paint chips

Haiku

A colorful scene

Picnic blanket folded out

No shoes required

Cacti bob and weave

They play in Arizona

Until the sun slips

Orange poppy fields

On a blue sky kind of day

Nothing else is planned

Acrostic 

So what happens when

Everything stops?

Rude and abrupt or otherwise.

Everyone wants to know eventually.

Nobody can cheat it or

Escape with a

Houdini kind of vanishing

Act.

Vultures sly in the air won't always be there to

Even the score and make

Nothing of their actions.

Scenery

A gleaming copper kettle has been abandoned on the table cloth

It politely rubs shoulders with the tubes of oil and the turpentine cup.

Paintings on the wall flaunt their gallery gold frames

And sit like old friends with their musky confidence.

There are hollow frames stacked in a corner,

gathering dust on weathered barn wood.

They are tired and retired.

They are ready for sleep.

Narrative

With his head leaned against the window,

With the train's melodic rickety clattering,

With the empty paper cup,

With the yellow fields of corn running alongside the window,

He lets the pen slide from his fingertips.

He lets his eyes get lost in the landscape blur.

He lets his eyelids sink lower and lower.

He lets his tunnel of dreams lift him away.

5,000 Minutes of Full House

I have always been a collector. When it comes to my personal writing, I base most of it off of my possessions or details about them. I could never write fiction very well off the cuff, so I find it very important that I use my skills to write about my day to day experiences as someone who walks on solid ground. Cataloging authentic, raw feeling is a very important part of growing and moving for me. Writing from objects allows me to collect the memories attached to it and ease the rational fear of losing that physical item’s memory forever. If I can write about an object or a collection of them from a certain time in my life, someday in the future I can read back and reflect. Mostly like recording one’s height on a door frame. You can look back at the etched pencil marks and think, “Wow, look where I’ve been!” All week I’ve been recalling all the places I’ve seen and what objects I associate with those times. A lot of them are tied together by different commonalities, and others stand on their own. With that being said, a mishmash road map of some memories connected to objects is in the works for the future. This is what I have so far.

The Outer Banks, North Carolina (2007, a mysterious piece of fish)

                On the very first road trip that I ever went on, I can remember waking up in the middle of Virginia, surrounded by more greenery than my little 9 year old self could have even imagined into existence. It was an 18 hour drive from my home, with a pit-stop in Knoxville halfway through. My best friend and I had brought every single season of Full House and all the Scooby Doo DVDs we could get our hands on. Full House alone from season one to the last is around 5,000 minutes, so I imagine that was the bulk of what kept us busy. The Outer Banks are the collections of islands off the coast of North Carolina, and I was simultaneously amazed and terrified at the long bridge we drove over to reach our 3 story beach condo. I’d been to the ocean before, but didn’t remember enough to really form a romantic opinion. This time was unique for me. I ran headlong into the dark waves, completely in love with the chilled saltwater singing my eyes and my paper cuts. This love affair was very short lived with my brief and disgusting introduction to the loose blobs on the shore. Jellyfish. I didn’t touch the water after I caught sight of them. Every time I encountered one on the beach where I would happily construct sand palaces, I shoveled more sand over the top of its gelatinous masses. Maybe not the most intelligent or compassionate idea in hindsight, but I was not amused with what I viewed as uninvited guests. While my friend played fearlessly in the water, I combed the beach for hours. I collected many treasures during those beach visits, but only took a few home with me. One of them is a shredded piece of fish mouth. It sounds gory, but no blood was present. It’s just a piece of mouth from something that swam beneath the waves with very sharp teeth. It’s not shark-like in nature, but it was too cool for me to leave on the sand for someone else to brag about later on. Only one sharp, needle-like tooth remains in the skin.

Memphis, Tennessee (2012, bracelets, skeleton key)

                Jump ahead several years in my journey and you’ll find me in the back of a silent white car. Though we were moving, everything was still and I was sick. Fewer than 5% of my red blood cells were healthy and functioning the way they should be. Nobody in the car had anything to say. Just a few hours prior we had packed up what little belongings we could and began the journey to Memphis where I would receive treatment for 8 months and conquer multiple battles. In many ways, the less notable people in my life at the time thought to themselves that this would be the winding road to the end of my life, but it turned out to be quite the opposite. I was shocked to hear their morbid opinions, but words rarely express the pleasure I feel for proving them wrong. I hang on to a few hospital bracelets from this time (somewhat reluctant) with some understanding of why they are important to me. Countless major events happened in Memphis within the walls of St. Jude’s, but I feel some credit needs to be given to the 5 hour stretch of road it takes me to get there. That is my reflecting time. It’s the time I take out of my life to eat too many sour patch kids and thank the universe for keeping me. Somewhere a little over the halfway marker during my very first visit home since being diagnosed, my mom and I stop off at a small place called Hardy, Arkansas. It continues to be one of our favorite quirky places to visit, but the first time stopping by was most notable. I’d always loved the idea of skeleton keys, but had never been able to find and authentic one. One of the three antique shops on Main Street had only one key left. My mom had struck up a conversation with the clerk about our whereabouts, and ended up somehow knowing how sick I was. When it came time to pay, she took pity and gave me the very last key in the whole shop. I still wear it around my neck most days when I need the reminder. Another minor, yet notable event between Springfield and Memphis happened my last yearly checkup there in December. The weather was particularly favorable for hanging my head out the window somewhere between the middle of nowhere and the last stretch of farmland for the whole trip. When I did this, it occurred to me once again that I had not been allowed to breathe the outside air for over 8 months without the protection of an immune system 3-4 years ago. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten to stare at such a welcoming, vast group of stars. I always like to look up.

i am not just me

i am

the artist, asking the same question, over and over, seeking a new answer, arranging the result in a new way, collaborating with the world. i am shifting, posing, arranging, destroying, feeling.

the patient, with blue and green and yellow bracelets dangling from my thin wrist. i am 75 pounds and the definition of a medication cocktail with legs. i am sick.

the student, inside the building and out, a student of the world whether i like it or not. i am the unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

the only daughter, waking up at noon, curled up on the couch reading a book, begging for road trips and museum visits.

i am

the repetitive dreams of bloody crooked, falling out, crumbling teeth and animal heads mounted to walls. i am the static wave length connected from another origin.

the skeleton key, musings of Rumi, and the barefoot games of color tag in the July lawn.

the burning candle wicks and the smell of soup bones. 

the streets of Bleecker, Bowery, Lafayette, and Houston. i am standing on the corner of my heroes, watching the moon rise over SoHo to the beat of "Walk on the Wild Side."

the Mary Oliver poem, The Summer Day. i am Ingram Marshall's Three Penitential Visions/Hidden Voices.

i am

challenging, hard headed, soft spoken and introspective. i live 90% in my head and the other 10% within other's. 

the crooked heart shaped sunglasses perched on the bridge of my nose.

the taste of colors, letters, and sounds. i am the cross-wired senses.

the flashbacks, the nightmares, the buckets of tears and i am the bitten skin beside my fingernails.

i am the comedian, chameleon, Corinthian, and caricature. i am Major Tom and Andy Warhol, Jean Michel-Basquiat, and a Blackstar.

i am the grey Chuck Taylor's and the worn black jeans.

most of all, i am a process, i am a work in progress.