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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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.
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.
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!
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!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Matthew: The Machine Boyfriend
Hinges for hands, stencils for thickness, pipe for arms and legs–metal, not plastic or wood. Hollow, like my brother’s skull, and thick, like my boyfriend’s.
Matthew’s hinges are always snapping–snapping for my skirt, my hair, my face. His jewel-stoned eyes are onyx, black and small. They never blink, his eyes, only stare and stare until he sparks and looks away. His small and round door-knocker mouth is hardly ever still, and at times it crosses my mind to take it, knock it against his face, and demand to know if anyone is home. His wiring hair is made up of all sorts of colors and thicknesses; some are as thick as telephone cords, while other, shorter strands are like house wires. My favorite is the single purple strand, which stands up like a marker at times, warning me of when he is angry. His lips are cork-screw material and squishy, they get that way from the oil that must be constantly applied to his door-knocker mouth for movement. His feet are made of wood, making dancing an impossibility.
Matthew does have a joy stick and a couple of mouse balls, but the stick seems so unnatural, and anyway, it’s too soon to tell for how long this relationship will really last.
It is hard to have a boyfriend whose belly is always ice cold, whose arms are rock-solid, and whose grip is like a socket wrench on a nut. Hugging is an obstacle course like no other. I love my Matthew Machine, even if it is only for his hand-hinges. Although his skin is tougher than my teapot, it is smoother and hairless than my own legs after a thorough shave. His non-existent nose makes my silent-but-deadly farts no problem. And anyway, the radio in his head makes being with him romantic. When we are out marching on the beach he can play a slow love song, or a quick-paced tango, although neither one of us has the ability to dance. It makes our relationship a little more realistic.
Matthew’s hinges are always snapping–snapping for my skirt, my hair, my face. His jewel-stoned eyes are onyx, black and small. They never blink, his eyes, only stare and stare until he sparks and looks away. His small and round door-knocker mouth is hardly ever still, and at times it crosses my mind to take it, knock it against his face, and demand to know if anyone is home. His wiring hair is made up of all sorts of colors and thicknesses; some are as thick as telephone cords, while other, shorter strands are like house wires. My favorite is the single purple strand, which stands up like a marker at times, warning me of when he is angry. His lips are cork-screw material and squishy, they get that way from the oil that must be constantly applied to his door-knocker mouth for movement. His feet are made of wood, making dancing an impossibility.
Matthew does have a joy stick and a couple of mouse balls, but the stick seems so unnatural, and anyway, it’s too soon to tell for how long this relationship will really last.
It is hard to have a boyfriend whose belly is always ice cold, whose arms are rock-solid, and whose grip is like a socket wrench on a nut. Hugging is an obstacle course like no other. I love my Matthew Machine, even if it is only for his hand-hinges. Although his skin is tougher than my teapot, it is smoother and hairless than my own legs after a thorough shave. His non-existent nose makes my silent-but-deadly farts no problem. And anyway, the radio in his head makes being with him romantic. When we are out marching on the beach he can play a slow love song, or a quick-paced tango, although neither one of us has the ability to dance. It makes our relationship a little more realistic.
His Room
His Room
Light-colored,
soft rug cushions the
sound
As I jump
from his high wooden bed.
The center of the room is like a
f l o o d
of papers, books and
clothing.
The books on his
shelves
Are sci-fi and fantasy,
Starwars and The Golden Compass.
Posing as a writer,
the boy has writing books
and writes
only
for class.
The blankets on his bed are
thin and rough
Like his body–
the flat belly, the flaming strands of hair.
His curtains are plain
cotton
checkered.
His door is kept open
a little–
Like him–
not closed, but not
w i d e open
Just there–
waiting to be slammed
shut.
Light-colored,
soft rug cushions the
sound
As I jump
from his high wooden bed.
The center of the room is like a
f l o o d
of papers, books and
clothing.
The books on his
shelves
Are sci-fi and fantasy,
Starwars and The Golden Compass.
Posing as a writer,
the boy has writing books
and writes
only
for class.
The blankets on his bed are
thin and rough
Like his body–
the flat belly, the flaming strands of hair.
His curtains are plain
cotton
checkered.
His door is kept open
a little–
Like him–
not closed, but not
w i d e open
Just there–
waiting to be slammed
shut.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Happy-career
Every day there is a new question to be asked, a new problem just begging for a solution. Today that question is troubling, as most of mine about the future are: can I, as a creative, independent and semi-self-conscious individual, become a journalist? Never in my life have I wanted this. I've never liked people very much and, frankly, neither did they. Now I am faced with this dilemma, and it seems to be the only scenario: major in Journalism and become a journalist or major in English and become a teacher. Teaching? ME??? Oh no, what has happened to the world!
My purely fantastical option is to become a freelancer, start my own magazine or newspaper, and just shoot as high as I can, while walking dogs on the side. Forever it seems I have wanted to become a writer--but never did I imagine I would need to write all the time, and write well. I also wanted to be a singer. A Vet. A wildlife biologist. An ethologist. I want a love, a family, a career, and a life, in that order. I guess it's kind of backwards, but it's what I've come to believe is the only way to survive. Priorities have been shifted while others have simply been dropped. My mother, a lawyer, my father, the owner of a car lot.
Jobs involving work with other people never go right. We never get along. I get along with the customers, not the employees, I cater to the people behind the counter, not the ones I stand with. it might be an ego-thing. I'm jealous that they don't have to work where I am, I want them to be happy, so when I get out, maybe I'll be happy too.
My purely fantastical option is to become a freelancer, start my own magazine or newspaper, and just shoot as high as I can, while walking dogs on the side. Forever it seems I have wanted to become a writer--but never did I imagine I would need to write all the time, and write well. I also wanted to be a singer. A Vet. A wildlife biologist. An ethologist. I want a love, a family, a career, and a life, in that order. I guess it's kind of backwards, but it's what I've come to believe is the only way to survive. Priorities have been shifted while others have simply been dropped. My mother, a lawyer, my father, the owner of a car lot.
Jobs involving work with other people never go right. We never get along. I get along with the customers, not the employees, I cater to the people behind the counter, not the ones I stand with. it might be an ego-thing. I'm jealous that they don't have to work where I am, I want them to be happy, so when I get out, maybe I'll be happy too.
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