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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Monthly Archives: November 2015

One Skin

30 Monday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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thoughts

Reflecting on the pearls of writing wisdom that flutter into my Inbox each day. Some are treasured keepers, some are real bricks through my window, many are read and appreciated but do not resonate, at least at the moment.

This morning I think about authors who want to encourage people to write, because they believe we aspiring writers do indeed have something to “say.”  I think I’m getting tired of reading about being brave, “use your voice, you have something to say.” No I don’t. Believe me, anything I have to say would probably be maudlin, tired, and left-swiped. Bring in the yawns.

There isn’t a thing I could tell you, something so important, useful, necessary, life-changing, that forces me out of bed each day, makes me run to this machine and make words on a screen. Nope.  But boy, have I got a story for you, and a poem to boot. When you read them you will not squint your eyes and scour them for the little details of me I sprinkled throughout the manuscript. Nope. You’ll be too busy wondering how Niko is going to get out of the crater I put him in after having his left arm chewed off.  (The details will be there and I will chuckle at my cleverness.)

Oh no, no reader would ever figure out the insomniac, caffeine-addicted heroine of my story and me inhabit the same skin. I have nothing to say… yet you may hear it anyway?

Every morning, begin again.

29 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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evolving, inspiration, thoughts

There have been many dreams lately and some of them horrific. Shocking. Ones I felt I needed to apologize for. But then, would I only be apologizing to myself for letting out what needs to be seen, heard, and felt?  So no apologies.

This morning’s dream ended with words from the muse. How often are we directly addressed by the one who sits with us when we write, the one we set aside while we grieve, or work our non-writing jobs, how patiently she waits for us while we’re “busy” doing other stuff.  This morning’s dream ended with her telling me that writers (the ones I look up to) are not authors living half lives. They live their creativity one hundred percent.  They don’t give half their day to selling auto parts and the other half to writing, trying to catch their breath and keep up with the mundane parts of life in between.  No.  Those writers (and one entrepreneur) are living it every day.  When I realized this, now wide awake, it was enough to drive me out of bed before dawn. I left the bed where I think too much, read junk food novels to salve me, and waste so much time thinking “might have been,” went outside and smelled a woodsmoke morning.  Birds making ribbons in the air, adorning trees, the cold on my face, me hating that but realizing there is no perfect summer moonrise over the ocean without the chill air of November morning.

I journaled. Answered the question Katie asked me to meditate upon and I think I’ve found sufficient answer.  Got inspired to re-do my business cards, turned around and discovered I gave myself the morning I wanted and needed.  It feels good.  I hope to carry that with me as I navigate the rest of the day, meeting other people’s needs as decently as possible.

It’s too soon to think about tomorrow, an early morning that will belong to my job instead of one for me.  My candle tells me it will be here for me tomorrow night.  And now? To look for beauty where it might lie in a kitchen sink, a laundry basket, or a sales floor full of needy people.

you-can-you-should-and-if-you_re-brave-enough-to-start-you-will-stephen-king

Leaving Her Mark On You

24 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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essay, hate, love, woman

There are too many ads for free pussies (photoshopped for maximum cuteness with a byline written by somebody’s sobbing daughter, who get shipped off to good homes, presumably), but this ain’t one of ’em.

This ad is for you rubberneckers, the drive-bys that wonder about that pussy beside the road (‘is she all right, oh let’s stop darling and see what the name says on her collar’, the kind lady’s thought fleets and her husband is too busy thinking about his own pussy that ain’t in the passenger seat telling him where to go and how to get it done, some quiet pussy who dares to fuck with the lights on, lets him come and go as he pleases it’s all the same) to let you know she’s gonna be all right, just leave her alone.

This is a word of advice, an advice column in cyberspace for all you curious about my pussy, mind your business I say, Keep Out, Condemned by Order of the Mayor, I’ll say whatever I have to say to keep you away from my property, my shy little pussy that peeps outside every now and then hides in the weeds crouched behind a Volvo with rotted tires and tired black paint, tired and hungry but not waiting for you, looka how she runs when you try to take her home.  Leave the pussy alone, man, she’s not right for you.

She’s had enough of eating what you feed her, tearing off her claws instead of letting her make her own way,  teaching her what’s proper in your lap, by your table, in your bed, and thou shalt not reproduce, foul pussy, you are too mean and this house is uninhabitable for little ones that need more love, you are all that I can handle, so go sleep on the sill in the sun and dream of chasing mice that live in the red barns of New Jersey like a good pussy.  There are no bad pussies in this home, he says firmly, squeezing her neck, and she squints and purrs, hates and loves, and forgets her missing knuckles for a little while.

There was that one time when the door opened and she ran out from between his legs, she gunned across the road with demon speed, a flash of gray, because she’s an old gray pussy now but she wants to go to her grave starving and alone, a sack of bones happy beside a red barn in New Jersey where the swallows fly. Pussies can’t fly, can they?

Oh yes they can, my darling Scalpel Claw, and they can dream.

 

Blessed Art

21 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, evolving, poetry

Blessed art my fictions, those lying little stories that know from whence they came and where they shall end. They know the score. Sometimes they take a while to coax out, those little devils, but bless their pointy heads anyway.

Blessed art my fictions that tell you like it is and leave you wanting more.

Blessed art my readers who just want a good story and don’t go on too much about the art of my asterisk and the insomnia (or the hangover) that produced it.

Poetry, blessed, misunderstood thing you, once shackled in meter and rhyme now clothed in Slam, exposing sexism, racism, refugee, homeless, the naked, damned people who burn alone. Give me sight to see you and make this a right world for you.

Blessed is truth, though we sometimes call you fiction. Ah, but blessed is the reader who knows the score. (They’re smarter than you think, they recognize your geography and they don’t fall for that same old landmine.)

Blessed is time, and my bed, and this pen, beer, and breathing, that allowed me the space to know what I need to bless…and leave behind.

Lovesick Girl Puke and Other Wails

06 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, brother, chapbook, goals

My brother comes upstairs for a visit with me almost every morning now bearing gifts of coffee from the usual place.  This morning he opened the door and, instead of a good morning, he greeted me with “How do you write?”  It came rather out of nowhere. He had many questions and I don’t know why these thoughts came to him. It doesn’t matter, really.  This is quite an about face from the “why bother journaling” he spat at me many months ago.  He wanted to ask if I have a secret yearning to write a novel.

I explained between sips from my “Witch’s Brew” mug that a phrase will come to me while doing the most mundane things like washing dishes, folding laundry, or driving to work.  And the period I did the most writing was also the most heartbreaking time for me. I confessed that most of those poems can’t compete with what is considered “literature” and I probably shouldn’t submit them for literary chapbooks, but I’m not giving up.  He asked why do I care what “literati” think, suggested that I’m aiming too high.  I don’t expect him to understand the complex voices in my head that fight over what I write, how, and for whom.

I told him this is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I have no desire to participate in writing a novel at this time. I have a few flash pieces that could be developed into something bigger, but I haven’t chosen to do so. Not a goal right now.  (Well, knowing what’s NOT a goal does help to establish what IS, hmm?)  But just the act of discussing these things with him was stimulating and helpful. And I do believe my next chapbook submission will be called “Lovesick Girl Puke,” will be read by the teenage demographic, and that’s all right with me.  Kidding…not kidding.  

Either Way, You’re Right

04 Wednesday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, turnturnturn

9767-henry-ford-quote

To follow are commonly heard cop-outs for why I am not writing anything creative and good for sharing these days.  The fact that I am not the only one to have thought or uttered these does not make me feel better, to be part of a maudlin brotherhood of mentally fatigued, temperamental creatives. Okay, maybe it does, just a little bit, knowing we all go through it, and I do not mean writers block. I mean making the choice to shut off creative valves, walk away from them because we no longer want to write for whatever reason. It’s just easier not picking up the pen, innit?

I can’t write because I’m too tired.  No inspiration.  Not ready.  Grieving. The office is full of Dad’s stuff. I’m full of my Dad’s stuff, and Marilyn’s, too, while we’re at it. The desk is trashed. Would rather zone out and surf the web. I haven’t had enough beer to be relaxed enough to write. The house is too noisy. Look at all these chores I have to get done first. How about if I clean up the house and then gift myself with a few moments of writing down by the river, since I can’t write unless I’m in just the right spot? I have nothing to write. I have nothing to say. When I try to write too much wants to come out so it’s all log-jammed in there, and I MUST make sense of my thoughts, get organized, before I even attempt to do anything creative.  (OH…kayy…)  All just ways of saying I’m not ready–or not willing.

And then, the fear comes. If somebody took away all the distractions, if they plunked me down in a shotgun shack by the ocean, far away from people, traffic, issues, if I found myself in a place where I gave myself a paradise, a silent, clean, spartan home where I could open the door and run outside naked to the waves and run back into the house and not worry that I am supposed to smile and say “I love you, too” even when I do not feel it, the only thing that’s left is me and a notebook on my knee… what would I write? What could I say? Where would my thoughts (return) and then go? Is there work inside me that needs to come out and has enough depth to be shared, that could be shaped and formed into something worthwhile? Or is it all just a lot of cathartic mess and not worth the weight I give it?   And the fear comes again.  What if I were never to give myself that paradise, I will always live here in this house surrounded by this mess, and will forever have to face every day life?  What about that notebook on my knee that wants me to speak up, say something, anything, let’s go!

Either way… I will never find out unless I win the fight against grief, lethargy, the enemy that is resistance.  Make words, one after the other, give them heart, character, a place to interact, fashion them wings and help them fly away.  It’s not all for nothing. If it was, why would I keep coming back to a blank screen, hoping that today will be the day?  I have to be my own captive audience; write for myself first, and let the rest worry about itself later.

It’s me, bitch.  Have I got a story to tell you….

She Awakens

01 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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goals, The Rock

Another day, another realization.  You will wake up and see yourself in the mirror and you will have a choice to make, just as you will sit before an empty notebook or a blank screen with a choice to make. You can know that this is who you have been, an empty notebook, and choose to stay that way or you can pick up the pen and write. Or if you see a face that never smiles you can choose to attempt a little grin and see if it sticks. You can know that where you are right now, in a body that you’ve been neglecting isn’t where you have to be tomorrow.

But you will have to pay.  I have a little post-it note stuck to the monitor just right there that asks me “What will I pay?”  So far, I haven’t paid much. I am ready to take on the challenge now, be brave, tell my little girl self it’s going to be okay. Just because this is where I am today doesn’t mean it will stay this way, not if I can help it.

Be brave. Be strong.  Write the truth, the sad, ugly, mean truth. Pay the price to make the words come, to make them something.  I can do this. I have been for the last 15 minutes, this gentle tapping on keys while the world stands still beneath overcast skies and the littlest bit of rain.

Goals for the week (in general):  read more, write more, salad more, masquerade no more.

Furthermore:  

Start. https://t.co/XdrtrbawM4—
teresa cortez (@tweeter123C) November 01, 2015

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