Sunday, June 17, 2012

Happy Father's Day!




I am one of those people
fortunate enough
to have been born
to parents
who love me enough
to tell me they do.
.
My mom tells me
she loves me
(and I know she loves me)
by understanding
my artistic bent, 
by putting her momness aside
to help me design
my new tattoo,
and by the way we giggle.
She tells me
by having ears
that know how to read
between tears & theories,
by being my Team Captain,
the leader of my fan club,
and by answering the phone
at ungodly hours
to God-knows-what kind
of urgent situation
and for not being mad at me
for the time she picked up
to the sound of
bloody murder
and sobs
and it turns out
it was just
a spider.
.
My dad tells me
he loves me
(and I know he loves me)
in the way
he answers my questions
with thought
even when 
it is the same one 
I asked him
last time.
He takes me out
for bacon and eggs
or coffee
and listens to my wobbles
and wanderings
then engages me
and makes me stronger;
he is the kind of man
who teaches me
my voice counts;
my shoulders square
when I remember
I am his
and I therefore
have things to say.
When he is in the room,
I am not afraid
of spiders.



Thursday, June 14, 2012

flowering



I'm going to be honest with you, why I'm not writing on here much these days. Eye me curiously all you want, but it's true: I have a boyfriend. He is wonderful and I happily let him take up all my spare time. Though he insists I need alone time to write, I'm too stubborn and cuddly for him to ignore. Funny what a good man can teach you about men and self. Things like: "Hey! Not all of us are made of asshat!" or "You are smart". I heard Kelly Clarkson on the radio this morning and thought, "Good sweet Lord. I'm relating to her lyrics [new low?]. Where did Miss Independant run off to?"

I digress.

The good news related to my writing: I had a fabulous dream the other night that was so complex I'm actually putting my other writing project (loosely titled "book") on hold to start writing this one. My first book, that floppy attempt, will be picked up again this summer for some finalizing patchwork and, hopefully, printing. Admittedly I've succumbed to the pressure of having a PERFECT FIRST ("Hey look at this blockbuster movie they just made out of my first book!" ~ giddy young author with horseshoes up her writing utensil). No more! I've decided a crappy first book is better than no first book. Will continue to work to that end, and aim to write crappy books. Two potential weekend writing retreats in the works, one writing conference in fall I'm hoping to soak in, and gracious supporters from all sides. Did I mention I finally have a couch? Makes me want to stay home. All of this is good for my writing.

In leiu of my own poetry (which is second-rate at best), here's a beaut my friend just shared. Dwell in this one for a bit:

Graham Franciose via Etsy
. . . I look out
at everything
growing so wild
and faithfully beneath
the sky
and wonder
why we are the one
terrible
part of creation
privileged
to refuse our flowering
(David Whyte, “The Sun”)
 
 

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

hiatus


Off in a world. Thinking of things like waffle makers, office politics, the purpose(lessness) of war, the deep-seated feel of good music, and other variousness; things that aren't related to anything but themselves. Have been pondering the difference between wish lists and permanent ink. Enjoying rooftop patios and my-eyelashes-just-touched-yours and happy in the moment-ness. Downloading 4x my phone data on niece & nephew videos. Reading too much Google News and becoming thoroughly depressed as a result. Finding joy again in ice cream cake, lengthy sleeps, and my new mop. Also (!) embarking on yet another chapter of  The Never Ending Quest to Make my Flats Stop Smelling. Have tried a new trick, will pass on to the ladies if successful.

I miss you though, and think of you daily, and how much you must sigh when you think of this blog. "That Ashley. Can't keep a writing streak going for shit."

a.

Horst Fass - Vietnam War.

This could be by Klockhoff Not sure though. Pinterest.



Couleurs
there was a little girl
.
.