Feminism, Freedom, Inspiration, Nature, Poetry, Spirituality, Womanhood, Writing

But I’m Not Perfect Yet

Old poem, old photo, newly paired, never shared:

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But I’m Not Perfect Yet

Why the shampoos
with promising poems
“You’ve really got it now”
“Not your mommas hair-do”
“Beautiful, luscious, supremely clean”
Why all the claims and things
in the ads we see
I know some who
can take it
or leave it—
and why I ever accept it,
I don’t know
I was beaten with it
as a girl
see: media and magazines
images of youthful
concealed women
(concealing whatever doesn’t fit
with the current trend)
see: glowing women or matte
depending on the season
submissive yet dominant
bronzed and flirtatious
You hear confidence is
everything but I don’t believe
that to be true
(I pride humility)
I cannot blame myself
here, and neither should you
Some days I am bland
Some days I am sexy
Some days I’m just decent
and free
but all these days
I am taken with
thoughts of
What I Should Be
My eyes aren’t large enough
My hair won’t lay strait
My clothes just don’t look
that good on my back
Not nearly as good
as they looked strung
up on the rack
I contort myself
with belts and jeans
I pinch, prod and shave
I bleach
chop
polish
and press
I bend over backwards
trying to achieve
a standard that someone
somehow made me believe
I didn’t feel
good-looking
today, it’s true.
I wanted to grab every
woman and ask
“Do you feel this way too??”
I wanted to know
that deep down we
are all just the same
and that on the outside
none of us are ever
what they claim
on the backs of the
bottles of $16 gunk
those are just words and wishes
amounting to junk
intended to make a buck

Memoir, Poetry, Writing

Neurotic Fan Part II–Am I Invisible?

I shuffle upstairs in my long black kimono, the show starting soon.

I go to the bathroom to piss out my beer and stand in line, nobody talking to me and me talking to nobody. I think of what a little city Eugene is. People say it’s a real friendly city. I’m not entirely convinced. I remember bathrooms down on the border of Mexico and how they came practically stocked with cocaine and how that really brought the women together, really opened up the lines of communication, har har.

Eugene needs more drugs, for sure. Women here care about health and spirituality and jogging. Fucking. Jogging.

I emerge from the bathroom stall and am the only person left. Good. I wash my hands and check myself out in the mirror, remembering the young girl who didn’t check my ID. Bitch.

Then I hear a stall door open and close. And though I didn’t know it yet– I hear the sigh of Chelsea Cain’s pre-show nervousness or boredom, I don’t know, but it was a sigh…a famous-author-sigh and Famous. Authors. Are. People. Too.

“Oh. Hi!”

I perk right up as Chelsea Cain emerges in her pink lipstick, short nighty and fuzzy bunny slippers.

“Hi!” She smiles her bright, gorgeous smile.

“I like your nightgown. Very vintage.” I smile back. Again.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Well, have fun!” I wave while leaving the bathroom.

I look for Lidia but she’s hiding (she does that) and I think, gosh, I hope Chelsea knows I know who she is. All I did was talk about her clothes. I could’ve mentioned her books.

But the truth is, I hadn’t yet read her. But I liked her–just for being her–she was perky and charismatic, I knew that. A week later I would read her memoir Dharma Girl, which wasn’t a struggle, not at all, it was very well-written and introspective but lacking a little spice and danger.

Reading Dharma Girl after reading The Chronology of Water reminded me of when I replaced methamphetamine with cocaine (we’re talking daily use here). So mellow it was hardly even potent. But it’s all relative–if I did cocaine now I’d be swimming the clouds. Back-strokes n’ shit.

I’m sure, no I’m certain Chelsea Cain’s murder mystery shit is potent as hell.

So I look for Lidia and she’s still nowhere to be found. I get in line for a stuffed animal and I’m the only one there and there’s an empty box behind the deserted foldy-table.

Oh well.

I join the fifty-thousand fucking horny college kids with their iPhones and now their huge cheetah and lion stuffed animals that they’re literally making hump eachother.

I sit on the floor cross-legged with my faint close-lipped smile that says I’m approachable and someone elbows me in the mouth and a round girl in front of me scootches back to make room for her friend, a sexy blonde in a black kimono and they snap a picture together and they’re so close I could lick the backs of their heads. I shift uncomfortably and think Am I invisible? Like, really. No, seriously..am I invisible?

Poetry

Wake Up

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Choke. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Cough. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. No smoke. Is even. Coming out. Anymore. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. I’m exhausted. Inhale. Enough already. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.  Inhale. Exhale. Exhale.

Stop. Just stop.

You don’t need this to define you.

Inhale, count two-three-four…

Exhale, two-three-four

Stop.

Enough already.

Your body doesn’t deserve this.

Memoir, Rant, Writing

Erra Erra What?

When I’m done posting this I’m going to put up some sort of warning label on my homepage. I’ll need to make it huge and bright yellow or maybe red and flashing if possible. Sound effects would be great. Horns. We’ll see about that.

I have a little issue. But I’m about to bridge it, like a creek needing crossed. It’s small like a creek really. The little insignificant thing of which I speak is this: I write. A lot. But what I write is too provocative for my blog grandma. So I haven’t been posting. Try as I might all I write about is sex, drugs and rock and roll. Literally. And need I remind you that it’s all non-fiction?

I hesitate posting my recent material because I’m afraid of judgement. Strangers? Phew, I could care less, happy to share my true self. It’s my relatives, bosses, and future bosses I’m worried about.

In short: I really didn’t want to write an addiction memoir. But I have. The story of my life is all about trying to stay afloat with the anchor of addiction at my foot. Thing is, I’ve been afloat for about ten years now. But even if it has been a decade since I nearly overdosed on the bathroom floor of the lady whose kids I used to babysit, I’m still an addict.

Addicts know this. Alcoholics know this. Ideally therapists and drug counselors know this too. I feel like its only a matter of time before the props are knocked out from under me.

Non-addicts understand the concept but only to the extent that non-musicians understand music. I don’t want to be an addict. That is such an awful thing to be. Such a let-down to the family. But I’m afraid at the end of the day, I am.

I’ve never had help. Not one counseling session. I’m writing a book about it instead. Talk about self-help. They say: write the book you want to read. Well, I want to read about a desperate girl. I want to know that someone else has been there. Will I get that from writing this book? No, but someone else will and that’s just as important. And so I will write about addiction and its many shades of gray. People say, You’re not an addict. You don’t do drugs. Wrong. I am an addict. I don’t do drugs. That’s almost harder. Almost.

I stood for too long at the bank of the creek and I must cross the bridge I’ve built. I must be brave. To stop now means I stop writing. I cannot, I will not write about pretty things. To stop now means no more blog. I cannot, will not post material that I don’t have. All I have left is truth.

This does not mean I will be posting more regularly (I still plan to average, oh, a post a week), this just means I’m uncensoring myself. If you are my grandmother, great aunt, uncle, father, mother, boyfriend’s mother, know that I’m kicking it up a notch and at the end of the day I need you to accept me as I am. I can no longer be the girl I wanted to be for you. Because the girl I really am is simply a little more…dirty, and daring.

I’m also half-heartedly trying to create a “flu-shot effect”. That’s where the nurse (me) preps you for an incredibly unbearable needle-in-the-arm-experience by asking you a silly questions like “So what do you do?” and then quickly jabs you in the arm but she uses a kid-sized needle that didn’t hurt at all and you reply “Ohh, social workwasthatit? That wasn’t that bad.”