| Cleaning House |
[Apr. 22nd, 2009|01:14 am] |
I deleted my MySpace and Twitter accounts. Stopped going to Facebook two or three weeks ago (and will probably delete that as well). The idea is to throw out the junk. Make everything squeaky. Start again.
I don't know yet what I want to do with everything else. It's like an old, over-worn relationship where you hang on because you remember how much fun it used to be, and you still adore each other in the We Don't Have To Talk Because We Know How We Feel kind of way. I will probably hang on a while longer, so I guess I'm not entirely squeaky. I think someday I may want to talk again. |
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| I am them and they are me |
[Apr. 8th, 2009|01:56 am] |
Today I went to the store to buy parsley and cucumber, cantaloupe, and some creamer for my caffeine IV. It was busy in there. Loud. Lines of people waited to push their way down the aisles to buy eggs or mac & cheese or ham and bread. I stood there, too, and waited while I listened to "Walk on the Ocean" by Toad the Wet Sprocket playing on the overhead. I noticed then, and not for the first time, how alike we all were in our jeans or sweats and over-sized winter coats. And how small, like ants gathering crumbs.
My heart beat faster. Not a pounding, just a beat-beat-beat. I couldn't get rid of the image. The way we must look from far away. The stop and go. Right lane, left lane. Please and thank you. Doing what we are programmed to do the only way we know how to do it. Even the guy wearing the black collar with chains. And me. Little ants gathering crumbs.
I wanted to bolt. right. thefuck. outtathere.
There was nothing I could do right then, right that minute, so I stuck with the rest of them on the little trail carved out for us and I purchased the things I had gone there to purchase.
Back in the car on the freeway. Another trail, this one leading the place where we nest and store our collected crumbs in the form of paychecks and food, cigarettes and beer. All the things we need.
We hang draperies and photos. We paint and write and make music. This view, up close, in the place we set aside to define our selves. This view. This is where I want to go.
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| Simplicity |
[Apr. 7th, 2009|12:42 am] |
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I like things simple. I don't want a bunch of knick knacks sitting on the shelves. They only collect dust. I want a simple couch and simple curtains. A simple kitchen with cupboards in which to hide [everything]. |
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| Old and Older - Where I Plug the Words I Wrote |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|12:17 am] |
I've slowly been sending my work out again. Two rejections so far. One went right back out again. The other I'm reconsidering. It's one of my favorites, but I'm not sure it's publishable. It was originally accepted by the infamous (among a relatively small circle of writers) Prairie Dog 13. That was to be my first print publication, but the magazine never came to fruition. Shortly after that, another story was scheduled to appear in Gator Springs Gazette, but that issue of the magazine also never came to fruition. Both of those stories are still looking for homes.
There are a couple issues with the one that was accepted by PD13. First, I used the word cunt in it. (I want to say "the c word", but that feels weird.) I played around with taking it out, but couldn't find a substitute that conveyed what I wanted it to convey. It's also written in second person, and the MC isn't exactly likable, and therefore not identifiable to the reader. The thing about this story, though, is that it has the kind of rhythm and tension I so rarely achieve. Plus, I just like it, so I guess I'll see if I can change the POV and still retain the rhythm and tension. Unless someone knows of a publication that likes edgy second person stories with unlikable characters.
Point of view isn't something I ever think about when I write. I don't think about any of the "rules" when I write. I learn about them. I listen to seasoned writers. I try to read a variety of writing so I understand what works and what doesn't, but when I write, I just write. It comes out the way it comes out, and if I like what I've written, I go back and try to make it work. Any other way and the writing is stilted.
Another thing I don't usually do is go back and read my work after it's been published, with the exception of checking for typos or errors. If I do that, I see fifty things I want to change, but can't, so I want to change my name instead and hide somewhere in the mountains. Despite that, I recently went back and reread a couple things to remind myself that I used to write, and that somebody liked it.
My kid's favorite and one of my earliest pub credits: Drawings published in Poor Mojo.
A little vignette I like, but wish I could fix: When She Knew published in Wild Violet.
My first print credit: Jimmy's Luck published in the fabulous GUD Magazine. |
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| Whose business is it anyway? |
[Mar. 5th, 2009|11:10 pm] |
Over the years, I've had a lot of different journals. Dream journals, grief journals, whine journals, livejournals. Some are public, some are private. One I kept briefly (maybe a total of two weeks) to explore my sassy, opinionated side-the side most people don't see unless I know them well. Browsing through that journal today, I found this:
You can look up anything online. History and news, bullshit and personal information. So you find this website where you can put in a name and it spits someone's life story out at you. Credit score, warrants, evictions and convictions. Do you start typing in names? Do you smile to yourself and laugh at someone else's misfortunes, misdeeds, or maybe just their stupidity without knowing the story? Is it your business if your neighbor's cousin was convicted for possession of marijuana three years ago?
Say your neighbor's cousin runs across this website and he types in your name. He finds out you pay your bills late and your phone was shut off once last year. He doesn't know your shitty little job only pays minimum wage and maybe you decided eating was more important than talking on the phone that month. He doesn't know this, so he laughs at your irresponsible ass.
Whose business is it anyway?
Someone told me yesterday that he found such a site. "I typed in the names of my co-workers," he said.
"I'm sure they appreciate that," I told him and he laughed.
This amuses me. And I still remember that incident (but not the website). I might start writing in that journal again. |
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| a vision too removed to mention* |
[Feb. 25th, 2009|12:38 am] |
In an attempt at some arbitrary organizational system, I keep separate email accounts for separate things. One of those accounts was connected with As I Knew Her, the blog I wrote for nearly two years after my sister died. At the time, I didn't have my own computer, and the computers I used had different programs on them, so it was easier to save the blog posts in an email account. I still do that even now that I have a computer. I save things in two or three places in case something is lost or inaccessible.
The other day, I logged into that email account to look something up and found that it had been deleted. Gone. Too long without logging in, it said. That's okay, I told myself. The entries were too raw. Too much. Maybe it was time to let them go and if I decide to write about my sister again, I would write it differently anyway. That's okay, I said, but it wasn't.
The thing is, those entries were an attempt to document as many of my memories as I could before they faded. In that, I had been mostly successful, at least with the things I was willing to publicly share. And the rawness of it is something I never want to forget. It was right there. It was more honest than I have ever been in my life, and it was a tribute to my sister.
I spent a few days telling myself it was okay, but tonight I panicked. I started searching, trying to figure out which system I used back then and where else I might have saved it. I looked everywhere and couldn't find it. It's gone. That's okay, I told myself, citing the same reasons I cited before. It didn't help.
So I said, It's okay. You have hard copies. I had reorganized and altered the entries, then printed them out. Three times. I wanted to make them more cohesive and less painful. More real, or less real, or something. I didn't know. All I knew was that I needed to keep them. That I wanted to do something with them. That I wanted to understand and remember, and share it. Or maybe I wanted them for myself. All I knew for sure was that I needed to keep them, and so I did.
That's okay, I said, The hard copies aren't exactly the same as the blog, but it's mostly there. So I looked in my desk drawer, where I keep my Important Stuff. It wasn't there. I found a ton of craptastic writing I apparently thought I needed to save (really, I have about a hundred half-written stories in there), but no blog posts.
By that time I was crying. Almost sobbing. It was so not okay.
Then I remembered that I have more craptastic writing saved in boxes in the basement. I found the hard copies right away. They were on the top of the stack. All three versions. They're not the original posts. They're not as raw and they're not as real, but they're almost there. I think that will be okay.
*From The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine
( clicky ) |
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| Imagining |
[Feb. 8th, 2009|11:28 pm] |
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A canvas bag. Brown, tan, ecru. Nondescript. Large enough to hold a body. The opening is sewn with thick thread (brown, tan, ecru), except one corner, where there remains an opening the size of a quarter through which a word or two may be passed if so desired. |
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| Monkey |
[Jan. 31st, 2009|01:39 am] |
I don't even know what I've been doing. Really. I won't go into the "I've been gone a long time" spiel. We've all read it. Some of us have written it more than once.
A few weeks ago, Scottie (Little Guinea One) died, and poor Cashew (Little Guinea Two) became lonely and silent. He ate and stared at the wall. Ate and stared at the wall. So we gave him a stuffed monkey.
Cashew ate and stared at Monkey. He talked to Monkey. No response. He bared his teeth at Monkey, but Monkey refused to shake in his little monkey boots, so Cashew shoved Monkey down on his face. Then he started bucking like a horse and using his nose to toss his tent in the air. Victory at last.
There are apparently no male baby guinea pigs in this town (Cashew will adjust best to a baby). I called everyone. The animal shelter, pet stores, vets, farm supply stores. I even called 4-H. Monkey will have to do for now. (Plus, Cashew cried when I took Monkey out of the cage.)
In other news, I submitted a story today. The first in months. I had decided to pitch my old stories and start over, but there are a couple in there that I'm 80% sure are decent (that means I don't cringe when I read them), and one of them might even be publishable. So I sent out "Sarah's Fate," which usually manages to get cut at the last minute. Those Almost Made It rejections don't bother me, but I hate waiting while they hang on to stories indefinitely.
So I'm back in the game. I hope. |
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| Target Women |
[Aug. 1st, 2008|05:33 pm] |
Have you seen the series Sarah Haskins is doing for Current tv? I couldn't choose just one to post. Seriously. Check it out.
Target Women: Suffrage
Target Women: Wedding Shows
And the latest:
Target Women: Birth Control
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| Now |
[Jul. 26th, 2008|04:15 am] |
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Get up and LIVE, goddamn it. |
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| We really love them |
[Jul. 12th, 2008|03:52 am] |
At the grocery store with my daughter and her boyfriend. They were speaking at each other.
My daughter said, "I have something stuck to the bottom of my shoe."
Her boyfriend said, "Some people really love kids." |
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| Moving On |
[Jul. 2nd, 2008|12:28 am] |
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I want to keep going, but I've already read so many things by so many people. I want to keep going, but it triggers thoughts that set my brain on fire, and I have other, more mundane, things I need to do. |
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| every second |
[Jun. 25th, 2008|12:27 am] |
My sister called a little after 10:00 tonight. She asked if I was okay today. “Yeah,” I said. “Why?”
She hesitated, then said, “Today is five years.”
Five years since our younger sister’s death.
There was a time when every day, every hour sounded like a gong echoing through my guts. Every second that passed was a second I could cross off my list. I could tell you, down to the minute, how long it had been since I’d spoken to her, even if I couldn’t remember everything we said. I did this until I could no longer bear it. Until I could no longer bear to acknowledge how, despite her absence, nothing had changed. How I had not changed, except to crawl even deeper inside myself. So I stopped watching. I barely even knew it was June.
Four years ago, this is what I wrote in my journal:
I used to have a key to Sis's apartment, but the lock broke and she hadn't given me a new key yet.
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On this day, one year ago, I walked into the office at the apartment complex. I had to get clothes for Nathan to wear home from the hospital. The ones he had on were splattered with his mother's blood.
"She's dead," I said. The manager and the maintenance people came in and stared at me.
"I can't let you in," said the secretary.
"It's okay," the manager told me. She knew who I was. "Which one is it?" I cried because I couldn't remember.
*
In the basement, I sifted through the mounds of laundry. She had so many things. Decorations, papers, kid-made paintings - pieces of her life packed in boxes and scattered on the floor.
I heard someone upstairs say my sister's friend Kelly was there and a minute later I heard Kelly screaming in the parking lot.
I just kept sifting. I could smell her in the clothes. I wanted to crawl underneath them and hide. Forever.
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Everything was so slow for days and days. We moved around like ungraceful robots. I kept telling people who I didn't know that my sister had died. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop. I sat on the floor and asked how I was supposed to live the next fifty years without her. Nobody could answer me.
The words go through my head, but I can’t say them. I cannot make my tongue move to form the sounds. |
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| I do not wish |
[Jun. 18th, 2008|11:18 pm] |
Part of the problem is that I am afraid of being somebody's mother, somebody's sister, somebody's daughter, somebody's wife. I do not wish to be defined that way.
Hi. My name is Tammy. I like to write and play games and listen to smart people talk.
Do you ever feel like you showed up in the middle of a conversation? |
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| Some Thoughts and a Personality Test |
[May. 19th, 2008|02:55 am] |
From Humanmetrics:
Introverted: 100
Sensing: 1
Feeling: 12
Perceiving: 44
Well. That explains it.
Tonight I visited a writers’ forum run by a friend of mine. It’s one of those places I don’t often visit because I feel guilty for not talking or writing. Also, I feel voyeuristic, and then I start wondering what I would do with my life if I didn’t have internet, and it just goes downhill from there. Anyway, a link to this test was posted there, but the thread was a few days old and I didn’t want to post on it when I haven’t responded to any other threads, so I’m posting my results here instead.
Internet personality tests intrigue me. I’m not sure how accurate they are, given that they rely on mood and self-perception. This, for instance, makes me laugh:
Many [ISFPs] eagerly plunge into new fashions, avant garde experiences, 'hip' trends--some even setting the trends.
Anyone who knows me knows I’m anything but hip. The analyses are at least partly right, though, and the one constant on any personality test I have taken is the high degree of introversion and/or neuroses, depending on the test. Still, I keep a sporadic blog and post occasionally on certain forums. Even introverts need love.
So why take so many personality tests? I’ve been mulling this over for a while. Here are some theories:
–To confirm who I believe I am
–To deny who I believe I am
–To find out how much of my personality is natural and how much is a response to life events
I could go back and forth on the first two all day, but it’s the third one that gets to me. It’s the one I can’t figure out, and I’m not sure how much it matters. I keep going back to it anyway.
How about you? |
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| Social networking? Message boarding? It sounds dirty. |
[May. 3rd, 2008|05:08 pm] |
I joined facebook a long time ago so I could keep up with a busy, busy friend of mine who has an account there. I joined, but I didn't actually use it and I have no idea how to use it. For a long time I had only two friends. Well, today I have four friends. Woo! I looked at my new friends' profiles and realized I know a lot of people who have accounts there. I sent a couple friend requests, but then I got distracted, so I don't remember who I sent them to.
A lot of people I know at facebook are also on my friends lists elsewhere. I have accounts at myspace, livejournal, facebook, twitter. Some other places I've joined and forgotten about. And I used to have a blogger account under a pseudonym, although a lot of people knew it was me. I have a blogger account under my real name now, but I don't use it.
Then there are the million message boards I've joined, only two of which I visit on a regular basis. These two message boards are for writers. Fabulous, fabulous writers. One I stick with because I adore the people and their words inspire me. The other I visit out of habit and boredom and the hope that one day I might enjoy it the way I used to (let it go). I feel guilty when I visit these boards because I am not writing.
A thousand ways to connect. It feels so odd and dirty. My need to hide clashes with my need to communicate, and usually the former wins out. But I still join, and maybe that's the dirty part. The part where I feel like an eavesdropper even when they know I'm listening.
How many social networking tools and message boards do you belong to? Do you use them? And if you do, and you don't mind me eavesdropping, let me know and I'll add you to my friends lists.
Edited to add: I realize how funny the friend request is because if you're reading this, you're probably already on my lists elsewhere. |
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| In Town |
[Apr. 26th, 2008|02:28 am] |
It was warm, 75 degrees, maybe, and in town the roads were busy. Traffic backed up and ahead, I saw two cars sitting cockeyed in the middle of the street. The front ends of the cars were shredded. Four or five people stood around and stared the way people do when there's been an accident. A little farther up, a bright yellow dune buggy sat near the edge of a parking lot. Beside it, a woman paced, her hands held together in front of her. On the ground lay a man, on his back with his knees bent and his arms spread out beside him. A policeman kneeled beside the man and held his head still.
Paramedics arrived and there was nothing to be done, so I kept driving long past the place I had intended to go. Half way across town, I turned left. Kids darted across the street, too impatient to wait for the light. Ahead, a man on a bicycle listened to his iPod as he wove through traffic. I turned left again, onto a road that would take me out of town. |
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