Pussy has to grab back

I stopped writing when my father died. I was numb, an actor stuck in a horrible play and while my world slow-motion shattered the world went on. It was just another Tuesday after-all.

I sat there knowing he needed a lung, knowing my words world helpless as the single most important thing I love slipped in front of me. And I realized how meaningless my words were. Air, vapors dancing around the world but never touching flesh.

And now, I sit after a night of crying, watching a man who has admitted to sexually assaulting women, who is racist, who is anti-gay, who is xenophobic, a man who wants to commit war crimes and jail his political opponents ascend to the highest position in our country.

And I realize my words are needed again.

Mark my words there are plenty of people in the United State who will not sit quietly by as our friends and family and freedoms suffer.

 

Advertisements

My new montra: find the writer

findthewriterAshy: How have you been?

Me: My week hasn’t been too bad, keep kinda thinkin’ heavy thoughts but that happens every so often doesn’t it? Oh moody artist

Ashy: Life’s heavy. Use your heavy thoughts and put ’em down on paper ūüôā

The shot in the foot text I needed. You see I’ve been in a funk- the heavy, can’t catch your breath in a crowded night club sort. And understandable burden since the death of my father, but, usually I’m able to¬† make my way through and catch my breath if only for a second. This though, is constant. But perhaps the problem has not been in the sorrow, its depth undeniable, but rather in my schedule which has precluded me from writing and myself who has as of late, found it more appealing to surf the web or spend time on the blackhole of facebook, rather than explore the tangle of my thoughts, a dangerous web to be sure, but one which left to its own devices will continue to expand.

In short, I needed to just do even if I didn’t want to, even if it sucks.

And so in the last two days I have: found a collaborative paying writing effort (nothing big or very profitable but something that will get me writing.), advertised for an artist again for my comic idea, and started (though not finished so it is not yet posted) a kick starter campaign for another children’s book I have started.

Life is and I suppose always shall be amazing, beautiful, sad, horrid, immortal and terminal and it is I who will have to just learn how to weather each storm.

When words aren’t enough…..

Note: written during the weekend of another Hallmark holiday, Father’s Day, where I find myself lost once again so I take to the paper and write something, I’ll be rewriting for the rest of my life.

Image

I found myself in the sterile room,

snow blind, a blizzard

of you.

as the doctor’s tongue snaked

charmed out symbols, I coated

myself with words: selfishness,

bravery and faith.

and the silent bargains serenade

angels, the bleat from

my lips to the eletronic  pulse

… . … . … . … .

You need a lung

but my words were dull,

unable to cut the

supple folds of my

skin. You needed

everything

 

all I could give you was a sonnet.

It was the bargain for the summer, and I thought I had it all.

loveIt was a flicker, a slow glint of tinder in an otherwise rainy, overcast May day: I wanted to write.

I had forgotten of course what it was like to live with true heart-break, to be one of the slumberers, stumbling through waking hours, waiting for the respite of sleep, but knowing¬†none would lie in the folly of my mine’s dreams.

Fighting all the time, my one urge to lie still in my bed, to slow my breathing as the cover envelope me, and slowly close my eyes. To be still. To be as close to you.

In short, I miss my father terrible.

I know it’ll be days, maybe even weeks or months before I let the words course through my finger tips to page. The ink makes it real, impossible to smile and pretend that yesterday is today and tomorrow.

Soon enough they’ll be moments where the pressure is off my chest, a mad dash for the light underwater.

And I’ll forget, for a minute or two, the dull ache of my heart.

Then they’ll be another and another until I notice once again the smell of lilacs dancing in my chest and the sun warming my broken bones.

But for now, I wanted to do something. Anything. And that’s enough.

And though it hurts to say goodbye

You may have noticed that I have been gone the last few weeks. My father fell ill. And of course between hospital visits and tending to my mother this blog was not a priority. And last week, he took a turn for the worse and passed away. This was unexpected, even with his illness, a nasty auto-immune disorder, we were told to expect 3-5 years, and the day he passed, they were getting ready to release him. In short, it was a shock.

As you can imagine, I have been reeling. Being close to your parents is a double-edged sword.  I had 28 years of an amazing relationship but in its absence the void is staggering.

I was reminded at his visitation, but several of his friends that of all the things he loved about me, most, perhaps was my artistic drive. As one said, “don’t stop writing…” and even my father is his last months told me I was the artist he always wanted to be.¬† So after a week and a half of sitting around crying and mopping, I’m going to do what I do best, carry on and increase my drive to get my art out there in memory of my father with of course a good mingling of crying and mopping in between.

And because I think this is appropriate:

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye
Love ya daddy.

If you could help out…..

I got a very exciting email today. My play “The Wall” was selected for the reader’s writingchoice competition for Independent Play(w)rights. To win, I’ll need the most votes.

If you could check out my play “The Wall” by Rachael Stanford and vote for it, that would be amazing!¬†

I wrote this play for an amazing friend of mine who first helped me with theatre. He was involved with theatre all of his life and his passion for life and art amazed me.  Sadly, we lost him way too soon. I hoped to honor his spirit with my piece.

 

Happy Easter

Sorry I’ve been MIA as of late guys.

The last week has been awful for me. My best friend’s father passed unexpectedly. I started a second job (eating up precious writing time). In addition I was sick and had pick eye, the joy of working with little petri dishes, I mean children.

However, today is Easter, the day for new beginning. I’m over my illness and ready to get back to blogging and writing! Thanks for sticking with me.

Happy Easter everyone! I hope you have a wonderful day.

Funny Easter

A loss, my art, thoughts

My poetry piece was perform today at sandbox theatre. The timing of this poem, which explores the paradoxical nature of beautiful in the regeneration death, is fitting with changing of the seasons and my personal life.

This week, I lost one of my closest relatives, my aunt who was a second grandmother. As a writer, I have found my craft has failed me, that no words could describe my the selfishness and sorrow in loss, or the gratitude that I had 27 years with her.

And that, though it is past the performance, and now my art lives on through a share experience, I would like to dedicate this to you my aunt, my wonderful angel, now home.