2/12 Poem

The first poem of the year wasn't worth posting, so I threw you a bone with the Halloween-esque poem. What follows is the official second poem of the year.

If you write, maybe you will understand what I'm feeling. Sometimes I sit down to write and I feel like every word is utter crap, and then other times I sit down and the words flow from me quickly, so quickly that it almost feels like the poem is using me as an outlet. I imagine my poem floating around in space,undulating among airwaves, waiting for a writer to sit down with a little confidence and ink.

Sometimes I start with a line and what follows comes as a total surprise to me, like tonight. I had a first line and nothing else. Perhaps a Field of Dreams reference is appropriate here.

“Lover Seeks Kiss”

One third of the photograph is bursting:
pink and green azalea bush in full bloom,
dainty stamen extending shyly,
like a lover seeking a first kiss.
Cheeks blushing as fingers creep
over dewy skin, goose bumps
spreading, exploding over timid flesh
covering the total topography of skin.
Connecting islands,
one freckle to another, quickly expanding
like diffusion in a controlled lab,
like the suddenness of spring.
Stolen kiss,
hands sneak around hips:
fire lit.

Thriving

As I sit on my couch tonight eating Krispy Kreme and listening to Say Anything (no judgement), I find myself thinking about Diane Keaton in Under the Tuscan Sun. I want to know why my divorced life isn't as glamorous as hers. How come I can't go off and have an Eat, Pray, Love adventure and let my soul sop up everything delicious and delectable and heal? Instead, I woke up this morning to my dog ralphing on the empty side of my queen size bed. Meh, I thought sleepily, I can't smell it. I'll just roll over. But then my alarm went off, and since there is no one to hit the snooze button but me, I went ahead and put my bare feet down on the hardwood.

It's not so much that I miss going to bed with someone. Sleeping with a partner is overrated. Someone inevitably snores, or has bed sweats, or funky-fied morning breath. (I, myself, am a self-professed cover hog, and I tend to flail like an octopus. No lie, I tuck the blankets under my body like a caterpillar so they can't be taken away. I dare you to try and unroll me from my cocoon. You will get a karate kick to the face.) No, I don't miss co-sleeping. I miss the hours before sleep: the comfort of sharing a meal with someone, the two hours of t.v. and minor arguments over what should fill the screen, the kiss after quickly brushed teeth... oh and relying on someone else to be the last to turn off the light.

But now? Now I flip the switch and run from the darkness into the comfort of my empty bed. I wake up some mornings and reach, but no one is there. On those mornings, I'm filled with an emptiness that not even a whole sleeve of Ball Park Hot Dogs can erase (did I mention I'm eating like crap?). On my worst days, I hate him for leaving me to pull too-full trashbags from undersized cans. Or I scream his name like a cuss word when I hit my finger with a hammer trying to hang something on my bare walls in the apartment that I really don't like. I put "You Outta Know" on repeat and belt it so loud that my neighbors quiet their t.v. to listen. I sleep too much, or too little. I wish his little internet skank the clap. Or herpes. Or crabs. (I know it's not Christian... but thinking about her itching open scabs makes me laugh.)

But most days, I'm talkin' 5 out of 7 days, I wake up to my yellow comforter (yes, yellow! No more neutral man-pleasin' colors), and I smile into the anticipating face of Margot. I go to the store to buy groceries, and I do that thing he always hated (I talk to EVERYONE at the check out and find out their life story, tell them mine, make friends with strangers, and generally hold up the line). I spend my nights reading smutty romance novels, painting (then repainting) my toenails. I put Margot's hair into a mohawk and then into a ponytail, drink a bottle of wine and sing Hank. I go to Bible study or the gym, watch my girl's play soccer, fantasize about Marcus Flutie or Bo Duke or Edward Cullen or . . .

I write a poem, go out with the girls, have a date, shop the farmer's market, analyze my net worth, count the days until my next vacation, flirt with available men, count the number of times I blink during a commercial, make play lists for days of the week. I drive through this strange town with the windows down and let the hot, yellow sunshine dance on my newly darkened hair.

I listen to that old brag (I am, I am, I am), and I rest assured that this is for the best.

Oh Snap: Novel Writing on the Fly

Yes. I finally am completing one of my long standing goals: I am participating in NANOWRIMO and by the end of this month I will have a 50,000 word novel. I don't have a plan. Well, actually I do. I'm on the No Plan Plan which in itself is kinda like a plan. I decided to use my life as a spring board, so I'm writing a novel about a little girl named Janie who loses her mother to cancer. I'm writing the story from a 3rd person perspective, but I am trying to capture the thoughts and actions of a child. Getting started was fairly easy because I've had some scenes floating in my mind for awhile now, but I am a little nervous about the middle half of the book and, well let me be honest, the end of the book because I have no plot line. So basically I have a decent beginning, and then my book will likely falter.

But I fear not! Because Margot is sitting on my lap like a cat offering me looks of encouragement, and my novel may be the most boring novel ever written. It may not have a climax, but hey at least I took the time to write which is really the purpose of NANOWRIMO. WRITE! EDIT NOT!

In other news, I'm taking a bunch of old clothes to the Goodwill today. The Hubs and I organized our "guest bedroom" this weekend, and I finally have sorted out the things I want to keep and the things I want to get rid of. Organizing is very easy to do with the hubs because he and I are both minimalist. We hate crap taking up space. In fact, we are probably uber minimalists because I found myself asking him if I could throw away my wedding dress. I mean, let's be honest, what purpose does it serve? If I have a daughter she won't want to wear my dress. It'll be out of style. We decided to leave it in the back of the closet for another few months and re-evaluate my feelings at that time because sometimes I throw things away in the heat of organization and then I find myself looking for them months later and kicking myself for tossing that item. Case in point: my chocolate vitamins. I have no recollection of throwing them away, but they are gone. Ah well.

Sorry for the hodgepodge update, but it's been awhile, so I thought I'd kill a few goals with one post. :)

All Mine, Head to Toe, Come on Come on Whistle Blow!

Mr. Wookie works off of five days tonight! Yesssss! (I has husband? I has him alllllllll weekend?!)

Sorry, I was a little excited.

Besides sitting in anticipation, I've been doing "research" on where to send my poetry. I feel like I'm giving up my "baby" for adoption. These poems need to go to a good home. A safe home. A place where they will be read and mulled over.

But I've been contemplating my placement for months. Literally months. And I've come to the conclusion that I've just got to do it. Just send them out. Everywhere. I'm not gonna stop until I get a bite. What's the worst that can happen? I can be refused. Big doody. I've been rejected before. It's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. (I mean, what can be worse than having your first boyfriend trample all over your heart in the third grade? That's right. NOTHING.)

I'm gonna do it. Tonight. I'm gonna mail some poetry. I'll keep you updated. Here's hoping.

I horde my writing and pennies in the same jar.

I have a confession: since I've been accepted to an MFA program, I've written 0 poems. 0. Not even a measly line. I have thoughts of poems. Sometimes I plan them out in my head and subsequently forget about them. For example, I know there is a poem brewing in my head about how I've had to be my own cheerleader. No one gets excited for me the way a mom would. Sometimes I ache to call my mom and have her be so excited about my life that she wets herself. Too much info? Probably. I guess my point is that I've had to be my own motivation. I'm not giving my mama bragging rights.

Anyway, the poem is there. It has drifted in and out of my head like breath. Sometimes the poem comes to me in prom images such as calling my former babysitter to come over just so someone could experience this "important" moment with me. or graduation images... or other mom/daughter moments. For example, standing in line at Wal-mart with a mom and her daughter. Daughter is my age. Mom goes on and on about daughter's accomplishments. I listen politely. How can I list my accomplishments and not be seen as self-centered?

How can I write and not be self-centered? Dealing with loss is what I know. I don't want to wallow around in the loss of my mother for twenty more years, but my writing thrives on my own emotional evaluation. and I don't want to keep opening up wounds in my family either (more on this later).

The best case scenario: at the risk of seeming self-centered, my writing helps someone grieve their own loss.

I turn the muddled poem around in my head again, knowing that eventually it will surface on the page, and one day I will feel confident enough to send it to a lit mag. In the meantime, I will horde my finished poems, rereading them ever so often to keep them alive.