Pages






"For the sound of a broken heart,
Crack a joke."

-A.E. Stallings




Thursday, September 3, 2015

Happy Birthday Dad!

It's interesting to me that as the years go by, I realize just how like my Dad I am. We laugh now over this fact, this image of my Dad in a woman's body, and I realize, at the same time, that my father taught me what I needed to know about how society would perceive me, how people would interpret me, how to survive within that structure, and then, how to break those same boundaries. He also taught me, and continues to teach me, how to be my own person. He accepts in me what we share, and also what we do not. Because the difference is we are not the same, merely similiar, and I can build on his honesty over his own mistakes and achievements in order to make my own, in equal parts. It is days like today, that I am reminded how lucky I am to have him in my life.

And I hope that he feels the same, regardless of the time we were in the check out line of the grocery store and I poked him in the side and said, "Look! It jiggles," when the cashier was flirting with him.

Or regardless of the time that I thanked God for my not inheriting his ears, likening them to Disney's Dumbo attempting to fly.

Or even in spite of the time he was fixing a door frame in the house and I walked quietly up to him and waited for him to notice, only to watch him shout, and leap several feet in the air.

Or regardless of the time I decided to be a cheerleader and he was rewarded a pink ribbon declairing him "Best Mom!" for bringing homemade brownies and Gatorade to the games.

Or.... Umm, how about, I love you, Daddy!


Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Continuing the Thread

Well, there's something I forgot to mention when I got carried away on my soup box over rough drafts and what not. I forgot to mention what I've been doing with myself when I'm not writing and/or geeking out. Todays segue is that I am employed! Queue victory dance! And I have been employed for over a year now, which has contributed to my procrastination with this blog. If you've been with me prior to my lapse in posts, you will remember my love of baking, cooking, etc. so I hope that you find it as fitting as I do that I am now a cake decorator at my local grocery store. I love it! ...And will continue to love it once I am over my work injury.

But anyway! I decided to tack this on because something funny occurred yesterday with my boss. So, I was finally able to move into my new apartment--last minute, but hey, it did happen--but in order to do so, I needed yesterday off from work. Now, keep in mind that I have been on limited duty due to my injury, so I haven't really been decorating, so imagine my boss' chagrin when two cake orders were taken for two cakes that she absolutely loathes doing... she called me, asking me just how I got a mountain and a melting lake on the Frozen themed cake. In reality, what she was asking was for me to take pity on her, which I did--don't worry, I'm not that self-sacrificing; I did laugh a bit--and I went in for a couple of hours to do that cake, which also turned into my doing the elaborate Pixy Hollow themed cake we have, as well. Even with a few injury related bumps along the way, my boss and I had a few laughs, and our customers walked away happy. It was a good day, especially since I also got into my new apartment! A day of good karma, so thanks universe!

Moving on! I know that I loaded a heavy-esque poem onto this blog yesterday, so I thought I'd share a more light-hearted rough draft today--Disclosure: light-hearted in terms of my own work now that I read over it first--and, as always, criticism is welcome.

What if.

Hi.
Names aren't important-
Or, at least, not yet.
For now, I'll be your Jane
And you can be my John.
Would you like to try an experiment?

Five minutes--
the timer starts now:
We're lovers.
My heart skips a beat
A rat-a-tat-tat
Over the sight of you.
And desire is a warm blush
that steals all words from us
And I can taste you on my tongue.
I can smell your shampoo on the pillow I awoke upon this morning.
Your hands are a familiar weight that raises goosebumps in memory.
You enrapture me, set my pupils to expanding--

The timer buzzes,
a burn burn burn
Over the loss of us.
We're strangers
And my heart thuds in anxiety
A rat-a-tat-tat
Over the meeting of you.
Uncertainty is a warm blush
that steals all assurances from me.
We speak in inane manners
For I cannnot find the words.
I only smelled my own perfume on the pillow I slept upon,
And your hand is an unfamiliar, passing weight within my own.
You puzzle me, set my mind to racing--

What if, what if, what if.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

A Rough Draft

I've been working on a few projects, and as one takes over, the others seem to sit by the wayside gathering dust. I've decided to revive this blog as a means to devote equal time to each project. For my Undume work, it will stay primarily on thewanderingcrusader.blogspot.com --shameless plug, I know!--and the remaining work, such as poetry, will remain herein.

Therefore, I've decided to start things off where I left my earlier post on: rough drafts. This particular rough draft was written several months ago, and I find myself coming back to it over and over. In the true sense of being a type of confessionalist poet, I used an ongoing topic that never really goes away for me: my mothers' abandonment of my brother and I. Now, don't be alarmed, she simply left us with our father, which I am thankful for everyday. In truth, it bothers me that it bothers me becuase my Dad was and is everything, both father and mother. I never wanted for anything, and regardless of a few bumps and bruises along the way, I think I am a better person for all that he has taught me. Yet, the truth holds that some parts of me, especially now that I think more and more on having children of my own, are bruised by this piece of my history. I remember having people ask me about my mother, and I've always been honest that I didn't know her.

"I'm so sorry," they would say.
"Why?" I would reply because, really, why? I have no memory of the woman who birthed me. I have my father's stories and a few photographs, but there is no emotional tug other than a faint resentment over there being nothing. And yet, I have some moments where that small resentment seems tantamount to coming upon a mountain in my path. Seemingly spiteful, these feelings rush to my forebrain and I have moments of almost na-na-na-na-na, and "I don't need you."

So, why, you may ask in return? I suppose it's because I know that this person is part of why I exist, as well as this person being a complete stranger to me. My father assures me that I would know her, but would I really? Would I notice her out of the crowd, even if she were walking past me?

Hence the topic of this poem (and remember! rough draft!):

Mother, may I
Touch—our hands, our eyes, our mouths?
Mother, may I
Hear—your voice, your laugh, your sorrow?
Mother, may I
Speak—of smiles, of hands to sooth?
May I remember
Solace—for troubled confessions? —Mother?
May I bridge your
Silence—for a chance to touch, to hear, to—
Mother, may I
Tell—of you, to you, with you—
    As more than a figment
    Created—from questions posed to a mirror?
A mirror where
“All reverses save for time.”
So I, a mother:
Child—come touch our hands, our mouths—
Listen to my
Voice—and laugh with me—for we
Will speak of recalled
Memories—a series of moments built
Together—Mother and Child.


Attempting to sleep, but there are...

Two kittens in the night!

They come across a great expanse of polyester and cotten, of ribbed plastic, and of knit dangles

...Mt. Bag!

Stories tell of the great Mt. Bag and its denizens known as books! Too long have they burdened the land, thus! two great hunters were born! Biding their time, they stalked the surrounding land!

Over sill, over chair, through a dish, through a drawer. Over mark, over rail, through a rug, through a wire. They did wander everywhere, until... BAG! The battle was great, and alas! they are great hunters.