Words on Skin

I had an idea,
and I've been savoring the process of finalizing it:

to choose a poem
to be inked 

onto my skin. 

Sherman Alexie's "Hymn" sparked the idea,
but my impulse was to have every word of it cover my body--

and it would have, because it's pages long, 

and parts of it are too timely for permanence. 

I'll have to sit with it for a while;

maybe I need his words calligraphied in gilt 

and framed, 

or stitched onto a blanket I can don like a cape
because...they tear through my core
and leave me gasping.

I have been pulled toward several Rumi pieces,
little passages shared with me by a dear friend, 

their ancient wisdom is so tattooable...

but recently I've been flipping through a book
and I don't think Rumi is
who I thought he was, 

and I don't even know
how I could have missed
the heavily religious parts, 

but it leaves me feeling less trust
for these centuries-old words...
Words that used to feel like
prayers to my own
personal
jesus...
These words now?
Sound like
all the prayers
I'll never speak again.

Emily Dickinson is on my list... 

I'm appalled, ashamed, utterly surprised 

that I don't have a favorite
burning so deeply through my chest
that it has already appeared on my skin
from the inside out.
But I don't...maybe I've never liked that her poems aren't titled?
I love so many of them--
but not like Bukowski...god damn, that ugly bastard was beautiful!

And I can easily imagine a sketch of Penobscot Bay,

with these words tracing the lines of the mountains and sea
sketched onto my shoulders:

All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
    --Edna St. Vincent Millay

But then there is Mary Oliver.

I discovered her through a trio of women
whose creativity and humanity are deeply entwined with my own:
my chosen twin sister, and her mother and (real) sister.
I grew up in their home as much as my own;
the smell of fresh garlic takes me back to their kitchen,
bedecked with tiles on the counter tops and the floor,
hand-crafted by her father, the potter.
His work filled every space -
mugs and plates and floors,
shower walls and vases;
outside, his work made their yard a magical wonderland of botany -
an arbor he built led to the small pond he'd built,
a sloping hill led to the larger pond
that we kayaked on in summer and skated on in winter.
And yet, he was always out of sight,
in his studio, spinning pots.
It was the great, whooping laughter
of the feminine side of the household
that made up the soundtrack of those days,
interspersed with Sgt. Pepper on the record player,
or Monty Python on the tiny TV hidden away
in the narrow hallway between the girls' rooms,
purposely not the center of their family life,
except for the moments when Little House
or the Monkees or Gidget
sparkled out from its screen. 

The first few lines of this poem by Mary Oliver
are among the top contenders to become a physical part of me,
or maybe all of it, because damn. 

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting 

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

Sleeping in the Forest

Raging Against Machines and such

🎶I won't do what they tell me! 🎶

Although I'm probably a part of the establishment (and pretty much always have been),

that line is still my anthem, my mantra.

I can't believe it has been 19 years!! This remains one of my most memorable concert experiences.

I worked at JB's restaurant in Spanish Fork at the time, and was a student at BYU. I was excited for an opportunity to go crash around in mosh pits with some great music by one of my new favorite bands. It was only in the week leading up to the show that one of my regulars at the restaurant showed me a newspaper article predicting mayhem and violence at the Rodeo grounds, and asked what I thought of the whole thing. I can't remember how he described it, but I remember there was some assumption that they were violent and obscene in a more...derogatory or misogynistic way--like they were being related to some other bands of the day that are slipping my mind at the moment. I laughed, cute little 20-year-old BYU Me, and said, "No, no, no, they're not like that AT ALL. They're political activists." I was able to reassure several concerned customers throughout that week, but still had no idea what was in store for us when we arrived at the venue on show night! There was triple the usual security, with separate lines for male and female so that we could be extensively searched (I know, in post-9/11 days, this is not so striking, but in those days, for a small-venue concert, this was waaaaay over-the-top). My best friend was deprived of her sentimental carabineer (from her first climb) because they insisted it was a weapon, and we both moved forward into the arena feeling utterly violated after the groping hands of middle-aged cops had made a thorough inventory of all our nooks and crannies. That remained the worst thing that happened that evening. The music was fierece, the crowd was jovial in our angst - we were laughing at the authorities who thought we were such a threat. What I find interesting is that their fear created the very environment they were seeking to squelch: subversion. That moment was one of many that, for me, began to open the door to the outside world, to open my eyes to the fact that a life of fear and suppression is no way to live.

Click here to read a great take on the facts of the case:

The City Weekly article.

Autumn's sweet

(We call it fall…)

Remember that time,

When the world was upside down and inside out?

It always was, in those days.

There were no good ways 

to tell if true north even existed,

Let alone in which direction one might find it.

My north star was in the southern hemisphere,

And my home was not where my heart was.

I was addicted to the buzz of new friends, new possibilities.

10 years today, since the sun set on that life;

Its flame extinguished.
I wouldn't trade this security and fulfillment for all of that dazzle
but
I wouldn't mind recapturing a firm hold on the badass I once was,
or imagined myself to be...

****

I was listening to Bob Dylan today,
and it reminded me of that time,
you know the one.
That night, in the deepest reaches of Utah's winter,
(during the strange, hollow intermission between marriages)
when Blaine showed up on my darkened porch
(how late was it?)
with a guitar and a fidgeting need to be calmed by Dylan.
I never did turn on the lights,
but he played "Tangled up in Blue" in my living room,
and I almost sobbed at the way
my life was so tangled up,
even though freedom really was as sweet as I'd dreamed...
it just all felt so strange still,
to not live in fear, to not feel trapped;
but he was there,
my not-quite-boyfriend,
being so very...Blaine...
so very mystical and impish,
almost dangerous, but just out of reach;
he stopped singing abruptly and laughed.
Did I ever tell you about the time
Bobby McGee stole my shirt?
I felt trapped in my own daydream,
silently surrounded by visions of Janis
and all the stories that song had inspired in me...
and here was this imaginary man, made real, singing and laughing,
and I fell into the bubble of his memories;
he told me about one time when he was still living in Santa Cruz,
and he was crashing at some musican's house,
and the man who'd inspired the song took a shirt from his closet;
and we stumbled up the stairs and into the bed that

the bed that...it jars me to think of now,
to try to contextualize the journey of that piece of furniture--
It was a bridge from one chapter of my life to the next,
and it is with me still (the guest bed now, but, here).
And it just seems so strange...

Blaine spent that winter sailing across the slopes on the back side of Mt. Timpanogos,
the gorgeous peaks shrugging up from the perfect little valley of Robert Redford's empire.
As winter wound down, and I was ready to move on,
he was hungry to commit.
Sorry, dude, you never really belonged in my world anyway.

Guilty Pleasure

Tonight when twin B got home from work,
he was hungry.
Dinner was put away, and didn't interest him,
and his brother was just heading to bed,
so,
with the thrill of the forbidden
I whispered,
Want a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?
Our eyes lit up as we started fishing out the components,
digging deep for the jar of Skippy we'd mostly devoured while twin A was in Maine for a week last month.
I had the grape jelly spread in slippery chunks across three slices of bread,
(one for me, two for my non-allergic kiddo)
when a door slammed open and feet pounded down the stairs.
I heard impatient rummaging in a backpack,
mutters of frustration under the breath of a boy
who just remembered he hadn't finished his homework.
I froze.
Twin A skidded into the kitchen
and flopped down at the island
to jot a few vocabulary words in a notebook.
I felt like a traitor.
How could I enjoy this delicacy under his watchful,
currently-anaphylaxis-free eye?
He noticed what he'd interupted and his annoyance showed.
I thought you were in bed, I offered
(a weak apology from a weak woman).
I wish you would just eat it, what's the big deal? he countered
(a strong statement from a strong boy).
He finished his quick assignment
as I spread gobs of pureed death on soft-as-cake white bread,
2 feet away.
Goodnight, love you, he said,
as he faded back upstairs.
His brother and I sat in silence,
savoring every bite,
and maybe...feeling a little less guilty about it than we'd expected.

Holding my breath

I just outed myself as an atheist to one of my mormon nephews...
Like, just-got-back-from-a-mission,
attending-BYU kind of nephew.
He also happens to be one of the sweetest, happiest, dearest boys I've ever known.
But still...I kind of can't believe I did it!!
How many years have I spent avoiding the topic of religion with my extended family,
even my Mom??
(I accidentally told her I was an atheist once,
and for the first time in almost 20 years,
she started trying to press religion back into me,
like it was something that could ever fit again...)

I think the email will be perceived well,
but I am hoping my nephew doesn't want to try to reconvert me.
That ship has sailed, buddy.
He asked what my religious beliefs are,
in a very sweet and kind way,
allowing me the opportunity to opt out,
but I poured it all out.
I think I also did a kind and gentle job of illustrating my viewpoint, but we'll see...

I think I need to start blogging again, because I have way too much to say.
But I guess it's a dead medium.
I dunno. Maybe I can bring it back - has it been long enough to be considered "retro"??

Life

"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, 'Wow! What a ride!'"

-- Hunter S. Thompson

Stones that roll

I seriously wonder how many times
I would have to listen to Gimme Shelter
before the intro stops giving me chills.
I need it louder,
I need it to fill not just my ears,
but every corner of my cells -
it swirls in the air around me, but
it fills me up, too...
Songs like this are a drug for me,
songs that make me feel this...thing...this...
need 
to be turned inside out
and infused with their essence,
not the notes on a page,
not the distinct syllables of the poetry within them,
but to become one with the soul of the song.
I heard Jane Says on the way to work,
windows down
volume up
and I felt like I could fly.
Perry Farrell, you demon of goodness!
I half-smile, as a memory flits through me of another Perry I loved.
The smile quickly fades as I remember more;
what a wild time in my life that was...
it sometimes feels like an era that lasted so long it should require carbon dating.
I lived a lot of adventures in those short few years
between a perfectly sheltered mormon upbringing
and my first marriage.
Hiking to the hot springs with the ornithologist's son,
or with my guru,
or the time with the rattlesnake in the path,
but every
single
time
there were naked middle aged men lounging about
in the steaming water
in the deep night of Diamond Fork Canyon.

They were mostly benign,
except for that one time,
that one guy was so insistent on giving us foot massages,
even though we didn't want our feet
anywhere near his
lap.
Or the long-haired hippie boys laughing with each other and
swapping accusations of playing the skin flute,
(the first time I'd heard the term,
which conjured images of a tribal musical instrument)
and stopping them in their tracks
by softly stating my proficiency at that pursuit.
Or the time we slipped and hopped and balanced our way across the rushing water
to brave the frigid waterfall and see what was behind it.
Cold-wet-dark-rocky
ness
was behind it,
and I regretted leaving the warm embrace of the water,
and the fading sobriety of the ornithologist's son.
He slipped away,
back into the teeming valley of prim and proper students and professors
from which we'd escaped to seek out
life
and growling intensity
and wild abandonment of
everything we'd ever known.

The girl I was then:
 (showing off the wicked sunburn I got the first day in Hawaii, 1996)

(Looks like I'm repeating myself, haha!)

Tolstoy’s Nephew

He sat across from me at the small table, his arm in a wide arc around his coffee cup as he spoke the words, “Marat shot a man last summer.”

We all looked at him for a moment, with mild disbelief. He pressed sparse details of the story into our palms, like a crisp bill to a valet. The body in the lake, a stone tied to the head.  The smile on his face should have been a tip off that it was all just some exaggeration of life behind the Iron Curtain, but instead it made what he said more real, more solid—as though he were sharing a great secret with us.    

Morning bled into afternoon, and someone suggested a drive through the desert.  Casinos have a way of flashing their neon invitations straight out across the Salt Flats, beckoning to the good people of Utah from all those miles of shared border, so we all tumbled into a car and headed into the sun.  Somewhere along the way there was a gas station with crunchy-gooey nachos and cold beer to soften the edges of the long ride on such a straight road.
I think that was the day he traced the length of my arm with his fingertips in long, slow strokes while we murmured under the spark and pop of conversation coming from the front seat.  He told me about home, as we sprawled across the seat, wedging a knee against a door, a foot against a console.  The tickle of his accent against my eardrums still resonates, but I can’t remember his words.  Most of them are lost in the dry air of the lumbering salt flats.  A few of them clung to the smooth surface of me long enough to work their way inside, where they slid neatly into the pile of thoughts he has planted in me. Thinking was one thing we did well together. Fucking was another, which is what started this whole crazy dream. No, I guess it’s not accurate to call it a dream…even if it feels like it was one.
He wasn’t actually Tolstoy’s nephew; he wasn’t even Russian anymore. 

--Salt Lake City, November, 2006

A Great, Salt Lake

Fifteen years I lived in Utah

and never visited the Great Salt Lake.

I saw it, smelled it, knew it--

it was unavoidable, its greatness unexaggerated.

But I never slipped into that thickly salted lake

to bob around like an apple or a bath toy.

When I returned to Utah last summer,

it occurred to me

that I had once wanted to know

how it felt.

The day was scorchingly hot,

with a clear, sapphire sky arching overhead,

met halfway by chalky peaks.

Antelope Island called to me,

boasting herds of its namesake

and imported buffalo.

I took my boys

on the blinding-bright walk across the muddy expanse,

through the wall of tiny insects that billowed to life as we breached it,

into the soft, warm water lapping at our ankles

Shins

Knees

Knees

Thighs--

we walked a mile ‘til we reached our waists,

so that we may lay back and giggle as the water held us too far aloft,

off-balance, unable to sink.

Brine shrimp infested our bathing suits,

filled our hair with their dull brown glitter.

Shimmering water spread out around us,

drowned by the salt of the desert.

We floated like angels

among the reflected mountains.

(Here is the blog post I wrote after a 2013 visit; this poem was written for my Fiction Writing Class at the University of Iowa the following year; the background of this blog is composed of a picture that I took on that visit to the Lake)

Poems, or the muck rattling around in my brain...

I wrote this on my original blog, in June 2011...I am leaden with the weight of all that has changed since then, sad for the lost opportunity to forgive my father, and for the magic that would have averted (could never have averted) the creeping autoimmune factors that caused O's pancreas to turn against him and saddle him with a lifetime of insulin shots; these losses were looming ahead in the near distance the whole time.

Because maybe
even though life is beautiful
sometimes there are things in it that aren’t.
Like being a child of divorce,
suddenly
and rather unexpectedly
at the age of 36.
Wondering if I’m as selfish as my
selfish
selfish
selfish
father
because I already know I’m like him
in some less-than-flattering ways
and I don’t
want
to be.
And maybe it's more fair to say,
also,
that he is kind and good-hearted,
but right now,
it's the selfish that really
sorta
stands out.

And maybe sometimes
it makes me too sad even to cry
if I think about my mother
left
alone
at her age.
73.
She should have been widowed, not abandoned.
but
of course
I don’t mean to say
that I would prefer my father had died,
But.
It would have been sad in very different ways.
And he has still left her.
Left all of us.
Because he’s not planning to come back
from California.
Who could blame him?
(Well, besides my sister and I?)

I am angry at him
and I am angry
and I am ANGRY!!!!!!!
The font doesn’t grow large or red enough for me to express the depth and breadth and inexplicable fieriness of my anger.
He
        could have stayed
should have left sooner
would not have made her happy if he had stayed, anyway...
But she was happy, is happy, will always be happy.
She is content and sure and grace-filled.
She didn’t need him, ever
and maybe that’s why...
He wasn’t able to stay.

***********************

Twin Fever

I am obsessed with
immersed in
riveted by—
the videos of my boys as toddlers.
I lose myself for long chunks of minutes
inside these scenes from my past.
I listen to myself narrate the video,
giggling at their antics,
(myself in stereo:
laughing then, laughing now),
the love I felt for them palpable,
visible in their shining dark eyes.
The love is still here, of course,
but it’s easier to gush over toddlers than tweeners.
They fight it far less.
Watching their first steps,
their first words,
their first, toddling wrestling match...
I want to live inside those moments,
indeed, it feels like time travel.
I want to bury my face in the soft skin between chubby cheeks and tender necks.
I want to lift them onto my hips,
two at a time, like I did then.
Ten years have passed in the blink of an eye;
those just-walking babies will be 11 next week.
Those 4-pound preemies are now each 5’ 1” tall.
They are smart and funny and are
just
about
to
turn into People.
It astounds me.
They astound me.
Those soft little cheeks and giggles and rounded words.
They are everything.

****************************

A seagull stole my mango yesterday
From the deck of my sailboat
as we rocked in the salty air.

I leapt to the dock
and chased him down.

I got my mango back.
--for Captain Chrissy, F/V Olad, Camden Maine

JPG

You're a digital image

seared into my mind,

burning through me

with the speed of light.

Past Life

I am Fitzgerald

and Bukowski,

with a dash of Hunter S.

thrown in for good measure.

Or,

I used to be,

back when I was unhappily married—

oh, what a thrill that was!

To live in a world I could reject

(with some measure of impunity)

and in which I felt trapped

and compelled to dream my way free

of my white-picket-fence prison.

The need to purge my soul

Ok, maybe that is a little bit...dramatic.
But.
The thing is,
I should be writing.
Like, at least once a day.
I should be here,
dumping out my mind and my heart.
But I remember what happened the last time I lived through a keyboard
the last time my mind hovered just outside my body -
holding a vigil for my far-roving heart.
But now...
my heart sits nearby,
beating a soft steady rhythm
in the chest of the dearest man on earth.
And my mind is mostly my own again,
not sick with an unfed addiction to affection,
instead,
curled up like a cat in front of the fire...
purring, content.
And so, I find myself wrestling
with how to feel both fulfilled and hungry,
both content and restless.
The little pains of life are what drive a soul to crave,
and craving is my fav-
orite catalyst.

I somehow feel like I don't deserve to create,
to write,
to feel
anything but the love I sought for all of my concious days,
because of the deep gratitude I feel for having that love.

So I punish myseslf by withholding this pleasure,
this passion,
this greatest of thrills -
fingers on a keyboard,
words on a page.

Just writing these few lines has felt like prayer.
The knots in my chest have unwound,
and lay loose within me.
Now I could find a story to tell, perhaps, but...
it is time to cook dinner.

It's ok. I love this life.
I just need to remember that I still deserve to write.
And that I don't need to fear what it will conjure up inside me.

Rockland, Maine. Art Walk, July, 2013.

                                                Gallery Night

I tumbled through the door—

a force field between the heavy, wet heat of that July evening

and the cool, jazz-filled art space.

It used to be a high-end stationery and art supply store;

now, all dressed up.

I shook off the heat and breathed in the cool air,

looking around to choose a direction to begin my inspection.

The vast oil painting to my left sucked that deep breath right back out of my chest—

I stumbled toward it,

tripping on a fellow gallery hopper,

and forgetting my companions.
It filled the wall, and my heart.

This is art.

This is art!

The joy welled up within as though I had found a long lost question,

One with no answer, and limitless answers.

I breathed again, softly, reverently.

The light, the forms—

the eyes!

I stood so long, my friends moved on,

tucked into the flow of patrons consuming the rest of the images.

Unwillingly,

I stepped away from that beautiful pair of women

dancing on a wide, flat rock by my beloved sea.

I stepped up carefully (wide-eyed) to the next piece,

and the next—

each one more plainly portraying love between the women

caught by the paintbrush of this marvelous man.

Their eyes glowing with life,

their hearts on their proverbial sleeves.

My friend's friend circled back to me at one point 

and asked if I liked them.

I breathed out a mumble of affirmations, unwilling to look away.

The androgyny is captivating, I said.

The way some of the women seem to have a whisper of a five o'clock shadow, a masculine jaw and eyebrows…

No, she said, pressing her authority as an art professor down hard upon me.

They're women, she said, like a door slamming.

I thought art was the beginning, not the end,

The question, not the answer.

I thought art was supposed to be whatever the viewer takes from it.

~~~~~

The paintings are here, if you're interested in seeing for yourself (and I hope you see whatever you see, and that I haven't influenced you unduly).

The artist was interviewed for a Huff Po article and its author nailed my reaction exactly (emphasis added): "If you don't "get" Bartlett you may find his work excessively earnest, but if his paintings pull you in there is a chance you may find yourself wordless and gaping in their presence. That would please the artist very much." 

The Golden (blogging) Years

I remember the days
when I was a blogger,
taking empty nourishment
from the instant feedback,
chasing the highs of new connections,
devouring the words of some of the best writers I've ever known.
All I wanted in those days

Was a muse

And I found some... 

But what I didn't see

Was that I also inspired - 

One song was directly created from my words,
and others were pulled from the air around me;
I inspired a painting, a cartoon, even some graffiti
and countless
secret
dreams... 

Moody

No, not Hank Moody

(although, I've always wanted to BE HIM)
and not the Moody Blues -
and actually not the blues, at all.
Just grumbly, growly, orneriness.
It rolls through me on occasion,
usually for no easily apparent reason.
Today we could blame the heat
(I've done it before)
or the fact that it's Monday
in my world of 9-to-5-ing,
or maybe we could blame
hormones or sleep cycle or --
any number of other minor details,
but the cause doesn't really matter today.
Just the roar.
The silent roar of the giant silver lion pacing back and forth within my chest.

I choose stasis over glory,
and I don't know how to have both.
Can I have both?
Can I feel the thrill of trying to impress this dear man who loves me unconditionally?
It is a living oxymoron--
the two states are mutually exclusive.

I dunno.
But I hate when I feel grouchy
and I hate it that I can't seem to find that part of me that receives inspiration;
and either way,
I just want to go take a long bath,
and read some literary perfection...
(Toni Morrison, maybe, or John Irving)
and maybe dream of Quantum Leap-ing through all the marvelous books I haven't yet written...

Gnawing Hunger

I crave great books,
and minds to woo and be wooed by,
with which to devour them.
I miss the feeling of trying to win affection -
it was a mighty propeller,
the search for my Soul Mate,
my World's Biggest Groupie,
my deepest addiction...
But I found him,
and the world went quiet around me.
Stillness settled upon and bled through me.
I didn't need anymore.
I didn't ache and yearn and pine and keen.
I embodied Zen calm, able to just be...
Every nerve grew languid and lazy and hazy...
All others fell away like shadows,
holograms of handsomeness,
without any magnetic pull,
just scenery,
the background of my sunburst-rainbow-tidal wave of love.
If there is such a thing as a purely positive psychotic break, I'm pretty sure I had one.
One day I was the Me I'd always been:
dreaming, drooling, flirting, seeking,
searching by leaping out into the world,
connecting and connecting and connecting, in so many ways...
The next day, I was Me but
surrounded by the quietude of having my keening,
howling cavernous emptiness filled with the sunshine of a summer day, forever...
But once in a while,
I miss how it feels to banter with someone,
almost flirting,
pleasure in each others' wit,
swapping stories and connecting again,
but in a gentle, measured way.

Bang Bang

 As I pulled the shower curtain aside and reached for my towel, the first thing I noticed was the heavy black gun lying next to the sink. My heart did the expected racing, as I wrapped the towel around my wet torso while diving for the gun. It hadn’t been there when I got in to the shower. This could only mean one thing.

He was back.

I slid back the safety and checked: loaded. How had I not heard him enter the bathroom? Had I really been so lost in thought as to dismiss the sounds of an opening door? I stood completely still, the silence rushing up against me with a sharp smack.

Johnny was smarter than that. Johnny wouldn’t have left the gun on the sink unless…unless… Unless he wanted it to be a fair fight. He was twisted like that. I sighed and sat down on the edge of the tub. I was terrible at games like this.

My hand was steady on the weapon as I moved silently toward the door. I knew at least this much: whoever was waiting for me out there would only get impatient now that the water had stopped running.

“Johnny? Baby is that you?” I was reasonably satisfied with the calm I affected, the casual, happy tone I projected.

I held my breath, thinking it had been a good life as I pulled the door open and stepped through it.

It wasn’t Johnny sitting on my couch, smoking a cigar.

It wasn’t him, pointing a gun at me, behind the sweet smelling cloud of smoke.

But that didn’t make me hesitate to lift my gun and aim back, towel be damned.

“You dropped something,” she said, as dry as the desert.

“You like the view?”

“Where the fuck is Johnny?” She looked me up and down and smirked; bad move on her part, since that told me that she was not here on business. This was personal.

Belly laughs

I need to let go,
and let all the fear uncoil
inside the great cavern of my belly...
My great belly - great like the lakes,
not like something that you love the way it is,
or something that makes you smile when you look at it.
No, this belly is far too big to inspire mirth,
and is far too scarred to be mistaken for the skin of a person who might have once been beautiful...
This belly is the belly that acts like a shield against past mistakes,
past grief, caused.
This belly will keep me from moving through this world
as a flower that needs only adoration to flourish...

Axl Rose and Me

The story of how a 50-year-old Axl Rose brought back my mojo one steamy night in the Meadowlands

We have a lot in common, Axl and I.
We both were once wild and sexy and full of potential...
and now we are both chubby and wistful, but powerful,
reaching out to reclaim what we abandoned.

Ok, so maybe we are nothing alike--
he was an internationally known rock musician,
for years,
while I was simply a writer on the cusp of success,
for a moment.
But I think we both handled it poorly
and I think we've both aged,
and bulked up a bit in our midsections,
our faces puffy and blurring out the beauty that may have once existed.
And I know that I felt alive in a way I haven't for so long,
alive like the fireworks exploding over the stage
as he wailed into the microphone,
alive with the muscle memory of
how
fucking
badass
I once was.

I stood there, hedged in by rows of flimsy folding chairs,
trying not to dwell on the fact that we paid as much as a pair of plane tickets
to be 20 yards from the stage
or the fact that despite the solidity of the Dansko construction,
they were still heels, so I felt an intense desire to chop off my own feet.
But when “Mr. Brownstone” charged through the amplifiers
filling the stadium and my every pore,
nothing mattered but how loudly I could scream.
I let him welcome me to the jungle as visions of power and beauty filled the stage of my mind:
I felt the old me surge to life,
emerging from a dusty corner on atrophied and forgotten muscles.
I felt like somehow he had opened a door for me
a door leading me down a path I've been too afraid to search for,
the path toward the life I forgot to create.

And when the lights came up on Axl sitting at the piano,
playing us in on the opening of Layla,
I thought I'd slipped through the fabric of space-time
and had landed in an alternate reality,
one in which I'd continued writing, and was vibrant and confident, fierce.
I blinked as he transitioned to “Patience,”
still sitting at the piano, his face a blend of serenity and satisfaction.
He looked so comfortable with his fingers on the keys, like he belonged there,
like maybe he was still a little boy taking piano lessons with a prim old lady down the street; that maybe his life had been full of joy and peace instead of drugs and disappointment.

Through it all, I kept marveling that he was there.
That his voice was the voice I'd rocked out with for decades...
He was still the same, even though his sexy elvish face was hard to detect;
he still had the gift that drew him into the vortex of fame. 
And maybe,
even I could find my way back to the fire in me,faded sexiness be damned.