Thursday, December 9, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
grab a rope and fly.
Any string will do.
Take it with both hands and find the nearest arc
to swing from and
Fall feet first, same routine
Alone won't work - anti-social isn't
the cure. Wallowing in self-pity brings heaps of
Move forward -
one foot ahead of the other or
if in the mood,
skip along and hum a tune. Any favorite will work,
mumble the words, make up your own.
Bring on the laughs.
Only the heart muscle yearns for levity -
it has seen
to run, skip, jump,
suck in all the oxygen allowed.
Ignore the gloomies at all costs. Read
but more importantly, hang with people,
living human beings
Poison is the cure.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Why the spirits anchor me here is the chronic mystery. They act like an invisible shield, keeping away strangers. Ghosts of days filled with joy and scant trepidation. Where is the time machine when I need one? Just step in once - open-ended return date. Go back to the place where the couch is my morning perch, Daisy curled behind my head in a secure and restful place. Or maybe that's somewhere in the distant future, my bed the time machine, where I lay to rest one last time and awaken here. Trees rustling with the cool pre-autumn breeze, my husband in his cave, Daisy on his lap, Lola lingering by his side.
Monday, August 2, 2010
I need some magic powder, a bit of pixie dust or whatever crap will make my muse get over it's fuckin' self and start back to writing. The way I used to long ago when I never cared if anyone saw my pages because I never intended for anyone to SEE my pages. And then it happened, I allowed others to glimpse, and that opened the flood gates of opinion. Did said flood realize my thin skin? One can see though it to the blue veins - almost see each fiber of nerve and lack thereof.
Oh for just one day of feeling the lust for my former writer self. If only I had courage in a bottle, I'd do shooters prior to the game of what words work best in this paragraph. Must one really think before acting with a pen? Does the pen have a mind of its own? Well, it should if it doesn't because if it relies on what's stored in my skull it's in for great disappointment.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Scribble, scribble, scribble - or should I try listening to the story in my head? Should I glide across the line, running away screaming from the made inner critic who insists that all I write is crap?
Write, write, write, for my own glee - for my eyes only - never to be read, regurgitated or nullified by the critic-enabled masses.
Let my pen sail and sail across choppy waves - dodging white caps and whirlpools to flat as glass waters where an intricate blanket of sparkle hangs overhead. Let my ink go - leave its permanent mark on biodegradable white, so one day it becomes faded yellow, brittle to the touch. Turned to ashes by exposure.
Write as if it isn't an art form; go completely abstract to such depths that only I understand it.
Wily-nily is my pen - the guide for my imagination. The outlet for words replaying in my head - the scenes, monologues, dialogs, soliloquy.
Breaths some life into my stale spirit - find the muse and release her to the wild reams of paper awaiting a splotch or two.
Write like an MFA or at least act like one in grandiose solitude.
Try to understand the need for focus, regime and routine while free-writing the great white way.
Send the story - release it from the captive clutches of gray matter. Genius is only a notion if not released to the pages.
Write, write, write. Ignore the twisting knot in the gut - ignore, ignore, ignore. Forget the voices of the "helpful" those not understanding of your intelligence. Grasp words of those who thrilled over your prose - the great professor who gave so much hope.
Acknowledge intelligence. Find creativity. They go together - combust. Follow their kinship. Release the beast - set a pattern for success and then follow it to the letter!
Write, write, write. Over and over - practice, embrace, release.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
But seriously, I'd have a rather difficult time if I were part of the Yankee Stalker Brigade. I suffer from sever shyness - some sort of social disease afflicts my tongue when face to face with a sort of famous celeb. Yes, I do believe they're better than me and would prefer not to be bothered by the likes of me. Me - older woman with sagging right side face, blind left eye and gravitationally challenged boobs and ass. But, even if I were twenty years younger, before the eye explosion, right face atrophy and gravity debacle, I still most likely would have shrunk into the wall, purple petals and all. Unless I just finished a blender of Hickey's Famous Then Margaritas. If that the case my tongue would loosen and I wouldn't feel foolish...
Until the following day when post hangover memories trickle back. Mortification sets in - I couldn't face the world - but another blenderful of HFM's would at least ease my discomfort.
Oh woe is me - subtle shrinking purple petals - wilted by years of drying life. Why must time go by and nothing ever change?
Monday, June 7, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
The calendar on the phone reads May 10. The temperature outside reads fifty-one. Confusion rules the realms, both external and internal. Should I write a lengthy passage in my current work, or revise what's already there? My toils of another time when I clearly saw the story. The present reveals nothing but angst and uncertainty. Where is this story going today? I need to stay connected to my characters, but today the spirit isn't moving me in that direction. Like the seasons, they aren't as they once were, my writing. The colorful scenes form, but the problem is in the performance, the execution. I should be able to spew a great yarn. The thermometer should read seventy-five. When will I ever get to put away my winter coat? The sky is clear, trees filled with lush green, yet my nose runs after returning from a small stint around the house. This is what the seasons have become. Unseasonable. This is what my writing has become. Unwritable. Somewhere in the continuum my muse resides, confused by its path, unable to