Writing, and all it’s charms

I graduated, yeah, from a masters program. MFA in creative writing. In all that glory, I find I still don’t have what I need. I still feel lost and/or confused as to how and when I keep writing, and if I am even good enough…will they like it, will it grab anyone, am I the only one who likes my stories? The trials of writing a story or novel can take endless hours, for some. I am one of those. I pound it out when I feel like it, and simmer on it, the story, while I sit around and wait. But, what am I waiting for? To keep the writing going is the hardest part of graduating. My deadline is now on my own regard. I also don’t have a professor looking over my work letting me know what works and what doesn’t. To keep up the writing, the story telling, to share it with the world is not the easiest task.

Perhaps it’s my dialogue about the writing, calling it a task creates a motivational blocker. No, really?

I have to change the narrative, writing is now my art – paid or not – a job that will share my voice. Why I started writing to begin with was for my voice to be heard, you can’t silence me in my art. So, if I feel so strongly about the story and a character’s Why, or How, and their outcome – then why do I feel like the writing is a task? Because when I’m in it, and the character is talking, it is the most enjoyable part of my day. I tell myself to change the narrative, but change it to what?

Change is the only constant format of life, everything else is a crap shoot. So I take the challenge of the change that has been presented with my art. My narrative will be that writing is my art. I do it because I love it, and it’s how I can be heard…but will this change. Yes. I’m sure the doubt will strike me once a day, or more. So, to continue in this forever-changing-world that will trigger doubt, I can embrace the fear, hold it close and turn into fuel, courage, and see the charms in writing, not the task.

The changing narrative will be my challenge. I see this. I know this. Not the writing. The writing will be my charm in life.

A POEM

SHARPEVILLE CARNAL
The gun echoes through the doorways, retrovoom and downtrodden
hooves shed the dirt, hunger snorting the tendency and ready
but
halting, for a split second.

Capes coating their eyes, coats from the closet, a hidden closet
it goes places imperceptible, like the horses, ride ride ride.
Let’s continue.

Forever the hooves hawling the dirt — running — away or to you? Don’t open the gate,
secure all guarding edges; It’s the latter which is expired before the opening to catch
a runaway.

Pop pop pop like a can of coke the exploding “crisis” cannot scare the connector to
the hooves. The dirt, it chokes on construction-paper capes. Rainbows swirling, oh, the capes: like the fizz tickles up your nose, always keep it distant.

Round 2, oops, lap 2. The whistle cracks. According to my neighbor, I’’m new
at this. Clomp clomp clomping hooves, flowing flowing flowing capes, covered
eyes. Poor pasteurized beasts, it’s the race for your infinite win.

Survive, take the turn, dig deeper, stomping out the brokenness.

Their quinceanera sill is perched where the ribbons dangle, part of the brailing complete with communipaw hair. Do you see it? God must have placed it there.

God, hooves accompaniment of nothing, except, nature. An organic speed
at ordinary velocity permeates a race ahead.

Stay in place.
Launched for play.

Round round round they go trollopping the weedless trails, crazed by non-meaning production
value. Money money money reigns. Trop trop trop through their laughter and focus on the doorways to Kmart.

Redemption—do you know about the killings? Is it twice a day around the        weedless trails, round they galloptrop their hooves. Expendable, dying.

A Cobb Salad is delivered to Janet Green.
A bottle of champaign overflows; the flowpop, gallop and overabundant.

The end is near, Sugar Bowl has taken the lead; yes, yes.

Now the corpse needs a hearing aide. The cricket cries, Milady. Looking beautiful
but biassed, a remote Mr. Droppings. A tyranny of a buttkisser and continues to
litter the weedless trails, wandering out to the uncleared landscape. Hysterical recognition.
Kitty Jackson pulled out askew suitors. Gaudy sill, gaudy brailing. The, “Super Box,” Miss
Kitty Jackson wharls past, splitting monsters, grinding dirt, spraying litter.
Suddenly blazing.

SHORT FICTION

After You Left

You clutched your shining lunch pail, draped your coat over one arm and bent at her still body. Not a flinch as your lips met her creamy skin.  One last look over your shoulder and the door closed. She slept. Her eyes moved slightly right to left, riding the waves of a dream. Her soft skin wrinkled to open her bright baby blues, lashes so long, a touch of darkness underlined them.

I was there from the beginning: your midnight move-in, touch-n-go stay, leaving her for months at a time. Where do you go? I don’t wonder, but a woman left to suffer loneliness…and when you leave her in a glass house, someone will see. They will see her undress, slowly, waiting for anyone to watch, to spy, and perhaps make a move.

I knew who she was, did you? Did you know she liked to be watched; did you know she dressed for me, and undressed?

Her skin shimmers from the glittered, peach scented lotion as she bends over to show just a bit of pink, just a peak of what one could indulge in. I took pleasure in watching her. I wanted her. You never knew how she wanted to be touched—she likes it rough. Your soft kisses bored her and when you made love to her she rolled her eyes. Her guests, when you’re gone, they’d tie her down to that huge, walnut four poster bed you purchased; they slap her and fuck her from behind. She records her love affairs: go to the closet and look in the shoe box marked “Old Running Shoes.”

I love her most when she smiles—her almond-shaped eyes curve and bend, pulling you in, and all I want to do is kiss her. Must be how she got you.

She walks and the whole room follows, her hair flows even without wind and she purposely moves each limb as if being recorded—she knew she was being watched. Her body language invited me. Covering her long legs with those black stockings and clipping the garter, one thigh and then the other, slowly. She reaches for her pill case, and crushes the pills into a perfect line, sometimes two. She pulls the drugs deep into her navel cavity and draws her head back. She hides them in her underwear drawer if you’re curious.

Two years I watched her; two years she dressed for me. I came, again and again.

The thoughts of her leaving are no longer bearable. I won’t let you take her from me.

Her slip was silky, silver and sheer. I ran my hands down her back and she moved in closer: I knew she was mine. Too easy and warm to the touch, so normal. She opened those dreamy eyes of hers and held my gaze. When she froze it was the perfect moment—I pulled my right hand over her mouth, and pushed into her throat with the other. I felt her esophagus crushing, her breath became lighter, and those baby blues popped and reddened from the pressure. I had a sense of power, holding her, knowing I was going to be the last one to enter her, to touch her. I was the last one she would touch, scratch her nails down my back through the denim pullover. Her hands gripped my arm, pleading. This time there is no game: there is a finish line, an end. She struggled at first, hard, thrusting her hips, trying to buck me off. I had her between my legs, pinned down, each knee crouched over her shoulders.

I saw her fear, her willingness before she went limp. Her soft blonde hair fell between my fingers as I massaged her scalp. The blade ran over her skin, splitting it open. Never mind the blood, it’s not from her head. It’s her heart that bled out—how ironic.

You can find that in the freezer.

The rest of her, turned inside out—like she did to me—is all there for you to examine, to see for yourself the whore she was: hidden behind the tulips, the flat shoes, and capri pants.

Will I miss her naked body in the morning sun, pushed out to the open air of your patio? Perhaps.

She took pleasure in many hands, but even more pleasure when she washed them off and greeted you, you unsuspecting and so trusting. Really, I did you a favor.

Look up.

I’m your bad neighbor.

Vinyasa Flow

I’m 40 years old — I don’t look it or act it, or feel it mentally but my body on the other hand can feel the physical decline. I keep saying that I am not going to grow old gracefully, but I’m not even sure if I know what that means.

Growing up I heard “… Just wait until you’re older.” Well I’m older now and understand that tag line better than ever. I’ll go hiking for an hour and have to soak my feet, or my whole body in hot water. In my twenties I could wake up and go. Now each morning I get a little more stiff and have to stretch my muscles first thing out of bed before I can move properly.

I have taken on yoga as my guide, my personal trainer as a segue into senior-ship. I figure I better start now so I’m not a train wreck at 50. I began practicing yoga in studio classes through the college. After graduation I bought a DVD, Tara Styles, and continued my yoga practice in the living room — I still do this 10 years later.

At first I wasn’t very regular. According to Natasha at yogajournal.com, constancy in this practice is more productive and easier on one’s body. She explains to a reader, “My experience is that the more consistent the practice, the more quickly one moves through the creaky period at the beginning. This is true mentally as well as physically. When we are in a consistent rhythm with our practice, we are more likely to understand its ebb and flow.” But no one is perfect. And in today’s economy, unless you’re an instructor, time is high in demand making it more difficult to always be rigid about a workout.

One thing I have learned over the years of exercise is that it’s OK to take some time off as long as I come back to it. Seems the more I practice this way of thinking, the less I drift from timeouts.

I mainly exercise for health and muscle tone. I do the yoga to connect my mind and body to relieve stress and stimulate oxygen flow — which helps my creative endeavors. Yoga will relax and revive my system at the same time. I am able to be present in my head, heart and soul. My emotions and psyche are at ease, and will stay at ease. Yoga helps me to take on the hardest story to write or the easiest shopping day.

But I don’t forget that yoga can be used for low and high impact workouts making this practice an all-in-one exercise regimen. Yogajournal.com is a great resource for all stages of yogi’s.

“Earth, Wind and Fire”, written by Niika Quistgard, explains State of Balance, the way through which you achieve total spiritual, mental and physical balance.

Yoga can be frustrating though, any exercise can be frustrating if it’s mechanics are mis-understood. Taking the time to receive it as it comes to me will reward my body with inner strengths. Living a healthy lifestyle starts with a conscious choice; healthy living is a balance of diet, oxygen, and exercise. Yogi living is healthy living.