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That depends a good deal on where you want to get to
a place to hang my hat. Just the one,
not a hatter here.

I went to see the hare,
only he wasn't there. The cat is growling but he seems to be happy.
Am I?
Current Month
Feb. 21st, 2007 @ 12:14 am Gilded Trees in Winter

I used to love the snow. As a kid I would sit there wishing and waiting. It always seemed to snow more last winter. I never understood how come Mom would be so depressed. It was strange to me how such a wonderful thing like snow would send her upstairs to her room. She’d come home after dark, throw the cardboard box on the counter and disappear without a word. The pizza smells wafting up distracted us from her absence and there were no dishes to linger unwashed. At the time it seemed like a win for everyone.


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Jan. 24th, 2007 @ 03:11 pm Giselle's Song
Giselle’s Song

A chimney tumbled down remains of the house long gone
Atop a hill sheltered from the winds of Autumn
Echoes of neighbors compete with the whispers of ghosts.
Fog seeps up from the hollows, seeps up from the valley below,
Seeps up and into our bones.
Birds cry out in the distance
The sun sets, the moon rises.

Shadows long dance towards us arms outstretched, beckoning
Sliding between us they writhe to the notes lightly heard
The phantoms pull you back away from where I lie in the grass
I watch as the danse macrabre begins, I watch as you tire,
I watch as you fall discarded.
Blue silk flutters in the breeze.
The moon rises, the stars burn

Remains of a garden once cared for hidden by a copse of fir
The pictures in the photograph flicker, figures gone
Faded. Memories that never were.
No more can I see the home that was, No more can I see your eyes
No more can I remember those dreams.
Leaves mutter as they fall to the ground.
The stars burn, the moon sets.

The unused road paths up the hill into the clearing
Your face quavers and then, is gone.
Illusory smoke wafts from the stones, puffing
Wrapping around the trees, wrapping around nothing,
Wrapping around me up towards the sky.
Tears drop in triumph.
The moon sets, the skies lighten.
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Oct. 31st, 2006 @ 05:31 am The Child of the Sun

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Aug. 29th, 2006 @ 02:52 am And Down He Run

Hickory, dickory, dock,

The pounding repeated itself on the door.  Hannah ignored it. She ignored him. Jimmy thought that he owned her from the day they met. Two long months she followed after him, cringing at his every look.  Waiting for him to notice her just the once. Once was all she needed.


The mouse ran up the clock.


She thought, it really is all about time. We’re running up the clocks, we’re racing. Racing for our lives.

The clock struck one,


Halfway there.

“I’m getting the manager you crazy bitch!”

Leaning her head against the wall, she didn’t move. He’d just be angrier later.  The angrier he was, the later he’d stay out, the more time she bought to leave.

The mouse ran down!


She couldn’t be the girl he wanted no more. None of this pretending he weren’t coming home late smelling of other cunts.  None of  these trailer dreams. Her momma had wanted something different for her. She was going to the city, she was going to dress up real nice and get her a good job, maybe in a call center, or as a secretary. Somewheres where they’d pay her to look good and smile and play nice.

Hickory, dickory, dock.


Times up. Hannah put the gun back into her purse and pulled out her lipstick. Time to put her face back on.

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Aug. 29th, 2006 @ 02:42 am Blue is for boys

Mistakes happen right? Steve beat his head against the cold tile. Obviously mistakes happen.  Sara had handed him the brown paper bag as she left and he entered. As he entered the small private Hell she created.  As far as he knew, in here is where his child was born. In this room was where his life was ending. Dropping the pregnancy test upon the ground, he thought, “so much for pink is for girls and blue is for boys.” It’s all blue. Blue means, “Pregnant.” Blue means he’s not old enough! Sara had smiled when she left. The brief moment at the doorway where they paused, lives passing one another. He’d smiled back at her, the light caught at her amber eyes. A moment frozen in time. He’d just had to use the john! He took the bag from her, and a kiss. Steve wanted to go back. Back to before he smiled at her. He didn’t even know why he opened it, but Sara was always so fond of surprises. Random cheap cards or grotesque toys. Anything. Surprise! Counting up the twenty dollars in his savings account it still came up to twenty dollars. The stick fell from his lifeless hands. He was never going to see Europe. Never going to climb the Incan ruins. Never going to know the realization of designing a house. As it dropped upon the floor he thought again of Sara’s eyes. Eighteen was too young to die. Opening the door, he left it behind him, alone on the floor in the dingy flickering light.

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Jun. 4th, 2006 @ 09:21 pm Sitting on the Guard Rail 'round midnight

Sitting on the guard rail ‘round midnight

Hazy mist drifts down from the waning moon

The van, our bodies quake with the passing

            Of speeding

            Eighteen wheelers

Breeze and dew compete to damp our anxious spirits

Sitting on the guard rail ‘round midnight


Light’s flashing, car’s stopped

Confusion builds in the back seat

Driver leans into the wheel

Playtime ceases, hesitant joviality emerges

Light’s flashing, car’s stopped






The quiet of the empty road is much changed from the rushing of unknowing cars.  A few fears, highway bandits exist still in our temporal world.

The moon is a day and a half past full.

It wasn’t cloudy when we stopped, but the sinking fog is creating a screen before us of silence.


I think it’s exciting, but it’s not my car.

Time is slowed, today is the day no one wears a watch.

The car hood is warm.

Bugs nibble on my flesh.

My right ear itches.


I just went and picked some flowers.  Flowers are fun.  The ground is all wet from our constant scattered rain showers.

The hazard lights are flashing, a trucker stopped.


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May. 24th, 2006 @ 04:00 pm Guilty as charged
Assigned reading referenced:

“Why I Write,” Orwell, “Politics and the English Language”   IDeresiewicz, “You Talkin’ to Me?” Hampl,  “Memory and Imagination.”

I am an unintentional subscriber to the erudition of language. As both Orwell and Deresiewicz lamented, well okay, they lamented lots of things, many of which happen to be traits I occasionally incorporate in my writing, However! As they lamented, I will say things such as "utilized" instead of used. I have been known to throw in unnecessary adjectives and adverbs. I am exercising “pretentious diction” and “meaningless words”. (Orwell)

Am I at fault? Yes. Without a doubt. But so is the system, I'm not a conscientious objector. Particularly in my current environment of pseudo academia, I often find that fluff and atrocious writing receive the better grade, I mean, typically achieve more desirable responses from professors.  I’m certainly not proud of the drivel that has my name next to it, but I appreciate the occasional A.  I just wish that I could erase that feeling of cheating that drapes itself lightly around me. How are they not on to me?

It’s not cheating, or assuming a level of pretentiousness. It’s a great deal of how I’ve been trained to think. Is it because of the politics inherent in language as Orwell suggests? I think so. Not politics as we typically construe it, but politics shapes what we leave behind and what influence is given to others. Politics determines cultural perceptions. I’m a victim as well as a perpetrator.


Which brings me to the ideas discussed, and even inspired in Didion and Hampl; I mean, to the question. Why do I write? What is it? What do I hope to get out of it? Why have I saved every scrap I’ve ever scribbled upon that I have rescued from my mother’s purging of clutter?  I feel like,


I chase butterflies.


I don’t really want to catch them.  I did a butterfly project in fourth grade, when I began I had no idea the actual goal is to kill them.  We exposed the creatures to fumes (usually gasoline) until they died.  I didn’t like that, my nine year old self didn’t really think it was wrong, just, this wasn’t what I’d signed up for.  Instead, I rescued their withered carcasses off of the car grill.

I guess, that’s what I do with most of my university level writing. I’m just picking the words off the dirty grill. They’re already dead, it’s not my fault.  I got a good grade on that butterfly project as well.

The best part about it was making the nets. Or wait, maybe it was leaping up into the air, or chasing a blue swallowtail across the garden. That’s not true either.  It was thinking about it. It was imagining doing it. The idea of catching a piece of nature and keeping it for myself was exhilarating.  Or maybe, it’s the memory of the desire that’s the best part of all.

I realized while reading “Why I Write”, that I write not to tell a story, or even about myself, but to capture moments.  Moments in which I have felt something, thought something, seen something. I want to take photographs with words.  Okay, I want to take photographs also. Har, that would also explain my loverly habit of combining fragments and run on sentences.  It’s how I talk, it’s not proper English, but the words capture more of “me” than proper grammar.


I loved the book review, “You Talkin’ to Me?” In fact, I added the first book to my long, long, long list of reading material.  Strangely, as an aside, the first essay I read upon getting my textbook was Baldwin’s “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?”  I love the concept of language as evolution. I love knowing how relatively modern the concept of correct spelling is.  And the more I learn of other languages, I love the flexibility of English. I try to explain to people how English is so much better for expression, usually I fail. At best I usually get the glazed over eyes from my target. Oh well. Oh, which reminds me of a book I adored, “The Power of Babel”.  But that’s neither here nor there.

Language is alive, and it changes.  But more importantly, our concepts and interpretations of it change.  Of course, I am a History major. I like origins. I like how my own thoughts evolve. It’s like, English and the academics could say and do whatever they wanted, as long as most people weren’t actually academics.  It didn’t matter.  I think that I would argue that it still doesn’t matter. “Proper English” is a dialect just as “Midwestern” is.  It’s a dialect that can be assumed by most, and usually is dropped in “mixed” company. I’m a creature that learned most of her English through books, literature, the first book I remember asking my mother to read to me is Romeo and Juliet. My English is…. often considered peculiar.  People, it turns out, don’t really talk like they do in books.  But we’re taught in school that they do! As a child my confusion at integration taught me to listen.  There are dialects traditional in each form of print media.  If you listen to the dialogue in a movie, you can hear the origin of the story and the writer.  Each decade and century has a cadence, but, people don’t really talk like that.

Some of us do, we can’t help it. We were raised by the books and schools that didn’t know any better. I’m a contradiction. If left to my own devices I’d leave one run on sentence comprised of fragments and cluttered clauses behind me. I’m guilty of a lot of things, but I don’t want to kill any more butterflies.

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Feb. 21st, 2006 @ 07:46 pm RAR!
from "insert whatever fiction publisher here"
"Sorry, no simultaneous submissions or reprints. (Like most magazines, we consider material that has appeared on publicly-accessible websites to be published, and therefore cannot consider it.)"

not that I expect anyone to be coming around here, but if something you're looking for has disappeared, that's why.

And unfortunately this means that anything new that I write and like, doesn't get to be shared with the general public. I decided to be more serious in my attempts to be a published author. Which means at least, on with the rejection letters!

To make it up though, I'm going to start uploading some of my older stuff again.
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Jan. 18th, 2006 @ 11:43 pm Quixotic Pledge
My ambition.

My aspiration.

My intention.

My destination.

An edifice, pristinely turning. I stand below you, brandishing my sword,
Daring, I dare the heavens, I dare you! As the crisp sky observes.
I dare you to laugh! The sun glints as I face it, I face you. I need not thirty, or fourty, content with the one. I will conquer you! The grass ignores my vow. A giant you be, and a giant I will surmount, until one day none will doubt the strength in my arm. Does the world care? My Dulcinea will not. Her smile can vanquish more demons than I can slay. Within, without, a beast prowled in the shadows, but no longer! For now I see it, standing, waiting to break my blade, but until dinner at least, the knight shall prevail.

I will find my windmill,
I will conquer it.
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Oct. 25th, 2004 @ 10:40 am Early Morning Incoherencies

Snarling it looks around, pulling reality down by it’s claws, folding in over it like curtains ripped from the walls.  Barriers gone, sunlight exposed. Wincing  brutally it turns.




Puddles, gelatinous mess


Eat your thoughts with a spoon suck them up with a straw, devouring and then when they’re gone what will be next?  Are you jello? Wobbling translucent firm and slippery until corralled by the edges of my porcelain dish?  Cut into squares, is the design your own? I mash down upon you and now you’re mine.


Challenge me.  No pulling, no pushing, spark the desire for my own self to be better.  Complacency is death.


Orange juice is the sweet promise of hope, anything can happen.  Coffee the bitter pill that helps us survive. No matter how we mask it, eventually we convince ourselves that we desire it for it’s own goodness, but that’s not how it began.  We weren’t born craving it. 


Fears, frustrations.  Whispers of silk upon my face.



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