the artist's way

Today I'm starting a series of blogs about my experiences going through the book The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. I'll be doing this in conjunction with my friend Karen's blog, so check her's out as well because we're doing it as a team.

The Artist's Way uses two basic tools, the morning pages and the artist's date. Morning pages are three pages of stream of consciousness writing every morning to sort of get the worries out of the way and clear the my head. I'm not supposed to read them again right away, but wait for a while and then read them, I guess for some insight into how my brain works. The artist's date is a weekly chunk of time (2 hours is what she said) where I go (or stay, I suppose, but that would be hard to do with le bebe) and do stuff. Anything, I guess. Walking, concerts, museum, bowling, movie, whatever. That's going to be hard for me. I always go out either with JP or Willow because my social anxiety goes crazy in the real world. If I do go out alone, I run in and out of the grocery store. . . And even then I hate it. Maybe these dates will help with that as well.

So, Karen and I will be chronicling our journey through this book. . I'm not sure what exactly it entails. I started flipping through it and got a little freaked out, which is probably a good thing, so I'll be taking this one chapter at a time. Karen has done this before, so if you follow her journey you'll be getting not only a whole different perspective, but someone who's a great writer and a pro at this whole finding your creativity thing!

I hope to get two things out of this exercise. Mainly, I hope to learn how to write even when I'm happy and everything's going well. I've never been good at writing happy poems. My writing started as a coping mechanism, and every time I tried writing not-sad poems they ended up sappy or stupid. Secondly, I'd like to shake the writer's block that plagues me every few months. Sometimes, I can write for months and months but then I stop. For like a year. Usually, it's when I'm depressed, and not being able to write makes it worse. . . So, Julia Cameron, I challenge you to fix my creative.

In the book she asks us to sign a contract, so I will put it on here so I can be responsible not only to myself and Karen but to you all,

I, Annie, understand that I am undertaking an intensive, guided encounter with my own creativity. I commit myself to the twelve-week duration of the course. I, Annie, commit to a weekly reading, daily morning pages, a weekly artist date, and the fulfillment of each week's tasks.

I, Annie, further understand that this course will raise issues and emotions for me to deal with. I, Annie, commit myself to excellent self care-- adequate sleep, diet, exercise, and pampering-- for the duration of the course.

So, there it is. I'm not sure if I'll be posting updates or other stuff along with the weekly artist's way blogs, but I guess we'll see.

I, Annie, am signing off.

<3

two years self-injury free!!!

The title says it all! It's been two years, which is crazy for something that used to be almost hourly for me! Go me!

I'm really proud of myself for the progress I've made and for how little I think of self-injury as an alternative to dealing with my emotions nowadays.

There has been a lot that helped with my recovery process, but JP has definitely been the biggest motivator for me. When I met him, I was just starting to get back into it, after a deep depression during my freshman year of college and miscarrying Chatham, but even after all that, it didn't escalate to anywhere near the level it had been at in previous years.

Poetry has also helped. I've written for years, but getting a little better at it (god, let's admit it, those first ones sucked really, really bad!) and even competing in a slam or going to poetry readings and getting more involved in the spoken word community, though not as much as I'd like to, has really helped. It gives me something to look forward to. This all started my freshman year when I heard Bluz on Indiefeed and then he visited IC and gave me his CD's (he's a great guy!) and then continued with Sierra DeMulder, who I was also introduced to by Indiefeed and is an amazing artist and person. JP and I went to one of her poetry classes last winter, before I found out I was pregnant, and we hoped to go back for the whole semester, but it's in St. Paul and I got pregnant and crabby.

Bluz:



Sierra:



The main reason I wouldn't go back to the awful that was my life is Willow. I want a better life for my little girl. She's my everything.

Happy Beltane. I'm going to go light some candles. Blessed be.

<3

back to basics

Just a poem. First draft. Written forever ago. I wrote one today for my yiayia (grandma, in Greek) who died yesterday. I'm not quite ready for that one, so, enjoy.

You snort roofies through a paper cup

Hoping to drown yourself and let the

Numb rape your existential memories

Into dumb creatures staring at you like sheep.

Let the cavernous hole in your brainheart

Be filled by the smoke of the bubbler

Crowd surfing over your larynx and

Into your lungs. Let it make you forget that

There is hunger in the world and in

The pit of your stomach.

Shoot powder mixed with liquid life

Into your aorta and watch it bring

Color back into your cheeks and

Wonder at the thumpcraziness

Of your crazy beating heart.

Bake dreams into chocolate chunk cookies

And let the newness register in your

Stomach lining until you become

Happydrunk with the concept that

You can escape from the reality

That you have so carefully tried to

Avoid by using excuses not to face your

Biggest mistakes.

<3

PS. I'm blogging more. Aren't you happy? 

ode to the girl in somber

 I wasn't going to post this. It's a first draft.
But today would have been Raven's 20th birthday. This is my present. It's all I can give. 

~~

You never looked at me without looking deeply.

Piercing through me, your eyes made a beeline for my heart,

And there- you found something that belonged to you.

Passing notes and pictures back and forth

While the preacherman soliloquized about hope,

We found it, buried among ferns and thorns.

“Softly,” you said, “don’t break my consentration”,

But I barreled through your brain on awkward stilts

Just to press my lips to your consciousness.

I call this place home.

I’ve never eaten ice cream with a fork.

I have never attacked it, forced it to bleed before

Letting it drip through my lips like pearls of butterscotch.

You were a huntress.

I was far away the day you set sail,

Singing noisily, breathing through your nose,

Holding flowers to lay at your gravestone.

I would have stayed and sang with you.

Lately, every breath has a silver lining,

And this frigid winter may be ending

But I find no solace in this.

Winter is where I have made my home

And I have never ventured into spring.

                                          

You were my first reason.

<3

for you, poet boy

This is stubborn.
This doesn't want to come out.
This said it will kill itself before giving up.

This said it hates me.
This told me it was because I am fat, ugly, worthless, stupid, a liar, a whore, a liberal, Christian, female.

This hate that I'm writing this.
This knows I tried writing this blog 40 times in the last 3 weeks and 2 days.

Everyone's telling me I can do better. I can find myself a prince that glows in the sunlight and will sweep me off my feet.
I hate that. I hate it when they say "you can do better".

They are wrong.

I can't do better than you.
You probably invented the word better. In my world, you certainly did.

You did sweep me off my feet, and you do shimmer and glow not only in the sunlight, but also in the moon beams.

The emo quote girl inside me says: You've taught me one thing if you've taught me anything, poet boy. You've taught me that I have a heart, because I can feel it breaking.

It's never been like this.
It's never been insomnia, hungerlessness- it's never been. . . love?

I said I wouldn't fall. I said I didn't fall.
But I had fallen so far down I couldn't hear myself scream.

I think of you when I brush my teeth, when I blink and especially when I check my email.

For a second I wondered what I was supposed to do. How does one act when this happens?

I thought of stories I'd heard. Suicide.

Then I thought, no. It would break you. And I would never do that to you.
Then I thought again, and I said, I don't even want to die.

And I don't. Not only because dying would hurt you, but because I know, for the first time ever, I tangibly know that there are people that love me.
I don't because I have a purpose.

One thing really bothers me though.
It always has.
I never cried.

No. When I finally realized what was happening, I just stared in front of me and focused on the pattern of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

And I'm not angry.
Ok, yes I am.

But not because you just stopped. No. I'm not angry because of that. It's your right.
But it's my right to know why. Just a reason. Nothing more.
"Because you're a whore."
"Because you're too fat for me."
"Because I changed my mind."
"Because you're too clingy."
"Because I could never love you."
"Because I'm going off to college, and there are plenty of better girls there."

Anything, damn it.
Just a reason.
That's why I'm mad.

I'm mad because I thought you were a man.
I still think that.
Contrary to any evidence otherwise.
Like the fact that you just ignore me.

Why can't you just stand up and tell me the truth?
Or is that too hard?

Write me a poem then.
Write me a poem and tell me I'm a cyst.
A ball and chain.
A weight.
A menace.
Something.

Oh, but what hurts the most is that I still love you.
Not as a lover, because it was never that strong in that way,
but as a friend.

For a while, I considered you in the top two. Because Rachel could never be trumped.
I thought that we were soulmates- if not in the usual sense, then in the sense of I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to feel your soul. Because I loved what I saw.

Well,
All things must come to an end.
Even good things.

I am sorry if I'm anything wrong. Any of it. If I was too touchy-feely, or if I told you too much.

I'm sorry.

<3

ghost

Vampire, sweet teeth, venom-dripping ivory tusks- bite me.
Legend, story after story, written on parchment and paper and glowing screen,
Quill pen, ball-point, typist's speech,
You are a ghost.
A mirage.
Here today, disappeared tomorrow.
Like a song echoed from far, far away on Spanish soil, you are.
Oh come back, ghost, I want to touch your shaven face and run my hands through your unruly hair,
I want to show you truth.
But you are a vapor, and all that remains is poetry, your smell and a stripped fedora on the concrete, right next to the edge of my party dress.
Oh boy, oh ghost, you are far away now, ran away, running still.
Halt for a second and listen to what I'm saying.
I don't mean to tie you down, tether and ball and chain and scriptures have I not.
I am a bird but I am small and weightless, and I have strived to become this.
Don't leave me alone, because I am scared of the dark even more than I am scared of you.
I am scared of loosing you more than I am scared of being completely consumed by you.
Come back, ghost, and rest your translucent hand upon mine, and feel my beating pulse.
Trace the white lace of scars on my arms.
Watch the wind tousle my curls.
Hook your hands with mine and pleasure me.
Let me look into the deep pools of your eyes and let me remember what it's like to be safe, and you, you can look into my eyes, and tell me if there is sanity still reflected inside them.
Don't leave me now, for it will not do you any good, and it will break me.
You have already wooed me with your soft lips and your river words, you have already branded your name to the heard on my sleeve.
Come back, boy, for I am just a ghost, a figment, a shell without your mirror to show me I am beautiful.
Come back, and I will smile for you, I will twirl in the sunlight and the moon beams and I will make you happy.
Come back, for I am your ghost.

oh, butterfly

You are cunning, crafty, and far beyond wise.

When I look past your long, curling eyelashes I see an old soul, far older than my own, but one who is struggling to breathe.

Maybe you have become too old, and it's time for you to be laid to rest- or maybe, you are experiencing a new birth.

You hide from me very well, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower and hiding behind leaves and petals- you are mysterious, always leading me on.

Hey boy, you have me in your hand, and breaking is unavoidable. You can't enchant a girl and then tell her to go away, it doesn't work that way.

Hey boy, I miss your liquid eyes and your funny hands and your words.

Your words, they are full to the brim of meaning and intuition and magic, and you spin them; sentence after sentence of magic. You let them dance around me for a while, so I could watch it reflect the sky, and then you pulled them away, leaving me breathless.

Come back, butterfly, your cocoon is far too warm and welcoming for it to be a challenge, and you cannot fly if you don't spread your wings.

You are far too honest, at times, as am I. You told me the truth, and I was left standing there waiting for your face to be close to mine, again, and for your breath to fall on my palm.

Come back, boy.

Flying away is sometimes easier than staying. Turning around is the hardest, sometimes.

You may find your biggest nightmare waiting, but you might also find life.

Hey boy, it's your turn to choose. Read this and think about it as you always do, and either write me a love song for the moment, or write me silence in the stars.
Carpe Diem doesn't mean not being scared of the moment, it means embracing the fear and the expanse of everything around you- maybe even me.

Butterfly, I'm sorry if I crushed your wings. I am thoughtless and I am hasty and I like to take more than to give.

Butterfly; boy, if you need to fly away, take my blessing with you, and if you want to remember me, please do.

Either way, butterfly, I'll remember you.

the color of hunger

What if hunger had a color?
In fact, what if hunger had a face, a name, and a personality?
What would it be like?

Hunger on low would be green. It would be just bright enough to remind you that something needed to be fixed, but not too alarming.
Hunger bordering starvation or physical damage would be orange- alerting you to the problem, but not scaring you as much as red.

Hunger's face would be taught and there would be wrinkles everywhere- across the forehead, around the mouth and around the eyes.
Those eyes. . .

They would be an icy blue and as far as eyes are concerned, they'd be shallower than most, and dry.

Hunger's lips would be cracked and broken in places, so you could see the flesh inside them, and maybe some blood. There would be saliva trickling down one side of Hunger's mouth.

Hunger would have long, artistic fingers with pointy fingernails that were very clean and well kept.

She (for she cannot be anything but a she) would have long white-blonde hair that reached to the middle of her back and flowed free except for a few random braids.

Her skin would be a pale, pale white- almost blue color, translucent and unearthly.

Of course, her frame would be the slightest- a mere skeleton, and maybe even less than that. She would tremble and sway in the wind, threatening to fall over, yet standing as tall and strong as a cedar.

She would be wearing white, probably a dress of some sort, a long one that covered her feet. Only a few of her toes would poke out, her big toe would be long and skinny, and the toe after that would have a silver toe ring on it.

If Hunger could speak, she'd probably say something like "Feed me". But after a while, she'd start talking more, about other things. .

"I am lonely. I am broken, too. All but a few of my friends have deserted me, preferring a life of health and happiness. But they do not know that there is happiness to be found in hunger too".

Her words would be drawn out, the syllables stretching farther than you ever thought they could stretch. Her voice will be high and almost screechy- like nails on a chalkboard, you figure.

She may continue, "I am hard to find in my fullness. . but you have succeeded. You have drawn me out of my restless slumber, unafraid to see the horror. Oh, but you know it isn't only horror, but beauty too that mingles in my blood. You are fascinated. Self-abuse carries high dignity, eh young one?"

Her soul would be old, reaching farther than the depths of humanity. She is a god. A frightening but wondrously enticing god- a seductress.

A shiver may run through you when you first glimpse of her skeletal beauty and you may feel your heart start to pound in your chest, threatening to jump out. She will beckon, and you will follow.

That's what Hunger is.

"my soul lingers over the skin of you"

"And I don't know,
don't know,
if we belong together or apart,
except that my soul lingers over the skin of you
and I wonder if I'm ruining all we had,
and had not. . . "

-Anne Sexton

It is silent, everywhere. Outside it is getting dark, a bluish sort of dark; the calm before the storm, or tornado. On the radio, the Black Eyed Peas are telling me that they're 3,000 and 8 and I'm 2,000 and late, and even though I am swaying and spinning, I wonder what that even means.

We danced to this song, and it got stuck in our heads. He kept singing it. "I'm so 3,008, you're so 2,000 and eight" and I'd join in "boom, boom, pow". Maybe if we practised, we could actually sound good. Synchronized.

I've never waited before. It's always been moving as fast as it possibly could, untra-sonic speed.
It's different now, though, and I have this weird feeling, that I should wait for him, encourage him, and just be a friend. I've never felt this before.

I told him that Walking Alone, by Anne Sexton, the poem up there ^ fit. He said it did to, and asked what the title was.

There are pictures documenting our night, though they are terribly unoriginal. I think we felt weird, standing in front of a camera, me in my prom dress and v-neck t-shirt, and him in his suit and borrowed yellow tie. We just stood there and side hugged. The photographer lady said it was ok if we touched, so we did. I wondered, silently, how much touching.

I would wait for him till the end. Which scares me, because I have never said that, or thought anything remotely close to that, ever.

<3

hot pink ribbons

Sometimes I think I've found someone that thinks like me, maybe, if you're Anne of Green Gables, a "kindred spirit", somewhere, writing something, and then they disapear.
Usually they are famous writers, like Don Miller.

I love Don Miller.
While I was reading "Searching for God Knows What" I wondered if he had a girlfriend right now, and then, during "Blue Like Jazz" I wanted to stalk him and get his phone number so I could woo him and marry him.

That was during a state of extreme tiredness and caffeine deprivation, though, so I'm really not that creepy.
Now, when I think about him, I wish there were less people in the world, so maybe he'd actually be interested if I wrote him an email and tried to have a conversation with him. Maybe if there were less people in the world people, even famous people, would listen.

Jon Foreman is another one.
And then there's you.

I'm sure we have alot in common. I'm sure you've stared as far as you could into the darkness straining to see what's at the other side. I'm sure you've done this, both literally and figuratively.
I'm sure you've cried so hard that after you were all done all that would come out of you was more snot and hiccups.
I'm sure you've wondered what the right spelling for the red condiment is. Is it catsup? Or ketchup?
(It's ketchup.)
I'm sure you've stood at the edge of a couch and closed your eyes and jumped- and repoened your eyes at the impact; the shock of hitting the ground, because you know you were meant to fly.
I'm sure you've sat listening to music and moving to the beat when you suddenly felt they were singing about you.

I know these things because I am you, and you are me.
We are members of the same planet; one of a million.
We are fighters and followers. Hopeful and hopeless. Singers and dancers. Smart and dull. And sometimes duller. Maybe all at the same moment.

If there is one truth I want to hold in my hand, it is that I am loved, and you are too (because remember, we are one and the same).
I want to hold it in my hand, and wrap my fingers around it.
Maybe the light coming from it will slide between my closed fist and turn my fingers orangish red. Maybe the liquid from it's heart will seep through my closed hand and pour down my wrist. Maybe then I will understand.

If love was a song, I would sing it to you. I would scream it right into your ear, where I could see the follicles of hair and the tiny bits of earwax stuck to them.
If love was rain, I would dance in it, dragging you with me. The water would make our hair stick to our face, and I would brush it away from yours and kiss you on the forehead. I would let it drench us.
If love was a book, I would read it out loud to you while you laid your head in my lap and dreampt. I would do all the voices, and at all the exciting parts (there are many) I would jump out of my seat and act it out- like charades. Maybe then we would fully grasp it.
If love was a brick, I would build you a sky scraper so tall that it would scrape the sky, and tear at it, and all the lemon drops and gum balls and lollipops and cats and dogs that are hidden up there would pour all over us, and we would stand looking up at the sky with open mouths- breathless.
If love was a promise, I would say it but once, and then draw you a picture that will help you remember that I will not forget. It would be colorful, and it will have dandelion seeds floating in the sunlight.
If love was a tree, I would chain myself to it until the end, and they would have to cut me down to touch it. I would water it, and I would hug it.
If love was a kiss, it would be the most passionate lip lock in history. It would be lustless, but instead full of unspoken electricity traveling between the skin of our lips. It would be a promise.

What is love?

Love is all of the above, and more.

Love is you and me forging ahead, no matter what is in our path. Whether it's lions,
or tigers,
or bears.

I love you. You are worth every single breath that has ever been breathed. Every drop in the ocean.

You are beautiful.

Remember that, and I promise, I won't forget to remember you.

"I have duckies in my back yard."

Ugh.

I hate this feeling.

That I need to do something, but I have no clue what.
So, I write.

Is this what being a teenager is? Or maybe being a poet?

This wanting to do everything at once, but not being able to?

Yesterday, my parents decided I was going to IC. In Jacksonville. 30 minutes away from here. This wasteland.

I love my friends here in Springpatch, but I miss the ocean. I miss the coffee shops, Pike Place, the rain, the evergreens and I guess I miss the memories.

Even though most of what I remember is the hurtful stuff. . . the beginning to the real madness.

I wanted to go to UW. I wanted to go there because there are cool little streets and funny people and all those random people playing their instruments on the sidewalk downtown.

Maybe that's why I wanted to go back "home".

Rachel said there was nothing there for me. No one. Not anymore.

I've been hoping she is wrong. That time will rewind, that I will unravel the past and things will be kittens and butterflies again.

Or maybe I just want to figure my brain out. I hate this feeling. . . I want to go back to the safety I felt during my last months in Seattle. It holds my best memories.

And my worst.

But now I can't figure out my past, not the way I wanted to. I will be living close to my parents.

I hate being me. I wish I could love myself the way I strive to love others.

I may be the TWLOHA Girl, but is it more than just cool t-shirts and my favorite story in the world? Does change really start with the individual, because I cannot love myself.

This is the dumbest blog in the world, and here I thought I was inspired.

Maybe I'll take a walk in the park tonight, after my parents have stopped stirring and have started snorring. Maybe I'll take a long walk and maybe I'll cry, if I can remember how. Maybe I'll even scream. I feel like screaming. . . but most of all I feel like melting into a puddle and letting Jesus hug me.

Which is pathetic.

Because He's a spirit now, or something like that, and His "hands and feet" (here goes the soap box again, geez, will I ever stop?) have dissipated into religiosity and judgementalism. If that's even a word, that is.

Will this totally childish longing ever cease? Seriously? Being held. . . having a father. . . I'm 17. I'm in college. I'm supposed to have myself half-way together, yet I'm crying over wanting someone to hold me. Pathetic.

But I can't stop.

It's like. . the cry of my heart, or whatever that cliche is.

Damn.

Yes, I am taking a walk tonight, if I can escape. Maybe I will find Jesus sitting under a tree. Or maybe I'll just sit under the tree by myself and wonder what it's like to be loved.

Love.