Continue reading »]]> When I was seventeen, I lived with my grandmother in a five bedroom house with seven other people, most of whom were cousins of the second and third variety. I had only lived in NC for a couple of years and was fairly new to this side of the family; dysfunction ran rampant throughout. I had inherited a plethora of crack-heads, convicts, or worse, but I was one of them, one of the fold. I felt at home among them, felt welcome.

Photographer: Enviied

Two of the cousins and I were teenagers and, with Gram closing in on 60, we took full advantage of the situation: we came and went at all hours, drank, brought girls in and out as if on a conveyor belt. Gram made plenty of threats, hollered and screamed, but we paid no attention. She had a new boyfriend at the time, and he would try to talk to us, but that only made things worse.
Dave was a tiny little man, short in stature and as skinny as a malnourished puppy. Dave didn’t like to work; he had a simple approach to life: he liked to sit in the yard with a cold beer in his hands, soaking in the sun. As a result, his skin looked like a tanned hide, a dark leathery brown. Dave had been promising Gram that he was entitled to veterans benefits; his daughter was collecting the checks in Pennsylvania, and all he had to do was contact the V.A. and give them his new address to start getting his pension sent to him in NC. Every time she would raise enough hell to get him to try, he would concoct some grandiose story about why the check had been delayed yet again. It soon became clear to everyone that he was a freeloader–clear to everyone but Gram.
She was glad to have someone to talk to, someone she could spend time with; she liked being doted on, even if Dave spent much of his time drunk. He tried to compensate for his employment status by doing chores around the house: cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry and making her laugh, which–I have to say–was a rarity before Dave came along. I can’t speak for his true feelings toward her, but I can say that he made her feel good… for a while, anyway.
Gram soon became frustrated with Dave’s drinking; she tried talking to him about it. When that didn’t work, she started yelling, then the silent treatment and, eventually, withholding cash. Dave replied by going to friend’s houses to do his drinking. He would stay gone a day or two and, when he came back, all would be forgiven. The harder Gram tried to rein him in, the more he would buck against her. Eventually, she started drinking with him; I guess it was her way of keeping him close.
Gram had been 15 years sober by then. At one time, however, she had been what most people would consider a “wino.” My mother had told me stories about my grandmother from when she had first moved to NC. Stories of hiding Gram’s bottle from her, or pouring out the stash she found in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. She had told me stories of Gram, suffering from withdrawals, shaking to the point she couldn’t lift a glass to her lips to have a snort that would relieve the pain. She would wrap a towel around the back of her neck, putting one end in her hand and grabbing a glass of whatever poison she was drinking that day. She would grab the other end in a fist and pull down on it—using the towel as a rope and her neck as a pulley—pulling the glass off the table and toward her mouth. This would get her that first taste or two, until she could manage to do the work on her own, without spilling too much.
It didn’t take long for that woman to reemerge after she had that first taste in 15 years. Soon, she was drunk constantly, and became belligerent to the point that no one knew what to do with her – including Dave – but he was enjoying the new freedom to drink all he could pour down, and wasn’t keen on relinquishing it. So, instead of trying to keep her from falling into that hole again, he babysat her, even as the rest of us grew to hate him for Gram’s backslide.
Things were getting bad, but I had grown up with an alcoholic father, and knew the stories of how Gram was before, what I didn’t know, however, was the one thing that Gram used to do that Momma never shared with me.
I got home in the early morning hours of that Saturday morning. This wasn’t unusual, I was having a great summer, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to see the sunrise before I went to sleep. I went into the rear bedroom that I shared with my two cousins, Bobby and James. I lay down on the love-seat couch we kept back there. Bobby, the one cousin closest to my own age, was already asleep in the bed. I was just starting to doze when I heard Dave’s shrill voice in the dining room.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
I could hear Gram saying something, but her words were a drunken slur, so unintelligible they could hardly pass for spoken English.
“Give me that!”
I heard Gram say something else, then I heard—what sounded like—them tussling; unless I was wrong, he was trying to take—whatever it was—from her. I decided that I was needed in the dining room. I walked out of the bedroom door, and I could see down the short hallway, through the kitchen and into the dining room, but only part of the room was visible from where I was. The lights were on and I could hear them in there; they were definitely in some sort of feeble-old-drunk struggle. My pace quickened, ready to body slam Dave for fuckin’ with my Gram, but, as I entered the room, the scene that presented itself  before me were so perplexing  that I was unable to do anything  other than stare, just trying to take it all in. When I entered the room, they were indeed struggling over something, and they both stopped as I barreled into the room; I could see clearly that it was a kitchen steak knife. I could also see that Gram was bleeding–from her wrists.
“Jason, go to bed, she’s fine. I got this under control.”
Dave’s words spurred me to action, and I started toward her saying, ‘Fuck you, you go to bed.”
Had she cut herself?! What the fuck was going on? I reached over Dave and grabbed the knife from her hand.
“Okay, give me that, and go to bed. I can handle it from here.”
I put my face up against his—so close I could smell stale beer and cheap cigarettes—and I screamed into it, using every ounce of strength in me to force the words into his face.
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY, OR I WILL HURT YOU, OLD MAN!”
Dave’s retreat was instantaneous; my message came through, and he responded as I expected him to. I would have hated to put my hands on him, but my grandmother was bleeding, and I needed to see to her.
“Jashun, git ou’ve ere.” Her eyes stayed pointed at the table, as if her shame was too heavy for her to lift her head.
“Gram, I won’t. What happened?”
Dave stepped up close behind me, he seemed desperate to get me out of the room, “She cut herself because I …”
“Who asked you? Shut the fuck up, and let me handle this.”
In a tone reserved for unruly toddlers and disobedient pets he said, “I’m just trying…”
I turned on him allowing the fury that was building in me to show through my eyes and put my finger in his face but said in a level voice, “Not another word. Do you hear me?”
He nodded and took a step away from me. I turned to my grandmother again.
“Gram, what happened?”
“I did it, now you go to schleep and lemme taw shoo Dave.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Bobby? I turn to see him wiping his eyes and standing in the doorway.
“I don’t know. I think she’s cut herself.”
“What!? What the fuck?!”
“Get some towels and put them on her wrist. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

Both she and Dave protested loudly, but I ignored them. I dialed 911 and requested an ambulance. I then dialed my mother’s number.
The two of us hadn’t spoken in months; whenever we had an argument, it would end in me packing all my things into an army duffel I kept just for such occasions. We wouldn’t see or speak to each other for long periods of time. But this transcended that; I was obligated to tell Momma.
“Hello?” It was her; I could hear the twenty years of chain smoking in her husky drawl.
“Momma, it’s me. I think Gram cut herself. I called an ambulance. They’re on the way. I don’t know what to do. You have to help me. What am I supposed to do?”
“Wait, what?” I could hear her brain deciphering what I had told her. “Is she drunk?” Momma hadn’t been aware of Gram’s drinking. I certainly hadn’t told her.
“Yes.”
The conversation didn’t last long; I relayed the pertinent information, she absorbed it—better than I expected—and then we hung up so she could make the journey to Gram’s. I went back to the dining room, where Bobby was receiving a thorough cussing. Dave, having gotten no more sympathy from Bobby than he had gotten from me, had resorted to patting Gram on the shoulder while rubbing her back, cooing in her ear all the while, like a pigeon on a stoop.
In that moment, I could have beaten him, pummeled him into a coarse powder and threw it to the wind. The rage building in me threatened to consume me, to overcome my willpower and force me to lash out at him in response to the fear and confusion that were ripping at my mind like ravenous hyenas. He never knew it, but he had been within a whit of walking with a limp for years to come.
“Momma’s on her way.”
“Ammit, Jashun, Why canth you mine your own damn biznith?”
“This is my business, and you left me no choice. I had to call her.” My patience was wearing thin and it was evident in my voice as I said this.
“Mother fucker,” These words were spoken clearly, as if she hadn’t drank a drop, spoken with an ease that comes with practice, “You a pain in an ass.”
I turned my attention to Bobby; his face bore the shocked look of a young man that has just woken up in the Twilight Zone. He was holding a towel to Gram’s wrist and staring at the wall on the far side of the dining room. I don’t know where he was in that moment, but he certainly wasn’t in that room.  Wherever he was, he was furious.
“Bobby.”
He didn’t even flinch; his name had soared over him like a loosely gripped balloon at a parade. I thought about leaving him be, letting him continue to dwell in his fantasy, but I wanted to know what he was hiding under that towel.
“Bobby!”
He snapped to this time; his head whipped around, forcing his neck to crackle. He didn’t say a word, but I could see in his eyes that he was with me now, shaken, but not useless.
“How’s it look?”
“I don’t know, haven’t looked.”

I walked to where he was kneeling beside the chair Gram was slumped into and stood behind him, peeking over his shoulder. Gram grumbled something that was hardly recognizable as human in nature when he removed the towel and turned her wrist so we could see.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as I had imagined. The amount of blood I had seen when I first walked into the room had convinced me that Gram was not long for this world, but what I saw then  told another tale altogether. Her wrist was scratched several times in lines that ran parallel with her wrist joint; a couple of them still showed splotchy bleeding, but she could have done as much damage pruning roses.
Just then, headlights lit up the window, and I realized that Momma was pulling into the driveway.
As Momma charged into the house; her eyes wore a glaze that whispered of dreams lost to this nightmare. Her mouth was set in a rigid line, and I could see that she was frantic with worry. Her actions would show none of her trepidation. She took full control of the next thirty minutes.

She started by looking at the wounds. She stepped around Bobby without uttering a word to anyone, and he knew to get out of the way.
As she pulled the towel from Gram’s wrist, I said, “I just saw it. It’s not bad.”
Momma looked at the scratches on her mother’s wrist, and even though she didn’t actually do so, there was a visible sigh of relief.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Momma looked up into Gram’s face as she spoke, but before Gram could say a word Momma asked her, “Are you fuckin’ stupid?”
Gram’s face twisted into an angry snarl, and she started to speak, but the words that came out of her mouth amounted to nothing more than incoherent blathering.
“And you’re fuckin’ drunk.”
The accusation was laden with hurt and anger; Gram cringed away from it like a hand was sure to follow, aiming to slap the alcohol out of her. It never came.
Just then Dave spoke up, apparently hoping to finally get the sympathy he was due. “Robin, she wa…”
“You better shut the fuck up, you little motherfucker. My mother has been sober a long time. Then you come along… look at her. This is your fault. So, you better just shut the FUCK UP!”
Dave huffed and puffed like a card sharp caught with a sleeve full of aces, but uttered not a word. From the look in Momma’s eye, it was a good thing he didn’t.
Just then, an ambulance pulled up out front. Momma went out the back door to usher them in that way; the front door had long ago been nailed shut. She held the door open for them, and I heard her talking up a storm.
“She had a few drinks, mixed her pills with it and had an accident. It looked really bad at first, but once we cleaned it up it looks like she’ll be fine.”
“What kind of accident?”
“She scratched herself up pretty good, but we can’t figure out how. She’s too fucked up to tell us.”
“Okay, well we’re here, and we have to at least look at it.”

They did, and the police came, but by then the paramedics had bandaged her up and never acted like they suspected anything was wrong, so they all left us there with Gram, who was fading fast. She was hanging her head and unwilling to attempt conversation anymore.
Momma went through the house looking for sharp objects. She took knives—even the plastic butter knives you get with those prepackaged utensil pouches that come with to-go orders—she took pins and razors, anything that had an edge went into a bag. When her search was finished, she called me into the kitchen.
“I’m going to go home. It’s late, and I have to work in the morning. She should be fine now. She’ll go to sleep. Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow. Call me if anything happens.”
“What the fuck is going on, Momma?”
“She used to do this all the time. Haven’t you ever seen the scars on her wrists?”
I shook my head.
“Well, when she gets drunk, she cuts herself. Usually, it is just to get attention, but sometimes… sometimes she really tries. Anyway, go get some sleep.”
I kissed my Momma good night for the first time in months, and she left as quickly as she had come. Bobby had gone back to bed when the paramedics arrived. Dave was shuffling Gram to their bedroom.  I went into the back bedroom once again and laid down on the love seat to finally get some sleep.
What’s she doin’?” Bobby asked, from the darkness. He had been lying there quietly, no doubt reliving the last hour over and over.
“Goin’ to bed, Dave is putting her to bed anyway.”
“Kay. Fuckin’ crazy right?”
“Fuckin’ crazy.” I echoed.
There was no more chatter, nothing really left to say. Fuckin crazy had summed it up nicely.

Before long, I heard the deep, rhythmic breathing that will give away anyone sleeping soundly. I too fell into sleep quickly; it was a fitful and restless sleep, but deep, nonetheless.
Sometime later, I was startled awake by a noise. I wasn’t sure about what I had heard, wasn’t even sure I had heard it in the real world and not just in my dreams. My ears listened intently for a few minutes, but there was nothing there.
I closed my eyes again, trying to doze for the third time that night when it came: a shrill voice charging from the inner part of the house.
“What is that… where did you get that… give it to me… HEY, give it to me, NOW!”

Dave. Again.

I ran for the door and heard Bobby right behind me. We were headed back to the dining room. Déjà vu isn’t an accurate word for what I felt as I ran for the dining room again that night, but it’s close. I was awash in it, flooded by the feeling of having been there before. I tried to shake loose the idea that I was running into a macabre scene of blood and misery starring my grandmother, but it clung to me like an infant chimp to its mother.
I raced into that room fighting the truth; I wanted to imagine that I was crazy, confused; I wanted to believe that Bobby was falling prey to my madness, that we were both having delusional fragments of the night’s events steering our consciousness into this hysteria. I wanted—needed—my grandmother to be asleep; I needed to be dreaming, or wrong, anything but admitting to myself what was really happening.
You see, my grandmother was bleeding again when I entered that room; she was fighting Dave over a tiny piece of metal that she had used to open her other wrist. There was blood flowing down her raised forearm as she held it away from Dave.
She had ripped open a disposable razor and extricated the sliver of metal inside, using it to slice into herself. The wounds would prove to be superficial once again; Gram wasn’t ready to die—she was just begging for help; screaming for it.
My mother would end up moving into that house, along with my step-father, to keep an eye on Gram. Dave would be gone soon after. Gram missed him when he left. She never said it aloud and would vehemently deny such nonsense, but we all knew it.
In the months to come, I would look for the scars on her wrists, when I could get away with it, when her attention was elsewhere and I could look without her seeing—her knowing—what I was doing; never really hoping they would be gone that time, never really praying the gods would have erased the evidence, but allowing myself the time to check.

A little over a year later, I would cut myself much in the same way that Gram had. I was sad, and lonely; I was confused. And yes, I was drunk.

I went into the bathroom and took out a razor. I nearly took a piece of my thumb off trying to pop the top off of it so I could remove the steel inside, but I got it out after a little concentrated effort. I toyed with the idea of getting into the tub; I knew that water was supposed to help slow clotting, but I decided waiting to die warranted television. So, I sliced into my wrist, wincing at the horrible sting that it produced, and went to watch some T.V.

I woke the next day to a horrible headache and a puffy red wound on my wrist that felt like fire when I moved it. I was ashamed and scared, full of relief and sadness; I had lived, but I was still sad, still lonely.

I washed as much of the blood off as I could and went to the bar, where Momma was hustling beers to the kind of people you’d expect to see drinking in a redneck bar on the south side of Wilmington at eleven a.m. She was unusually busy, and I waited patiently for her to have time to walk over to me. When she did, I slid the sleeve of my shirt up so she could see what I had done, never saying a word.
She looked at it and said, “Oh Jesus, Jay. Come back here.”

She walked toward the storeroom in the back of the bar, and I followed. She never asked me why, never yelled or cried. She never called anyone; she just cleaned it up, put a bandage on it and went back to work.
There was an instant, while she was bandaging my wrist, when our eyes met. They locked onto one another, and I could see there what we both knew: it was in me. I had inherited this—this constant battle for happiness—from her and her mother; I had witnessed my legacy and was taking tentative steps towards claiming it.

I don’t consciously think about Gram when I think about dying, but I have a feeling that she’s there, somewhere deep inside me, whispering that, if I just take a little off the top—just open it enough—then someone will come along and save me.

Continue reading »]]>

Photographer: Rob Friesel

Being an online publisher, I wanted to reach out to writers, because I am aware that trying to get a book published can be a stressful time for a fiction writer. You have to struggle with feelings of self doubt, worry about rejection, and agonize over changing your beloved work to please others. With all these emotions swirling around, the last thing you want to worry about is if you are taking the right steps in your quest to get published. This is why I have written this article: to demystify the process and guide writers through the steps of what they need to do and in what order. This way, instead of hopping up and down haphazardly on the stairs of  publication, possibly slipping and breaking some bones in the process, writers will be able to swiftly reach their goal without too many scars (and, most importantly, a lighter load of rejection letters!)

1. Write your book!
It may not be surprising that the first step to getting published is to have something to publish. Ah, you say,  you know that already? Good! But, too often, writers delude themselves into thinking that a query letter and the first couple chapters of a novel are all you need – they can always write the rest while they wait for responses, right? Ehm.. only if you want to be ultimately rejected by the rare publishing companies who will even bother to ask for the rest!

In the world of fiction writing, the unbreakable rule is to have your book finished (and thoroughly edited) before you even begin thinking about publishing it. With other types of writing, you may be able to get away with a few chapters or pitching an idea but, while you may only be submitting a few chapters at first, publishers will expect the entire book to be already completed. The last thing you want to do is grab the attention of a publisher only to leave them dry later. So get writing and make sure you have a sizable manuscript before you put all the extra work that publishing entails. A good range to shoot for is between 75,000 and 120,000 words. This is just a general range so do not be afraid to stray outside of it should that fit your purposes better. At the same time, be aware that longer books are harder to publish. This is why even Proust had to self-publish, after the first volume of Remembrance of Things Past – a “mere” 500  pages long – was rejected with this statement: My dear fellow, I may be dead from the neck up, but rack my brains as I may I can’t see why a chap should need thirty pages to describe how he turns over in bed before going to sleep.” In general, shorter is better. However, if you can come up with a compelling plot that holds together even after hundreds of pages, write to us and let you know how you did it!

2. Get feedback
This is a nice way of saying: make sure that what you wrote will bring some enjoyment to the editors who read it…not just make them want to quit their job and become Scuba Divers!* If you are one of those who think that your NaNoWriMo sketch of a novel, or the first draft that your boyfriend likes so much, are ready for publication…well, you are not ready, I promise. You are, however, past step 1, and encouraged to keep reading!

After you have written your initial manuscript, make sure you let some other people read it and get feedback. While this step can be excruciating for many writers, it is necessary to get multiple opinions on your work. As much as you hate having others tear your work apart, your writing will ultimately be better for it. You will be surprised: people might find confusing details or plot-points   that you, as the writer, thought were clear as day.  “Wait, I don’t get it: why would Luke go save that squirrel? Isn’t he allergic to fur?” a friend might ask. And you would embark in a lengthy explanation of why squirrel fur is not like cat fur … then reread the scene with the squirrel, only to realize that the scene doesn’t make any sense, anyway, and that you have no idea of how or why that squirrel made it into your story.

Alternatively, a fresh eye may catch inconsistencies within the story that your eyes, red from sleepless nights spent writing and inured to the abominable grammatical errors they have basically committed to memory, might miss. Writing workshops are great for this step. Ideally, you want feedback from other writers and the target audience of the book as well. Once you have a good amount of feedback, rework your manuscript to take the best advice into account. This process should also help you with proofreading your manuscript. A manuskript filed with speelling and grammatical  horrors will be hard t read, an wil reflekt pourly on u (see, I can feel you looking down on me right now!) So please, please, have you manuscript be edited thoroughly, before you shop it around!

* Or any profession that doesn’t require writing or reading!!

3. Decide if you want an agent
Once you have a tight manuscript in your hands (Yay!), you have to choose between contacting an agent  to help you sell your work, or reaching out to publishers directly. This is an important decision to make, as it leads to two drastically different paths. (Of course, you can always self-publish… But, today, we are explaining how to do this the traditional way.)

Many writers loathe the idea of an agent, and see them as the layabout middlemen of the publishing world. However, there are good reasons to work with an agent – if you can build a good relationship with one. The benefit to getting an agent is that they already have relationships with people in publishing houses. They know what the publishers want and how to best position your book so that it will be published. They will also be able to make suggestions to strengthen your work and edit it to ensure publication (even though these changes can be hard to stomach). Basically, they will do all the work to get your book published and will take a cut from the profits, usually around 15%. However, their experience and negotiating skills may get you a better deal than what you would be able to get on your own, (hopefully) offsetting the cost of their fees.

Your other option is to contact publishers yourself. This option involves much more work on your part. You must conduct research first, and determine which publishers to target your manuscript to. Then, you can start sending off queries, (and pray that someone is reading them.) If you decide to go riding solo, don’t worry too much about being successful: the experience you will gather during this process could always be useful to you later (as in when you self-publish your book or, disappointed by all the rejections, decide to play a prank of those “damned” editors). Irregardless of what happens, learning more about the process will serve you well: you may even be able to help other writers in the future (for a 15% cut!).

4. Follow your agent’s advice
If you decide to get an agent, follow the submission guidelines on their websites carefully. It might seem obvious to you, but one of the main obstacles to getting published is the writer’s inability to follow directions. If you get a rejection letter, move on, (or nail it to the wall, a la Stephen King). Unless… the agent specifies a condition on which you can contact them again. However, beware of delicate breakups: agents may be so graceful in their rejection letter that they may give you false hope. But we all know that the “it’s not you, it’s me” approach to things isn’t one we should believe in. Hence, if you do try to get the editor to give you another shot, do it without getting your hopes too high – similarly to the other kind of relationships, having low expectations can sometimes help to be hurt a little less when we get rejected.

If you are now so nauseated that you want to skip to the next step directly, I understand. If you do get an agent, though, it may be wise to take to their advice, as they have experience in the field and you do not. This is not to say that an agent always gives good advice, but it is often best to at least hear them out, because, after all, this is why you hired them, right? Agents are not as scary as I depicted them in this piece (at least, not all of them!) Try to find an agent that you like and admire, maybe someone who has worked on pieces of literature that you have read and liked. This way, it will be easier to follow their advice when they tell you something like: “the ending sucks. Don’t you know that even Tom Clancy couldn’t get away with what he did in Teeth Tiger?”

OR

Find a publisher
For the fend-for-yourself types, you will probably decide to contact publishers yourself. If this is the case, you should research extensively to find out who is publishing content that is similar to yours. For example, if you have written a book geared towards young adults, go to a bookstore or library and look around the Young Adult section to find out who is publishing the newest and most popular books. Submit your manuscript to the publishers you have targeted and be sure to follow all instructions in their submission process (just because you decided to lone wolf it does not mean you do not have to play by the rules!). They may suggest changes, and you won’t have much say in it… But, then again, remember that finding and improving good books is their job…they might know a little bit more about it than you or I do..give them a chance! Ultimately, just take it as a learning experience and don’t get too caught up in it: self-publishing is always an option, but it’s useful to at least try going through the traditional route: your book might improve because of it!

Continue reading »]]> Everyone has scars
Everyone carries rocks in their knapsack
Little injuries that they’ve picked up along the way
Or terrible wounds from battles they waged alone

Photographer: Karsten Kneese

Brother, I know you

We started as innocents
Pure, unblemished, trusting
But none of us make it far
It is our fate as mankind
To struggle and bleed
Even if we win every fight
(Which almost never happens)
We bear the fears and learned defenses
The mental anguish and regrets
Our hearts never go unbroken
And some will have to endure multiple fractures

Sister, I feel you

We act as though there’s nothing wrong
That we’re “well-adjusted”
That we’re strong enough, we’re okay
When inwardly we’re shaking, screaming
Slowly bleeding to death internally
From all the cuts and tears
From where we’ve rent our flesh asunder
Trying to claw out the painful parts
Hiding it in the darkness
So no one will see you weep
Because it looks like everyone else is fine…
“What’s wrong with me?” we ask

Mother, I see you

It is a terrible lie we perpetuate
Telling ourselves we’re sick
That something is bad and wrong about us
When it is what we have survived
That makes us who and what we are
And we do each other disservice
To tell ourselves this untruth
Because we persuade ourselves so completely
That we convince everyone else it’s true
Which makes them believe that THEY are unwell
And perpetuates the madness

Father, I hear you

We build up walls to protect ourselves
From ourselves, and each other
We tell ourselves lies and convince the world
So that they tell themselves the same lies
Spreading like a plague
And soon we trust no one
Hiding our secrets, buried deep
Where they fester and breed vermin
Until they burst loose and flood the room
With fury and fear and addiction

LOOK AT ME

Look me in the eyes
And know me
Tear down your walls, as I have mine
And behold the naked, scarred truth
In all its hideous beauty
The keloids of lessons learned
Embrace these faults
Drag them into the light
Uncover this mockery of ourselves

Look at me

And know that I have flaws, just like you
That I have fears, just like you
That I seethe and froth in bitterness
And hate and seek vengeance, like you
And, like you, I hope and love and laugh
I am vulnerable, I have weaknesses
I am nothing more than what I am
And nothing less
Look at me
I have embraced my Shadow
Reconciled my humanity
And you, too, can be free

Look at me

Accept me or reject me
It will not change me
Tear down your wall
And let yourself out
For I will let you in.

Continue reading »]]> Recently, I was asked a question and, in pondering the answer, I was suddenly overtaken by the memory of that day. It came upon me like a hungry tiger, tearing me to shreds and leaving a disemboweled lump of meat where, only moments before, was a thinking, feeling, functioning man.

Photographer: mayu**

Cotton Candy. The smell of it is floating through the air and sweetening each breath. This, in no small part, is making the day better. What else could I ask for? Not only did I get to ride The Bullitt this year (a big kid ride if there ever was one) but to walk in the parade too! I am eight years old, and my Father and a group of his “friends” (other men who lived their lives in the bottom of a bottle) are members of a Veteran’s group for people who saw combat in Vietnam. They have been asked to bring their families to walk in this year’s parade during the regional Franco-American festival.

We have known about this for weeks, and I hardly slept last night. We each wear a little t-shirt with the logo of the Veteran’s group on the front. I couldn’t be more proud. Some of us have little flags, and others pass out bumper stickers, but we are all having fun. There is something about everyone looking at you, waving, and just generally having a good time that puts a smile on my soul. Next, I’ll run for Senate and become an Astronaut. I am on top of the world.

Now, we are being addressed by the Governor of Maine. He is speaking of things I can’t and have no interest in understanding. I have better things to think about at my age: baseball cards, my next birthday, how to stop that stupid girl at school from pulling my hair every day. I start to imagine pushing her down the next time she does. My imagination runs wild while the speech continues. I wish Knight Rider would come out next. That would make this day complete.

In the middle of my fanciful daydreaming, my Father taps me on the shoulder and says, “Let’s go.” I don’t know where we are going, but I have little time to ask before he starts walking.

Walking with him is always hard. He moves with fast, long strides that eat up the ground in front of him in big gulps. Today is especially hard because there are people everywhere, milling around lazily, languidly looking at the trinkets being sold by the vendors and watching the children on the Merry-Go-Round. I am small and not exactly built to push my way through a crowd.
We walk only a few short blocks when we come to this house. It looks like every other apartment house in Lewiston: run down and begging for paint, sheets in more of the windows than the shades that are popular now.  Huge chunks of the asbestos siding are gone, wasted by the years of harsh winters and its bitter cold. In front of the apartment is a bicycle, missing both tires, and its chain has discolored the concrete of the sidewalk from years of sitting there, rusting. The body of the house is yellow with a dark brown on the windows and the one door that once had glass in the top third of it. A condemned sign wouldn’t look out of place here.

My Father knocks on the first door we come across after entering the building. We hear a yell from inside, and we enter. I already know what is in store for the rest of the day. I can smell the distinct odor of old beer that has been sitting in the can and getting hot and stale, a smell that I loathe.

I see that the room holds the men from the veteran’s group, and I can also tell within moments that few, if any, had stayed as long as we did after the parade. The slurring of their words, apparent in their voices, says that they have had a few drinks already. Five, maybe six men and a woman that must be somebody’s wife.. They are sitting around a glass topped table, with legs made of what looks like bent pipe―four separate pieces, connected, shaped like a large squarish C. The walls are dirty from years of cigarette smoke and not being cleaned, making what should be white look as though it were river mud; yellowish brown with hints of green.

In the adjoining room there are two other kids, so my brother and I know that these are our friends for the day, and we run off to see what games are currently afoot. This room is the same color but much smaller and contains a couch which I am sure has come from the side of the road. The smell of cigarette smoke and body odor lingers everywhere, and I know it is safest to not be seen or heard for the next few hours—if we can help it.

The afternoon progresses like most of this nature; there are beer runs and arguments, the voices get louder as the hours pass by, and the thoughts become less coherent. I have been in this situation as often as I have been in a room with a window.

********

I am playing and not really paying attention when it happens. Why? To what end? Have I looked too much like I am having fun? Was there an instant where I looked too much like my mother? I do not know. What I do know is there isn’t a warning―no loud crash or even an instant where I can feel the malevolence building. One second, I am playing happily, waiting for word to get ready for the few miles home with my Father weaving on the sidewalk, and the next there is a hand on the back of my neck, and it is squeezing. Hard.

I instinctively try to duck and run, but it’s too late. I have been caught unawares, and the fear grips me like a blanket wrapped around me in a restless sleep, getting tighter with each attempt at escape.
“Come ‘ere, I wan-na show you summten.” His breath hits me in the face and my stomach turns, exacerbating the terror that has begun to settle inside me. It smells of cheap beer, Marlboro Reds, and the not unfamiliar stench of hate. It’s a seething anger that I know well. He had had it rough, and I was ungrateful for all his sacrifices.  Just a spoiled little brat that doesn’t know how to be a good little boy―stupid and too much of a sissy boy for his tastes, in need of a little mettle in my blood.

As I am being dragged across the floor, trying to wrestle myself from his grip and getting nowhere, nobody seems to notice. There is no apparent lull in the conversation. No people crying out for my Father to release me; nothing out of the ordinary going on here at all.

“If you don’t quit squirming, you little motherfucker…” The threat is left open, allowing me poetic license to finish as I see fit. The options that my brain offers are no less frightening than anything he would have managed.

Where, I don’t know, but from somewhere, a set of handcuffs appears. The metal ones, not exactly like the ones issued by the police, but not the cheap kind with a lever that will unlock them if you can manage to get your finger on it. He reaches down and seizes me by the wrist and clicks the first bracelet on me before I see what he has. The other people in the room have stopped talking. They have all noticed that something is happening and are transfixed by the spectacle of a man dragging his son across the room. They watch, fascinated as it unfolds, rubberneckers to the car wreck that is in front of them.
Before he clicks the other bracelet in place, he slides it under the leg of the table so my wrists are close together. Had he been compassionate and put the other bracelet around the leg, I would have had some freedom to move. However, he is desperate to blame someone or something for the ruin that is his existence, and it is my turn. Again.

My struggles to free myself prove fruitless very quickly, and I start to cry. Not a whining wail or a screech―just tears, silent and accusing, dripping from my chin, streaming down my face and washing streaks of red into the pale color of my face.
“Whassamatter, crybaby?” he asks, bringing laughter from the other men in the room. I am too young to tell if this is uncomfortable laughter, or if the hate has spread to the others through osmosis.

I get tired fast, and my efforts to free myself start coming in spurts. I sit and try to find a comfortable way to position myself in order to rest between the attempts to free myself. I try everything. Picking up the table. Pulling helplessly against the pipe. I am just too small and weak to get anything accomplished. My father insults me and pushes me down with his foot while the other men laugh at his words and even have a chuckle or two when confronted with my tears. It always makes these types of men feel better to see someone suffer and writhe in pain. It makes them forget that they are miserable human beings, each lost in their own tragedy.

After I have been sufficiently humiliated and defeated, I become boring, and they lose interest. They resume the conversation as though I am not even there. The only woman  waits until it is obvious that she will suffer no ill will for doing so, and gets up to find the keys. I have been under this glass table for almost an hour, and the men are no longer even glancing through the glass to get a look at the kid trapped down there. The woman comes back with a bobby-pin, because the keys are nowhere to be found. She mutters something about how mean they all are. Her comment is greeted with some vulgarity and a warning to mind her business lest she find herself locked there in my stead.

My wrists begin hurting from all the pulling and moving about, red and scraped from the cheap metal of the handcuffs. My shoulders are burning from the struggle with my father as well as the exercise of trying to lift the table.
The woman manages to free one hand and looks at me with what little compassion a woman resigned to such a life can muster. She whispers, “Go in the other room, sweetie, and I’ll try to get the other one.”

I run into the living room, where I was playing so quietly only an hour before. There will be no more playing for me. Not today. Not for a few days. Once again, I have been reminded of my station in life and the reality of it all.

The woman comes in behind me and eventually does release me from the other bracelet of the cuffs. It takes her a few minutes, and the men start demanding she forget it, do it later. Eventually, she gets tired of their remarks and risks their wrath by saying something back. I do not hear it against the thunder in my eardrums that is my heartbeat. I internally beg her to stop, scared that her mouth will make this day worse for me.

I watch as she walks away after freeing me from the second bracelet. She sets the handcuffs on the table and grabs the beer she left there to help me. She sits down and tries to steer the conversation away from herself by saying something light and funny.

I sit on the couch, scared to move for fear of being noticed again. The tears are slowing down now, but still trickle down my face as if they’re not sure I am finished needing them, each one releasing more of the emotions that are holding me motionless―washing away the pity and the anger that consumes me.

This time, when it happens, I hear his chair. It drags across the floor ever so briefly. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, not fingernails, but nails. I am afraid to hope he is going to the bathroom. Too frightened to turn my whole head and watch him,  I try to use my peripherals to see―but the question is answered when I hear the clink of the handcuffs as he picks them up. I try to make myself smaller. Try to climb into the couch as if I were really the cockroach he makes me feel like.

The tears start afresh as his shadow comes near me. This time, the sobs overtake me. They are so powerful and deep, the world swims around the edges from oxygen deficiency. I do not fight him this time. Years of life with him have taught me to know that I am better off not resisting him too often. It doesn’t matter, though; his grip is a vice around my wrist and the nape of my neck.

He is saying something that I can’t hear. The anxiety and fear have deafened me to anything other than my thoughts. I wonder why he hates me; why his love always hurts. What I do hear, though, is the click of those handcuffs as he starts putting them on me again. Snatching me around like a doll to put me under the table once again. This time, he puts them on so tight I think they are cutting into me.

I don’t hear the second one click. I hear my innocence being severed from my eight year old soul. I hear my sanity as it grips the edge of the cliff and struggles not to fall into the darkness that awaits it. I hear the sobs of a little boy that I once was as I enter a maturity I won’t catch up with for almost twenty years. One I still struggle to keep in front of me.

When I think about it now, I can’t remember how long I was locked there the second time or how I got out. I can’t remember going home, or whether my Father tried to be nice to me later. I can’t remember anything after the snap. If you ever ask me what I once wanted to be when I grew up, you will see me think about it, but I won’t remember. I can’t. I don’t remember ever wanting to grow up. I can’t remember anything about that child; who he was or what he dreamt about. He is a far away little boy that couldn’t be invisible. Couldn’t not look like his mother. Couldn’t find love in a world he never asked for and never wanted.

********

That little boy is still handcuffed to that table. Still struggles to free himself. He will never learn to hate himself, never think about death when he wakes up in the morning. He will never find the release of drugs and alcohol, or be mean to someone because that is how he thinks people are supposed to deal with disappointment. No, those are my crosses to bear and I left the innocence of that little boy behind me with those handcuffs. He still sobs in my heart late at night as I try to fall asleep and lures me into thinking I deserve the trials I’ve endured, but I’ve finally caught up to my maturity and am trying to leave that little boy’s pain in the past where it belongs.

Continue reading »]]> With each deft movement

They glide effortlessly through time

Old as the trees they wander past

Each scale glimmering, glittering

Unblinking eyes ever watchful

Photographer: Roger Sanderson

Black and white and gold and orange

Sometimes a mixture of all

With hints of unearthly splendor

Behind each iridescent scale

Each sleepy movement of a tail

Whisks them forward lazily

Until at once, from some unseen disturbance

They fly from sight with great speed

Each pattern in sunlight glows

And in clouds they shine alone

Fluid, graceful, flexible, effortless

Unhurried yet purposeful

Each gossamer fin in quiet repose

Until a flick of the wrist drives them

To some new direction

A gaping maw breaks the surface

The greatest one has come to visit me

An old friend and trusting gaze

With patient eyes, watches

I stroke the slippery nose carefully,

My fingers slip and my nail pokes the sensitive snout

I apologize, but the trust is damaged

And my visitor glides away

I wait, as patient as I can be,

But they are old, and trust heals slowly

At last, returning, cautiously this time

My fingers are still and extended

The soft heart bumps them with a velvet nose

And nibbles my fingertips with toothless affection

Peaceful here in the place between

Lush Springtime and the lingering Winter

I sit in quiet awe of them

Beneath a soft grey sky

And in the bitter winds

I envy them their peaceful home

It is no wonder the Eastern World

Believed in Dragons, for here they are

In a myriad of colors, patterns, sizes

Serene and wise

Impetuous and bold, the younger ones,

But always graceful and liquid in motion

I, bent and crooked, accident-prone,

Watch them with approving respect

Wanting to be like them

The Dragons of the Water

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Photographer: Stephan Mantler

Even among the most creative of writers, there are many times when we look at our blank piece of proverbial paper, and have no idea what to do with it. Perhaps it’s just exhaustion — maybe you’ve been cooped up for too long, and need to get out more to draw some fresh inspiration. Regardless of the reason, there are times where we all lose our creative touch, and especially for those that make a career (or obsession!) out of writing, getting back that mojo is our top priority. So here are some ways you can get it back:

RANDOM CONVERSATIONS

Talk with random people, about crazy topics, in the most spontaneous of conversations — you’d be surprised how much interesting writing you can generate in this way. In fact, psychology today points out that sparking conversations with random strangers can inspire big ideas, and also improve memory retention. The reason for this is that your brain responds more enthusiastically to new information.

LET IT ALL GO

There’s a reason why many people feel most creative when they are high on marijuana, or more rhythmically confident when they’re drinking, and it’s not something you need drugs to experience: just let it all go, and (as Morpheus elegantly puts it) “free your mind”. Studies confirm this can, in fact, positively impact your creative potential.

ROLE-PLAY

The phenomenon of role-playing, popular among fans of anime, video games, and dice-and-paper games like D&D, isn’t just useful as a form of entertainment — it’s also a highly effective means of brainstorming! So much, in fact, that people write volumes of creative material every day, without even realizing it. One popular role-playing portal has a longest roleplay (titled “Multiverse”) of a whopping 50.3 million words of story-telling! Role-playing is a good way to inspire yourself, brainstorm for fresh ideas, and learn the value of social collaboration. “Multiverse” is a fairly well-written story with the cohesiveness of a work written by a single person, and yet it was crafted by thousands of people around the world and spans hundreds of thousands of pages. The creative potential of role-playing is simply astounding and, if you can tap it, you’ll get your mojo back.

USE THE SYSTEM

There are plenty of tools and writing systems that will help you to get rid of writer’s block and regain your creative edge. One tool that I found to be immensely useful was Automattic’s Plinky prompts. They ask you thought-provoking questions that you can use as a launchpad for your creative shenanigans. It’s a surprisingly effective way to tap into your creative mind and, as they never run out of questions, you’ll never run out of answers, or inspiration. Plinky also has the added bonus of allowing you to automatically forward all of your posts to Facebook, Twitter, WordPress, Tumblr, and many other online blogging services.

HALLUCINATE

I know this might sound crazy (well actually, it kind of is!), but summoning visual, auditory, and tactile hallucinations is a good way to get your mojo back. In the movie “Stranger than Fiction”, the author enters into a trance-state to find out how the main character of her story would feel when he dies, vividly envisioning herself dying in various ways.

Evidence of this method’s effectiveness is mostly anecdotal, but I challenge you, if you’re feeling creatively stagnant, to go outside and start experimenting with your imagination. Slice through the street light with your mind, watch it spontaneously combust into a million pieces. Then, force the reversion of time, channeling those pieces back into their original form and order. You will witness a full cycle of destruction and recreation, perpetuated  by your mind. There’s a link between creativity and mental illnesses like schizophrenia for a reason, and you don’t have to be crazy to make use of it!

MENTAL EXPLORATION

The mind is a powerful tool, and its creative potential is nearly infinite. While some are more predisposed to creativity than others, and even they can sometimes encounter roadblocks to their creativity. If that happens, and none of the other strategies outlined in this post work,  the best route to getting back and keeping your creative mojo might be to explore the potential of your mind, so you know how best to make use of it. Know yourself creatively: know what drives you, what moves you, and what keeps you going. This kind of knowledge is what empowers you as a writer, as a thinker, and as an artist. Go exploring, get to know all the things that make you tick, and you’ll find the key to unlocking your creative potential… Perhaps you’ll even find a part of yourself you never knew in the process.

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I watched as my father lay on the couch, sagging.

His face ashen like the November sky.

I listened to the wheeze in his chest,

wondering what was wrong, knowing it wasn’t right.

The trees bare of leaves, feigning death, unlike my father.

His eyes rolled in his head, searching for focus, failing.

He was falling like the last leaves of autumn towards six feet of earth.

Covered, buried, in love.

 

Photographer: Scott Robinson

Continue reading »]]> I have always loved the beauty of the old cemetery;  the serene air floats over those that have left this earthy world, showcasing lovingly placed flowers and mementos in remembrance of the missing pieces of their hearts. Some of the mounds sit in full sun, and others are shaded by a tree unhindered now by heat or any irritations. Looking over the grounds I would think that those left living, as I always do, feel  vulnerable here, trying to grasp the brevity of our time here and the sadness that accompanies the miracle that is life.

I have always thought this is where I want to be. Even though it is said that your spirit leaves the body, I believe that where dust turns to dust is significant. I would like to believe there is something in that soul that continues to remain for our Earthly companions and the soul is fed still, unconsciously, by what life was, as a reminder:  Yes, I was here. I related to the world, I was part of all this, I belonged to the earth.

Since energy does not die, perhaps it is the sounds that remain intact for us to remember our journey. Wishful thinking?  Most probably so. But it is my dream to be connected to the life sounds that have always lulled the hum of humanism in me. To sit at night without the regular beat of activity in the house, one can hear for miles.

So bury me close to the hum of life.

Photographer: Rantes

The sounds of the crickets and frogs, the sounds of children. The trains that rattle us and the sounds of fireworks. The grief, the sadness, the joys, and surprises.
Think about what it would mean if we could choose what our spirits could participate in after death. Have you ever had someone softly sing you to sleep?  It feels like a soothing touch. Have you  heard another grieving the loss of a loved one?  Your heart feels heavy. They say that seeing is believing, but I say that hearing is feeling, if only you listen close enough.

From these thoughts, I want to be in the middle of it all. I still will want to be connected to the old life. No matter what comes after, I cannot convince myself that I won’t want to know. I will.

Life is not insignificant in the scheme of things.  Whether or not we sprouted from one big event does not matter. We are more than that now. We have evolved. Stephen Hawking has said that time travel could one day become possible.  If  so, I never want to be too far away from the sounds of my life. The sound of angels may be sweet, but no sweeter than the sound of my husband’s warm voice comforting  me, or of the little voice of my granddaughter talking to herself while playing.  The emotions I feel at a child’s distress, a siren blaring, or a glass shattering, I want to take with me. Good or bad, I want to retain that.

When I die, and die I must, bury me without the beat of my heart but understand that the beat in my ears will be straining to hear. Just as the breathing of a puppy on your chest comforts us, so will the beat of the Earth in my rest. I may be wrong, but I feel what I feel. Let me find comfort in the idea that I can still remain connected to what I once was.

So bury me close to the hum of life.

Continue reading »]]> Your oldest friend,

Walks with you to the end.

An Agenda unknown,

Living in a world unseen,

When you lay with him,

“‘Til the end!” You cry,

“There is so much more,” you say.

A drop rolls away,

He pulls you in close,

You look him in the eyes.

“What does it mean?

To feel so serene?”

And you prepare to face

The last sweet embrace.

Photographer: Brad Fults

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Photographer: Kristian Bodker

Pacing to and fro
Back and forth
On and on
Wearing a track in the earth beneath your feet
Your eyes are still wild
The embers still burn
Within you a map of the jungle
Smolders in your brain
Your spirit knows the way
Were it not for these damned cages
And two-legs with tranquillizers
And sly narcotics
You know the truth is the Jungle Law
And that they violate its every tenet
With their screaming cubs that clamor and climb
Like monkeys
And they call YOU a beast?
Your heart is free
If your legs are chained
Your spirit is wild
If your body caged
And though they may take you and keep you
They can never take the jungle out of you
And the deep primal rumbles
Mourning your loss
Do not always fall on deaf ears