exercise: I've learned this from weeks of walking next to Tom while he's going up or down the steep driveway, foot by foot, shuffling-like, like his knees hurt maybe, but his back is hunched too. It pushes my legs into override. I have to actually feel my thigh muscles as they move up and down and around, while walking...walking fast is so much easier. We can stretch and ignore any pain, any aches, any anything. The slower one moves, the more one notices. I notice that the dogs won't bark at you if you move as slow as Tom does. I notice that my breathing isn't quite as labored, and I don't feel as rushed as I was just a second ago.

It makes me wish that the ability to slow down wasn't wasted on the old. I want some calmness too!

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Morning Writing

Morning is probably my favorite time to write nowadays. If only mornings here (at my father's house) weren't so loud and balancing precariously between simmering anger and straight-out flash-fight, morning writing might prove easier. It is a constant stream of "he's crazy-she's crazy" at this house in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes it just makes so much more sense to travel to my ex's house and let them call me crazy, too.

He the rock: staying in place and trying to pin her down. She the free-like butterfly, and all he wants is to clip her wings, let her fall back to earth, to him, so they can live together happily. I am nervous for them, and for her daughter, and for myself. I might always think of my own relationships, well, it's not as bad as theirs was...which won't necessarily mean it's anything of an improvement.

Friday, July 3, 2009

A day of puppies and cheese sticks and plenty of
back and
forth, back and

It is almost the fourth of July, and still I have nothing planned. There is this mental alarm clock in my head that screams: "Holiday! Do something! Hang out with friends!" But then I can't find anybody to hang with...I can't hang with Dan and Stephen because all they do is sit around and play board games...Sara can be tedious at times, and is most often with her boyfriend or at the Cape...and I don't talk to anyone else! (And Chris, my ex-kinda-still boyfriend doesn't like organized events AT ALL and probably wouldn't enjoy a day of barbecue and a night of fireworks, unless they were viewed from the privacy of his own bedroom.)

If I had my own house, I would be inviting in Carlene's dogs, sitting them, playing with them, no need for people, and writing while doing so.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Some dog stuff

The dog's stomach is growling. She's been mowing down the grass again. "You're not a cow!" My step mother says in cutesy-voice to the pup. Abby is a Puerto Rican mutt. At 35 pounds, she has four legs, a muzzle, and desert-colored fur. Looking at her, I am reminded of the setting sun at the beach, or perhaps of an oversized chihuahua, with her pricked ears and frightened black eyes. She's a whimp, or "submissive." Hates my dad and other guys. But she likes my boyfriends...Stacey (step mom) thinks this is due to his heavy boots, thundering voice, and attack-like movements. I think she might be accurate in that assumption.

At Carlene's (the Farm) the dogs don't get away with a fear of the human male. They are subjected as often as there's a guy around, and Carlene will have him sit down petting the dog with a pocketful of cookies. Today Chaos (about four months old, she's a harlequin) made the mistake of shying away from the control officer, Matt, who stopped by today. Carlene called the pup, but she ignored, tail lowered, as she hid behind sad-faced Gypsy, perhaps her big sister. Carlene grabbed her, brought her back, and made Chaos stay still while the tall man in the flourescent-yellow jacket and with the heavy boots, petted her and gave her cookies. I sat by her side, to deter any escape plans she might consider. The man smelled of a very strong cologne that even bothered me. I wondered if it wasn't the smell that sent Chaos-puppy running. I was intent on doing the same very shortly.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Night fades in like shadow during summertime. And the clouds with this rain block all light that may be emitting from the moon. Is it dark? Full? Waning? I know not.
Every day moves like glee, as I work at the farm, driving a 92-year-old man around in the durango, smiling at every driving "correction" he makes. "Use your mirror when you're getting into the lane," "Don't slow down!", "You're going too fast!", "watch it now..." It's more amusing than irritating most times. When we come back to the farm, I feel like I'm home, the 32 to 40-inch great danes come wagging their bottoms toward me, Gypsy (wobblers) nearly knocking herself over, she's wagging that damn tail so hard. The tail of a dane is like a pure leather whip. A fresh puddle of pee in front of the fire place. Newspapers tossed haphazardly over old puddles around the rest of the house. Blanket-covered couches against the walls, a black-and-white picture of Carlene (the head honcho, or the pony-leader) walking a pig by leash through falling snowflakes. She's smiling. To anyone who knows her, a smile is a rare treat.
I come home, sit in front of the blank screen, and wait for a story to hit. It never really does. So I write what I know: about the dogs, about Carlene, about my sister and how she gave herself bangs, about my parents and their terrible marriages. I try to steer myself away from writing about the junkyard I grew up with, or about my grandmother's bus. I write about Abby, or at least think about writing about her. I write about fake people I have never met, but who I want to exist, if only so that I might have someone to talk to. I write about all of my ex-boyfriends, over and over again, trying to puzzle out their issues, and mine as well, having dated them.
But mostly, I write like this: I write about writing about things. I know it must be done, but haven't yet been able to bring myself to do it.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Music blah

If you're ever in the mood to get happy, find this song on google: "People Should Smile More" by Newton Faulkner. It's got that easygoing reggae sound, like Jason Myraz music, "I'm Yours." Little of this spund of music seems to exist, considering pandora.com keeps resetting after it goes through 20 or 30 songs. This music makes me calm rather than irritated or hyper.
I prefer singing to any other instrument (perhaps because I can't play any of them...) but people tell me I'm good, and I know that's true. Maybe I'm not a Christina Aguilara or Amy Evanescence, but I can win myself some free passes to roller palace! (And did.)
My favorite songs to sing loud are Evanescence, Merril Bainbridge, and random oldies. I LOVE Donna Summer "Last Dance" and "Hot Stuff." All right..."Bye bye bye!" is no longer on my list.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Blog #1 some Carlene stuff

I have been writing about my childhood in the third person. This makes the painful memories much easier to delve into and confess without that feeling of hopeless misery. I've also been reading "Bird by Bird" written by Anne Lamott. It's a very good book, and I suggest it to all other writers, although it is a bit depressing. "Writing Down The Bones," is by far my favorite writing book.
I'm also working again this summer at a farm I've been working at for years now. It's the Service Dog Project, where we breed and train great danes to become service dogs, but it's run by this crazy lady--Carlene White. She is TOTALLY awesome, and any journalist's fantasy character, because she does so much, and has all these really simple complications, and she's just a little scary. She's my idol. In any case, she keeps hiring me, so I must be doing something right. She used to run Animal Episodes, where she trained animals for movies and commercials and things. The last movie she helped with was "Session 9," the movie that came out in 2001 or something, there's a dog in there somewhere that she brought. She's always looking for volunteers (and donations) so if anyone is interested in meeting her, you should go to Ipswich and just do it.
This is my first "blog" post, persay, so patience please. Until tomorrow!