Wacky or Tacky
with your little Hitler hair cut
and your 99 cent discount attitude
What you want to do
What you want
always at the cost of
what others need.
Four years ago, I started this blog. And as one can imagine a lot as happened. I moved, got my own home office and published a book after years of dreaming. I also got up the courage to have myself filmed while I performed some of my poetry. It was scary, but worth it. You can watch my YouTube debut by clicking here.
It was a brave moment for me in many ways. First, I am still very new to performing and second, I have gained weight over the last couple of years that have made me hesitant to have photos or film taken. I really do fear the backlash against my weight despite all the people that surround me with their love. They tell me that I am beautiful and I believe them, but I still fear the hateful comments.
There are some cool things about the video. The writing that you see at the beginning and end of the film is me actually working on the poetry that I am about to share.
The fall equinox is approaching and I feel the return to a more balanced approach in life. One in which I live and write more. Over the last few months, I have taken an unscheduled break from this blog. Life kept going while I struggled to keep up; good things mostly, some bad of course, but that is life.
Although today is not the equinox, it is the beginning of my journey to re-balance my life and my writing. Too much time has been spend on planning to write and not actually writing. I have to thank my fellow sloths for helping me realize that I need to get back to creating.
Thank you, dear readers and any of my beloved Sloths who have joined us, for reading this and sticking with me.
Sometimes Momma can’t be there do
what others say needs to be done
sometime she became a mother to young
or Papa walked out
or gotta brought up on charges
Or found a job three states away
Sometimes the way the dice roll
Momma isn’t there to meet the bus
Or the check isn’t enough for
groceries and rent
Qso we eat in the car
and slept in the back street
Sometimes Momma can’t
And that’s just the way it is
But she don’t love any less
Sometimes Momma is afraid
Of the noises out side the apartment
of riding the buses every where
so she makes it a game and there’s play in the bus depot
An adventure everyday
Sometimes Momma can’t but she always does
I can’t. I won’t go in there. Not with them. Not in there. Not ever again. There is suppose to be people in every child’s life that take care of them. A mother and a father. Two separate beings whose love of their child transcends everything. They will cross heaven and earth for their child. For their child they will do everything to provide for the happiness of their offspring.
I was born with a sense of destiny. I know what I want and what I need. Give me that one thing then I will be the nice and respectable young woman you want. What I don’t want is to tell my business to another social worker,counselor or PH.D. jerk.
They couldn’t satisfy the volcano inside of me. My English teacher might be proud of me for that metaphor. Maybe I could write a poem about my internal rage volcano and get some extra credit. Then I would have to admit that I understand some poetry. Not that boring shit that she reads to us, but other stuff. My secret stuff and yes I know that I am suppose to read along with her, but I don’t feel like it.
Just like I don’t have time to sit here and listen to everyone judging me, including my English teacher who now knows more of my business than she should. Everyone who thinks they know more about me then I do. They can’t. I am not angry because I have daddy issues or think I am always right. I am angry at how unfair life is. Angry at the lies that have been sold to me.
It doesn’t come from my mother who isn’t so much angry as she is insane. That isn’t a hyperbole. She really is crazy. It runs in the family. Five generations of schizophrenic fun waiting for some brain doctor to study us and find nothing, because they don’t have any answers. Never have and never will.
Mom is gone. There is only one person who can help me. The man who has been both father and mother to me. The man who isn’t listening to me now as I shout. It isn’t a issue. It isn’t an issue. But if I am crying there is an issue. And I shouldn’t be dismissed. Every time, I am angry I am dismissed told to be grateful for what I have. All I need to do is finish school, but I am not going to be happy until I have a car, a job and a place of my own. Or I am heard. I am tired of waiting. I don’t want to go to school after this twelve year sentence is over.
Things are switching around in my mind. Every time I am mad. Every time I feel like I am going to explode. They, he, brings up my mother and her family. Another lie. Another shoveling of the truth off to someone else. The truth is I need to be heard and no one but my daddy should be telling me what to do.
No one, not even his wife . It doesn’t matter that she has taken care of me since I was kid. She isn’t my mother. She isn’t my mother. I have nothing to lose. Nothing.
There you were
keeping it cool
while your fingers
ran over and over
the cash in your palm
the hard earned benjamins in your pocket
You knew it was close
you tried to do the math
all in your head
figure it out
In the end,
you were one jar
of double chocolate
You didn’t even sigh
or make excuses
just looked at the totals
and had the clerk take it
You apologized with your eyes
saying sorry for your lack of cash
sorry for the condition of your financials
sorry for something you didn’t have control of
in that moment of time
I wanted to yell
Have you cease your apologize
and pay for that jar
of double chocolate
But you were out the door
before I could find the words
out of the parking lot before
anyone had a moment to
consider who that jar was really for
or why you were apologizing for
something beyond your control
I am sorry because I have been there
and might be there again
sooner than I like to think
and know how hard it is to keep all the numbers
in your head
making sure the tax is included.
How the dialogue goes in
your head as the numbers keep adding up
and one decimal up
one can of tuna fish
or bagels too much
and you suddenly feel the need to explain
why you only have
$31.00 in your pocket
and bank account to back you up
This weekend, I learned that my protagonist doesn’t like air conditioning and habitually collects pennies. Strangely this is the hump that I know I have been waiting to cross. After months of wrestling with Rae, I now know enough to go forward with the story and stop tinkering with it. She is finally her own creature and not a reflection of all my favorite female characters. I feared that her story wasn’t going to be genuine and unique.
I read the books that I want to write, but the biggest fear that I have is that my books are going to get lost in the crowd because they are too much like my favorites. I want to create my own stories and worlds. This summer, I have also been working on some research to help give the worlds I create more flavor.
I have to thank my friend, Kathy, for messing me in the middle of night about her own tinkering dilemma and the ensuing conversation. I needed it.
Now, I am back at it. Thirty thousand words in and a killer to catch.
Elsa was caught in a nightmare. Everywhere she went they knew her. Called her by name, knew her favorite color and foods, and always they tried to hug her. She hated hugs. Hated all of the attention. College in England was just what she needed. She needed to go some place where her fame would not be impressive. She thought of going to France, but her accent had always been horrible. There was no desire in her soul to be tormented over an accent when there was so much better material in her film catalog. She would have been ready to go in just three short weeks. Everything was being handled by her manager. Everett Millstone was making a hefty fee as Elsa Bravo’s manager. His fee was doubled by her parent’s generous bribes.
She cursed her father for years for putting her on that damn show. She was America’s sweetheart for ten years. Ten miserable years for her. Ten years of smiling and sing with her bratty sister. Ten years of her parents lining their pockets and skimming money from their trust fund. It wasn’t enough for them. No matter how many deals they made, it wasn’t enough. Ten years of flying their kids around the world and back had made them rich on paper. The greedy, however, are always hungry.
Elsa was currently cursing her father for putting her in the trunk of his Jag. She couldn’t fault his reasoning, although it was definitely a cliche, kidnapping and killing your own child to get the insurance money and the money in the trust fund would automatically go to the grieving parents. They had already decided on wearing black for a year after the body had been found. It was difficult for Elsa’s mother not to begin shopping for her mourning wardrobe immediately upon hatching their plan.
They looked incredibly lovely in their newly purchased ensembles in court and were properly horrify at the discovery of her body. Even dead,everyone knew her. And they won’t let it go…
When reality comes home to roost
dreams lose their shine
and the grass is instantly greener on the other side
Months ago, I was tagged to write one of those things you didn’t know about me posts. I delayed, procrastinated and then finally decided to turn it into a blog. And then I delayed, procrastinated and repeated until today.
Sorry, Lisa A. that it took me so long to do this.
And thank you for giving me something to help work my way out of my current writing funk.
1) Wishlist Obsessed ~ When I want to shop and can’t, I make wishlists on Amazon and now Modcloth. It distracts that party of my brain that keeps attempting to destroy my budget. Sometimes it back fires when friends find these lists and obtain for me the item desired in a moment of on-line passion which seemed like a good idea at the time. Luckily it has only produced one embarrassing Yuletide moment when I didn’t know what the item was.
3) Complaining Less ~ I am working on complaining less and being grateful for all the things I have in my life. This isn’t so much of a goal as it a life philosophy. And you know what I am really happier than I was a year ago. My depression is still with me, but it has less power.
4) Dancing ~ I love to dance, but going to clubs for me is scary so I haven’t been out to one in a long time. My anxiety makes it difficult for me to go out as much as I would like especially if I think people will be looking at me. I still dance nearly everyday, just not when people are looking. This also makes attending dance class tricky.
5) Reading ~ I re-read the Anita Blake series from start to finish at least once a year. Twice if I a new book comes out. Currently, I am re-reading Skin Trade before I read Dead Ice. There are books in every room of my house and a special shelf for my signed books.
6) Skulls ~ I have a collection of skulls which my mother started when I was a teenager. I still have that skull pendant that she and Poppa gave me. At one point, we all had one. Now I think I am the only one who managed to keep hold of it over the the years. Being a pack rat helps. There are probably thirty or more skulls in the collection. They also remind me that life is precious and fragile.
7) Year-round Halloween ~ If you come in my house, you will notice right away that something a bit spooky is going on. This has lead some people to speculate that I never put my Halloween decorations away. This isn’t true. There are five boxes in storage that prove otherwise.
8) Minister ~ I have been an ordained minister for the last sixteen years. It all started in college when some friends asked me to marry them. Since then I have officiated at over a dozen weddings, funerals and naming ceremonies. It has been one of the greatest blessings of my life to watch couples begin their lives together and to stand with families as they say goodbye to their love ones.
Last month my royalties for my book, Blood Child, were less than $5.00. That’s right. I made less than a fiver for a book that took me nearly two years to produce, not including the time it took to write. And you know what I am overjoyed… seriously. I am happy about it. My writing is bringing in money.Is it the amount that I need to quit my day job or even one of my second jobs? No, but it means that people are buying my work which makes me smile. It takes a long time to build an audience/fan base.
So why do I support Patreon? Why I am writing this to convince you to support it? It is simple. It takes time to produce art whether it is music, books or a mural. It takes time to perfect the skills that make that art something of beauty and value. There is value in an artist’s ability to create. Patreon is a crowd funding platform that allows artists and patrons to interact and engage. Like in days of old, Patrons are treated to exclusive content from the artists as well as sneak peeks on new projects. Patreon says that it is empowering a new generation content creators.
That’s the key phrase, content creators, artists of all types create content that we enjoy. We, the patrons, pay them for that content. Just like we buy songs on i-Tunes or books on Amazon, we can buy content from our favorite artists. The difference is that you are contributing to that content being created. You are helping your favorite artist have the time to create their content. You are contributing to the art you love. You are giving them the breathing room that they need to create.And all the while you are communicating with them and creating a community.
Stant Litore was the first person that I have supported on Patreon. His goals were small and have grown with the support of the community he has help to build. He gives inside looks into his writing process, the ups and downs of the writing life as well as what they funds have helped do for him and his family.
In his words, “it puts the community back in storytelling. Patreon is perfect for those writers and readers who are very social. It lets readers get involved in the process and lets writers share more of the process with readers. It takes us back to when telling stories was something that happened around a community fire, rather than in an isolated study. It also represents an opportunity for readers to fund more of the work they like most and for writers to make a more sustainable income.”
That sustainable income allows patrons to get more of the content that they want. It is a win-win for artists and other content creators. I support Patreon not as a writer, but a reader and lover of music and games. I support it because it inspires me to continue creating. Inspiring me to keep working through the all obstacles in front of me.