3.1. I Write…

Because the ink is my air

And the words are my breaths.

Because it hurts to stifle the gypsies that dance in the catacombs of this mind.

Because the thirst is vampiric

Primal and raw.

Because nothing is so delicate as the clacking of keys

Stroking of pens

Slide of paper

Visions of a visionary

The bird that soars within me

Free to speak and preach and be

Free

To give and tell and share and project

Images onto the wall

Because they are real

Each character and place

The plot has happened within me

The souls linger

Begging to be recognized

Acknowledged .

Forget the rest. This is not about poetics but the dream within the dream that runs from a brutal reality of living nightmares.

This is my ladder out of the dark hole. This is my rope of redemption. Pulling myself from the grave I was shoved into from the womb.

Because of a family tree that has rotted and withered in the darkness of secrets.

Because I want to be more than a dealer, a player, a con, a liar, a manipulator, a thief, a criminal, a user, an abuser.

Because these words are the seeds to plant new trees.

Of shade and fruit

That will bare the souls of stories and stories of souls.

Because my son will NEVER go to sleep hungry.

Because my son will NEVER know the shame of monopoly money.

Because my son will NEVER hide in a school bathroom, stifling his own cries within a stall as the remnants of their words bloom into scars upon the fleshy self-esteem they devour.

Because my son will NEVER will never be asked to be a part of the con so tomorrow can be easier. And I still wonder if those debilitating migraines stem from her wicked demands of bashing a broken piece of wall against my adolescent skull because “you’ve got to make it believable so we can sue.”

Because my son will NEVER curl his toes to fit into a shoe two sizes too small while I live lavishly.

Because it is my job to use what I know, those voices, those stories, that pain, and the creative juices that flow through my veins like the blood that trickles from their lips to make something beautiful.

To keep a promise that his tomorrow will be the rainbow to all of my yesterdays.

Because the pain of my past is worth the glory of his future.

Because I will make this life count.

Because I will build the foundation of his greatness.

Because he will NEVER know those types of tears.

My hands slam against the keys with purpose.

With conviction.

Because my hands will do for him what no hands have ever done for me.

I write…

Because I have to.

2.44. A Night With The Muse

Have to be up at 6am to get ready for work. Reading in bed (How To Talk To A Widower by Jonathan Tropper) and I decided sleep just wasn’t for me tonight. Coffee brewing…here goes…

12:27am – Started this post. Smoking a cigarette and listening to Placebo – Running Up That Hill (GREAT SONG!!!!)

1:04am – Have to butcher, massacre, annihilate, slaughter, vaporize 68 pages of raw material, paragraphs, dialogue, ideas I have stored for almost 3 years in order to be ready for Camp NaNoWriMo in 8 days. Replaying Placebos Running Up That Hill because the song fits the mood of the piece so well thus far. Even quoted a few of the lyrics. Don’t know how that works but I think if the character is relating to them in a tense moment…I should include them. Sometimes music is the strongest dialogue for a situation. It will just have to work for right now. Back to it.

1:43am – Listening to Toxic by Cheesa. Just deleted (still saved in another file in case I regret that choice) 1,111 words. Recorded 458 new words to be used.  Don’t know how I feel about the new piece but would rather record it now than wait til the 1st (some rules must be bent if I’m going to get this thing done). Not feeling awesome about where Earth came from but it will just have to work for the moment until I can think of something better. Refuse to get stuck on a tiny detail. Have a bad habit of doing that and not finishing pieces so I’m just going to continue and worry about that during editing. Hope that’s the right decision. Radioactive by Imagine Dragons

1:52am – Oh shit…I need more coffee!!! Open Heart Surgery (Epic Love Song!!!)

2:12am – Did I mention I work a 10 hour shift today…this may not have been a smart decision but it does feel great to be writing right now. Johnny Cash – God Is Gonna Cut You Down 

2:14am – Angel Massive Attack

2:27am – Listening to Antichrist Superstar – Marilyn Manson. STILL love this entire Album. Dried Up, Tied and Dead To The World So far I have gotten past 97% of my road blocks pertaining to this piece. I am pretty sickly excited about it. On my second huge cup of coffee and sipping water between. I should probably eat at some point but don’t feel like moving from the computer. I know that I should leave all of the new material for the 1st but the whole point of me participating in Camp this year is to make this novel happen. If I say, “nope gotta wait” I’m standing in my own way again and I really refuse to do that. So screw it, I’m going to write and keep pushing myself and if the muse comes to me every damn day before Camp starts and every day after…I’m gonna write. Guilt free.

2:32am – Word Count of Deleted Material – 2,297 Words. Word Count of Kept/New Material – 2,851

2:55am – Eating Corn Chips…feeling a little tired but still going. Work in 4 hours – CAN’T SLEEP NOW! Mind as well make the most of my time.

3:07am – I am not an accomplished writer. I work 40 hours a week at a job. It is not my passion. It pays my bills. A huge part of my soul fights the day to day grind I live. My soul refuses to believe I was born to do this. To have a job and go through each day just living to work. Working to live. No passion behind it all. And I ask myself…what is the difference between me and someone accomplished. The thriving artist and the artist who touches the dream? My opinion…the time we spend on the craft. If I can spend 40 hours a week doing something I don’t love to pay my bills…why am I not spending 40 hours a week doing something I DO LOVE to make my dreams come true?

3:40am – Just got complicated and I don’t know if I fixed the jumble/overlap/contradiction/too many damn characters involved/whatever the hell just happened for things to make sense. In my outline, I wanted two characters to be responsible for something but in my original notes, I wanted two others to be responsible so I had to adjust and…like I said…don’t know if I did it successfully or if I just made a confusing hot mess but it’s almost 4am and I don’t feel like making my brain hurt or to discourage myself so I’m just going to say tis good for now and keep going…think I need more coffee…damn I should probably have slept…did I mention I have to work a 10 hour shift today. This day may just suck hardcore.

4:47am – Wish I didn’t have to go to work today. Not because I’m tired. Because I’d love to spend the next 10 hours writing.

4:59am – 3,216 deleted thus far in edits. Damn that’s major.

5:02am – Just got a text from one of my favorite people. Slacking and talking on the phone.

5:36am – Still on the phone…looks like the writing is over for the night.

6:14am – Getting ready for work. What a great night.

2.36. Rain

She will skim the surface

With blades of grass

To deliver the aqueous formula

Slow like honey

Heavy in hue

Trickling,

Drizzling,

Glistening,

Steady,

Pouring,

Clotting into hail

Her wrists are open

As cumulus clouds deliver surrender

A torrent of life

Laid to rest on the tiles of a bathroom floor.

2.33. He Kissed Me

And I felt like putty

Like the sky at 7:53am on a Tuesday while Bob Marley played in someones car…”No woman no cry.”

Like an empty bottle of creamy baby oil left atop an unused counter…waiting

Like a cool bottle of wine, uncorked but owned

Like a valley unpaved by mankind.

He kissed me 

And I felt like an orgasmic tigress

An unleashed heathen

A closeted slut

A pornographic master

A willing submissive

An intrigued Dom

Waiting Prey

The hungry predator.

He kissed me 

And floodgates opened

Unfaked

Unprecedented

Untouchable

Unknown

Unsure

Unleashed

Lips to lips

Exhales

Lips to throat

Inhales

Palms to palms pressed, fiercely, against cold brick

Lips to chest

Whimpers

Dreaming

Pleading

He kissed me

With every intent of staying

And fleeing

Gasping for more

My oxygen in his lungs

My everything in his hands

My world in his words

Anywhere

Anytime

He kissed me

And I was something else

Someone else

A vixen

A kitten

A little bit of both

A culmination of what shouldn’t be and what had to be

Lips to stomach

Staring at the back of eyelids

Familiarizing scents and tastes

Tongues sway

Linger

Hover

Lips to inner thigh

He kissed me 

And I watched him beg

To feel pretty lips

Below the hips

For one thrust

One drink

One…

One…

One…

2.29. The Stars Shine

This post gives me great joy to write. But it also has a deep rooted past. And so, we travel back to the first year I moved to Kansas.

Working for an in-home mental health care facility, I spent hours upon hours with a new set of people while our clients slept soundlessly in their beds. Between bed rotations, medicine distribution, and breathing checks…the staff would hang out in the living room and chit chat or play hours of card games. 

J and I sat in the living room for our first overnight shift together. We had eight hours to burn before our clients had to be woken for their daily activities…all we had was time to burn. He told me he’d had one girlfriend but that was it. And without skipping a beat, he divulged everything about his deepest secrets. He was gay. But his family had raised him Baptist and his father was a preacher; a man respected in the community for his devotion to God. J had tried being with a girl to “fix” himself. But it hadn’t worked. 

“So, have you come out to your family?”

J looked puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

He explained that he knew his feelings were wrong. There was no reason in coming out because he would never live that sinful life. He would never betray his God or his family. He would not burn in hell for the lust of the body. 

“So, you’re just going to be alone forever?”

He laughed at my “ignorance,” and explained that he wasn’t alone because he had Gods love. 

“But wouldn’t your God want you to be happy?”

He said he was but his eyes said otherwise. 

Fast forward more than a decade.

An attractive, Jesus loving hipster enters my world. I immediately lean on him for all of my Godly questions. But the world that we live in can’t understand why someone like him and someone like me would ever really talk. So the rumors started. I was trying to tempt him. I wanted to bring him over to the dark side. We were probably having secret kissing sessions when no one was looking.

And it pissed me off. Because no one knew the conversations we’d had. No one knew that we stood in a parking lot at 4am talking about his love for God. No one knew that he’d revealed, he too, had felt things for the same sex but couldn’t act upon them because of his love for his Lord. No one knew that I cried for this boy and told him the story of J. That my heart broke to see someone so amazing trapped by their own love…only to be left deprived of love.

A distance built between us and I will admit that I grew to dislike him immensely. I felt betrayed. How could he open his world to me in such a way and yet distance himself from me as if I were a fucking leper? I hadn’t judged him or told him what he felt was wrong. I had embraced him and he’d turned the other cheek.

I had a moment when I thought he wanted me to shun him for his revelations. When he wanted me to be like everyone else. That would have been easier. But I hadn’t and instead…I’d been thrown away like garbage. What a friendship, I thought.

The boy moved away. And I shouldn’t care.

But I am beyond happy for this boy. I have learned that in his move…the star found his puzzle piece, has grown even closer to his God in his new love, and has learned to be honest with himself and the world he aspired to change. I watch from a distance and I am elated to see pictures and posts of pure, genuine love. My tears were not in vain. Everything turned out the way it should have and someone who is truly a gift to this world now knows it’s possible. To love with your whole heart AND to be loved wholeheartedly.

When he became a star

2.28 – Digital Dating Diary (Entry1)

Real messages from real people showing really sad attempts…

“Your son is very handsome , your not so bad yourself, im a single dad, business owner, and looking for someone to hang with in the little free time I have, so if your interested in rich Italian guys message me back”

“-May your wings lift you to the top of the world”

“Yet, a true happiness calls through the shadows of my loneliness stirring my heart to take again another chance risking pain once again….oh how I must find pleasure in the pain.”

“Priceless, you’re priceless!! No dollar amount can buy the joy & happiness you bring. You are the first lady worthy of a king, my queen. The moment I set eyes on you, I knew I would fall. You make it better! lets chat sweetheart, i would love to get to know U”

“Damn Lil momma any way u dig white boys”

“I wanna know you”

“Hello how are you doing and what movies do you like seeing and things like to do for fun maybe bowling; dancing; mini golf; playing pool; darts or anything fun like that just asking………………..”

“Hey I’m Brandon. I read your profile and you cought my eye. What is the first thing you look for in a guy? How’s was your weekend?”

“Hi i probably have no chance but i thought id balls up and message u and tell u wow”

“Wuz up. How u doin? Thought mayb we can chat n talk a lil get to know eachother hit me up.dnt b a stranger get at me”

 

I might be a bitch for how critical I am. But I’m not hoping for some random guy. I’m not hoping for some fair weather connection, intimate encounter, or sugar daddy. I want to fall head over heels in love. And so I wait…and laugh in the meantime.

2.26. Damn You, John Hughes

In light of my current read, Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, and the continuous reference to the John Hughes film, The Breakfast Club, I’ve decided to answer the detention assigned question in 1000 words. Here goes.

Who Do You Think You Are?

I ask myself this question time and again and the answers are numerous and yet nothing substantial for personal growth. It is always a reflection of where I came from, experiences that have influenced my life. So, I’ve come to believe I am my history. To answer in this way is to imply that I am what I was and therefore have no idea how to unearth the me I was supposed to be despite circumstance. But I suppose everyone needs a place to start and my history is all I know. So, maybe, in recollections, I will find the answer of who I am in the ashes of who I’ve been. 

I am the daughter of a con artist and a retired police officer. I am the step-child of a deceased Jewban who could probably answer this question for me better than I can. I am an incest and rape survivor. I am a diagnosed Bi-Polar/PTSD patient. I am an aspiring writer and an avid reader. I am a Puerto Rican female who does not feel connected to anything culturally, socially, mentally, spiritually, or physically. 

I am a divorcee. I am a problematic human being who delves into the deepest trenches of pessimism because optimism means I have hope and hope scares the crap out of me. I am a college drop out. I am a closet romantic. I am a scared little girl. 

I am a mother. I am a soldier for my son and his number one cheerleader. I am an example of all the things he should probably not want in a companion. 

Yo, this shit is depressing.

I am all of the labels I have ever been given over the years. And I am a trapped entity; unable to escape the baggage and drowning under the weight. 

I am a spirit lost in what I wanted and what is. 

I am a bitch when I think I have to be, which seems to be a lot. I am a woman willing to forgive but searching for my own forgiveness. Yearning to be cleaned of my sins that leave me in the spiral of hopelessness I continuously fall into. 

I am far more vulnerable than I am comfortable with admitting. I am weaker than I want to say. I am struggling to know why I am here. 

Perhaps I am still damaged from the ongoings of recent years. I am still buried under the pain of loss, death, failure. Perhaps I cannot answer who I think I am because I’m not ready. Because I’m scared to leave a page blank and admit that I think that’s all I am. A blank page. A nothing. A mistake. 

Nowhere near 1000 words and still no answer. But an honest, horribly honest start. Something to revisit. Something I will attempt again at a later date.

2.21. I’ll Take That

“If you can’t accept me at my worst,

you sure as shit don’t deserve me at my best. 

Call me crazy

For every outlandish, brash, bold, blunt verbal vomit I will lay on the land. For every lapse in judgement and weakened moment. For the insecurity that beats in my chest. For the endless array of questions as to what and why and how and when and what-if?

Call me crazy

For wanting love despite the madness. For believing in a pure, true, and deep connection based on something other than violent thrusts and faked endings. For dreaming about love stories even greater than the sun and moon leaving letters of adoration in the stars. For anticipating something so profound, the world just won’t know what to do with us.

Call me crazy

For expressing the happiness, sadness, joy, horror, thrill, worry of what this life has to offer. For being a cryptic read. For wanting effort, loyalty, honesty, integrity, passion, romance, intensity, forgiveness, growth, inspiration, laughter, conversation, sincerity, hope…and more laughter.

Call me crazy 

For feeling frail after the world I called forever crashed down upon me. For not being as strong, as tough, as bold, as brave, as resilient, as optimistic as the next one. For feeling just a tad broken after the glass castle broke. For not healing to your liking.

Call me crazy

Call me what you will. A failure. A disappointment. A mistake. A burden. I’ve heard it all before.

I am a beautiful chaos. Not meant for just anyone. Not meant for those weak of mind and heart. For some, a blessing to never know. To each his own. Souls like mine aren’t meant for the world to love. Being me comes with the risk of loneliness and labels.

Call me crazy. 

From a cowardly lion, that’s a fucking compliment. 

2.20. The Crusades

Whatever.

The majestic strummed a line on the violin…blood soaked fingertips…forcing melancholy melodies into the universe…bounced back from a red planet…echoing in the midst of gunfire and a decrepit womans screams.

Whatever.

Story telling empty pages of empty books…eating from empty baskets of rotted bread…swimming in salt baths minus the water…frozen in gasoline icicles…waiting for ignition…for…release…from still rivers and looming typoons.

Whatever.

Shedding her skin…she slips under and sighs with the sinking feeling of weightlessness. As nothing has felt so freeing as the intoxication of maddening drum beats and electric currents. A senseless sense of sensibility.

Whatever.

A lifelong concussion…forbidding sleep and sanction…love that died…resurrection sucked from the realm of possibility and replaced with a fucking song that means…nothing.

Whatever.

But the sun shines…

Whatever.

No, not whatever. The sun shines, despite memories. Despite mistakes. Despite the scars of a lifetime. Despite seeing the skeleton in the mirror instead of pushing it back into the closet. Despite the nightmares that lurk in the shadows of daylight. Despite the recorder that relays a constant replay of regret and rejection and “you’ll never do any better.”

No, not whatever. The sun shines, despite me. Despite a fear to live and a fear to die. Despite each breath one takes and the ones we hold in during those questionable hours right before the moon has bidden farewell to muskrats in meadows that never really existed.

No, not whatever. The sun shines and the world moves and the people continue despite the false pretenses recognized but ignored by carnage infused children living in the catacombs of our alternate selves.

Oh shit, none of this makes a lick of sense.

But it does.

To the lost spirits who will spend a lifetime hoping and wanting and praying and needing and wishing and dreaming but refusing…to accept…to claim…to feel. To the lost spirits who will self sabotage rather than bask in the heat of magic and the draft of cooing heat. Yes, cooing.

Because we choose this life. We choose to forge on in this crusade. Alone. Altered. Unarmed. Seeking mercy but expecting malevolence.

Sinking to her knees, that girl, she begged the wrong one to accept her. To embrace her. To forgive her existence. She relinquished control to someone who knew not the damage that could be done.

A lost spirit that believed she was safe behind brick walls. Refusing to allow a soul to know a soul. Safe…no. Wrong…more than likely. A ghost lay behind those stones, all the while, that girl lay submerged under the rubble of defeat.

Whatever.

Yes, whatever. As today is, like no other day, a reason to emerge from the shell. The sun shines. The crusade is not to hide from, but to feel, the heat.

2.18. For The New Year

Dear 2013,

Your predecessor sucked. I have high hopes for you and the possibilities you may bring.

  1. Finalize this divorce. 
  2. Move into a larger space so Hunter has his own room.
  3. GO TO DISNEY WITH MY FAMILY!
  4. Visit NYC with Hunter
  5. Get a better paying job.
  6. Take (at least) one college course.
  7. Start working out on the reg.
  8. Take a cooking/dancing/something class with my bestie
  9. Start a savings account solely for Hunter
  10. BUY HUNTER A DOG!
  11. Kiss the muse aka submit my writing for critique/publication
  12. Give Hunter everything he deserves.
  13. Be happy.

Sincerely yours,

…..