GENERATOR

generator

a collection of summer anxieties

leave fingerprints among the bookcases

the heat wave doesn’t state

we should stay indoors

but we do—

to sit and contemplate the click

of two synapses coming

together so easily

how sensitive

you are to the affectionate

necking of a hand to your shoulder

            sex is not your generator.

Permanence, solidification, and modification.

When I had my tattoo done today I thought of my grandpa on several occasions. He’d smile at me from behind his crosswords, or say in his Chicago dialect, “’Ey, toots.” This got me through my first tat no problem. I also listened to This Will Destroy You, which may have helped. (For those of you who know my connections to music, it can cause an upwelling of emotion for me, good or bad.) This was good. I was smiling. Tattoos fucking hurt, but I was smiling.

I laughed in the shower today. I cleaned the weird goop from my tattoo, and laughed. I don’t know why a tattoo makes me feel validated. I think I’m coming into my own, solidifying. And, not to sound dramatic, but I am casting away those that drag me down. I’m not afraid to be a little selfish. I can only help others so much, and beyond that I become exhausted. There’s something to be said of taking care of someone when they are in need, and doing it out of your own need to ignore yourself. I LOVE almost everyone I meet, but I’ve got to learn to keep my heart to myself.

I feel like I’ve been some weird sacrificial punching bag, but not by my conscious choosing. I’ve spent so much time trying to find a life that I think I want instead of creating my own. I’m tired of pretending to be anything. As a friend once chalked on the underside of Friendship Bridge: TRANSCEND DA BULLSHIT. Four (?) years later I’ve finally realized what the fuck that means.

STRANGE, THE SELECTIVE MEMORY

Here's a new poem I wrote today. It comes from a place I was in after a discussion with a friend. Yes, I'm in an interesting mood. And, yes, I'm done editing things out of my poetry.

STRANGE, THE SELECTIVE MEMORY

I preserved the sea shells you picked

from the east coast in a canning jar

the jumpsuit orange

sticky note on your lunch bag

folded shirts into uniform rectangles

& weighed the permanence of owning a spice rack

the first night we fucked with

two box fans in the windows, arms reaching

through the dense heat

i’m bent on forgetting

how everything leaves you

breathless in the same clothes

on the second day

A Moment for Music

My accomplishments today: wake up, put on pants.

Some days there's this sort of sleep state that settles inside of me. It's hard to get moving, even though I have the best of intentions. Maybe it's spending time alone, or not planning to do anything except write that pushes me into this space.

I played a show at the VAC yesterday with the wonderful Sun Blood Stories, Dogbreth and Diners. (Tartufi broke down in Nevada.) I want to thank everyone that came out even though Tartufi didn't play! While I was playing drums I kept having the dorkiest thoughts ever: Wow, I can play drums; It's so cool what my body can do; WEEEEEEE! etc.

I guess the reason I bring this up is because I want to feel this way about writing again. There's something almost transcendental about playing the drums for me. I don't have to worry about what I look like because I've accepted that I'm going to get SWEATY. All I can do is disappear into what I'm playing and have a good time--let my limbs express my feelings, blarghyblah.

So now I've got to let my writing express whatever the hell I want it to.

And with that, here's a poem I wrote/revised/reworked and I feel is sort of ready to be posted:

TO BE FEMALE

I dreamt I read my poems all wrong. Instead of anemones they were tigers instead of red frilly hearts they were dripping smoked lungs they were poison tipped horns they were purple, spray painting train cars they were ultrasounds.

They multiplied in that dream spot they took on human qualities: this one a face of tanned leather this one hoarded kitchen appliances in its left palm this one a drunk an anxious traveler watch your drink watch your knife watch your girl leave you

this one holds a citrine coffee mug and picks out hips & collarbones

Hello, again.

It’s interesting what a deep depression can do to a person. It’s not a question of whether I can write. I know I can write. Some of my best writing (in my opinion, obviously) has been when I was wallowing so low down that I didn’t give a shit until later when I happened to stumble on it. Obviously there wasn’t a large quantity of good writing from those times. I mean, I’d like to say that I want to preserve that piece of depression a little maybe just to understand when I’m back there, but for now I’ll just alter it.

And now that I’ve stopped worrying so much everything is fresh again. I was down low for so long that I’d forgotten what it meant to work hard on something. I’d forgotten that spending time with a friend wasn’t just to talk about how your life had gone to shit over beers. A lot of beers.

Every experience comes down to re-living a past one now. Or else, it gets harder to create a new one without referencing something from your past. This new experience can be a more vivid and wonderful creature.

After this past winter, I wanted to be in control of myself again. But I found instead I was trying to conduct or direct my relationships even though I know everything is out of my control except for my own life. I needed patience. One of the most frustrating and paradoxical things I’ve learned: patience takes practice.

So, try to be patient, Jessica. 

Pack your books around. Casually leave out the part where you don’t read them. Collect these precious bundled papers. Build memories around them when you do read them. The most important book to this day is the one you were actually reading when your Grandpa died. It was also about death, and poetry, and the fleeting.

I've been reading the blogs of friends, and I appreciate them so much that I had to start mine again. Not for the sake of appreciation, just for the chance at it. If Stephanie Couey can write a post about her relationship to food that doesn't align exactly to mine, and still resonates at the very center of me; I believe that I can share my own experience with others and maybe we'll have something to talk about after.

I’m so thankful for everyone that has been around for me the past 6 months. You saved my life. Now I’m going to allow the writing back in so it can keep me safe.

As a re-dedication to my writing, updated blog. (Now in color!) I'm also not restricting myself to poetry. Or anything really. This is my drawing board for poetry, whether that means a thought I'm having, or a poem I can't help but share, or a fucking picture of a fortune cookie.

So, mission statement: over. Next: a poem.