July 16
I read a blog the other day (3 Shared Paths, one of my favorites), and the latest post discussed the recent solar eclipse and how long it would be until the next one: 19 years. Rebecca mused on how long 19 years feels—not is, chronologically but really feels—and how much a life can change in that time span. My favorite gem: What will be the themes in your life 19 years from now? Take some time to really think about it because you’re building that time in your life right now. That hit a nerve. Definitely. 19 years ago, I was a different person. Hell, that was three whole people ago. In 1991, I was idealistic, lazy, depressed, and hopeful. Yes, all at the same time. I had my whole future ahead of me and I knew it, so I didn’t waste much time with the present. Unfortunately, that particular present was the last place I had the chance to see my great-grandmother alive. Or visit my childhood home which was later bulldozed for the maintenance area of a public golf course. And it wasn’t long afterward that I had a crisis of faith, my first broken heart (which is really the only one that matters, isn’t it?), and a breakdown in the identity of my youth. So much has changed since then, and I must have been the one that changed it—for better and for worse. I’ve rebuilt, and I’m better for it. You always are. It takes a lot of breaking to make a solid person. That doesn’t mean it was simple. When you’re a kid convinced of invincibility, as all kids are, the first problem is always the hardest. You disbelieve that bad things really are going to happen, or that your turn for old age is just around the corner. Rebecca’s blog post reminded me of a tiny poem I wrote when I was in my 20s: ~30~ when I am thirty I shall believe that I will die for as a child, both thoughts were equally impossible. I find it in a folder again every few years. Umm, yeah. It happened, just as I suspected it would. I was right. The poem’s a bit overdramatic, as many of my twenty-something and teenage poems were, but the concept still fits. Now I know, without a doubt, that I am going to die. I will have a last breath, leave my body, and go wherever...
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100 years are simply not enough
March 30
7 weird things about me
Far be it from me to be accused of taking things “too seriously”, as claimed by this guy.
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February 24
I’m flashing my boobs in public. Literarily speaking, that is. (No, literarily’s not a real word. But it should be.) Literary Mama has seen fit to publish my poem “Brevity”, available by clicking here. It’s a little weird for me, honestly. I adore this particular publication, and have submitted time and again there, only to have two accepted pieces. (Both of those are here, for anyone who’s interested.) And I’ve always sworn by writing what you feel, not what’s comfortable, so there was no oddity at all in my submitting a piece that deals with secret breastfeeding habits that I picked up casually, remember fondly, and don’t tell anyone about because it’s probably kind of gross. Submitting things like that has never been an issue for me at all. Reading poems aloud about private sexual experiences or my personal failures and embarrassments has happened more than once, in groups from five to twenty. I’ve gotten shocked looks, offended a few folks, and been congratulated for my honesty–sometimes even all at the same event. I’m not shy with my words. So why does seeing this particular poem, which isn’t racy, controversial, or even remotely written in blue language, suddenly making me feel so squirmy? Is it because my step-kid is now old enough to be able to follow a link on my blog and see it? Is it because it’s gross, and not at all sexy? I don’t know. But there’s a poem about my nipples at Literary Mama, I’m flinching as I write this, and I wouldn’t change it for the...
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Flashing my boobs
October 19
Fairy tales are getting stupider
Humpty Dumpty? Apparently, according to the BBC, he can’t break now. He ends up happy and superglued. The old lady in the shoe? She now gives kisses instead of whippings.
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September 28
Many thanks to the editors of The Legendary, who saw fit to publish two of my poems, “Loving Darkness” and “Finger Trails” in Issue #9. These are among the older poems that I haven’t trotted out in a while, and it’s nice to see them find a home. If you’d like, you can read them here. ....
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Two poems up at The Legendary
September 10
As good a time as any
I was transfixed by the tiny grubworm of a human before me, the one who needed everything, at all times, in all measure.
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June 30
Prompted by the previous post about “miracle kids” and where they are now, I was randomly Googling the whereabouts of Baby Jessica and came across this in the Wikipedia entry of the “baby in the well” event: “McClure’s rescue was credited mostly to paramedic Robert O’Donnell and police officer William Andrew Glasscock Jr., both of whom received tremendous media attention. In 1995, O’Donnell shot himself to death while suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder. In 2004, Glasscock was sentenced to 15 years in prison on charges of sexual exploitation of a child, sexual assault, and improper storage of explosives.” The entry notes that citations are needed, but this article verifies the story: http://www.nytimes.com/1995/07/23/magazine/death-on-the-cnn-curve.html It’s truly something to read. The article is long, but every page is well worth the time. According to the report, the pressure of having been the baby-saving celebrity eventually became too much. When the Oklahoma bombing happened and appeared on the nightly news a few years later, O’Donnell was upset that he didn’t have enough money to make the trip to go help. The article says that his mother reported him thinking about how much psychological help the rescuers themselves would need after everything was said and done. There’s another whole other entry that could be written about the second guy mentioned in the Wikipedia paragraph, and how apparently even a child molester once did a great thing for a baby in trouble; but I’m too worked up at the moment about O’Donnell. Feel free to add your thoughts (on either) in the comment trail. (Image...
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The guy who saved Baby Jessica shot himself?
June 30
Where are they now – miracle kids
Is it a bonus to not remember the horrific day, to not really understand what’s going on and why everyone else is so sad?
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