Christmas Circus

Rough version, written on Christmas.

Christmas Circus

A circus moved into
grandma's living room
this Christmas.

Around the tree
ran a monkey
and a zebra

racing in tandem
with the horses and dogs
abnormally small.

Deformed creatures
performed their dance
and broad chested

fellows preached
their speech while
pretty girls tooted

horns announcing
the ringleader's entrance
from behind a red and white
stripped curtain.

They played and played
but he did not appear
 while the crowd waited in
anticipation and watched
in horror as the
scene began to dissolve.

The monkey and zebra
fell into combat as
horses trampled dogs
too small for their
old and aging eyes.

Deformed creatures
lost entertainment's appeal
their bodies revolting

causing pretty housewives
to cover young children's eyes.

The girls playing horns
ran out of breath and
their silence left only

the chaotic sounds
of grandma's circus
going up in flames

all the while waiting for
the ringleader's appearance
to save the day and

put out the fire that
eventually consumed
his red and white stripped
curtain in a flaming
triumphant gulp.

Doppelganger

She drinks tea obsessively tonight
out of her teal mug
that is chipped at the bottom

like a gap-toothed grin
it smiles up at her as steam
rises to fog the lenses
incased in thick black frames.

Her stubby fingers gently remove
the delicate thread
from tea bag's top

a severing of umbilical chord
blood gushes from the beholder
until the pouch is deflated
and its guts lay helplessly
on the operating table.

Her thick fingers move swiftly
repacking the bag with
earth's dirt and twigs and leaves

hurriedly pining together
the self inflicted wound
sewing with rushed complacency

birthing the doppelganger
for her sweet chamomile
that her pudgy hands
drown effortlessly
in the teal mug's depths.

Distance.

The skies hold Orion

three stars of

equal distance apart

the necks bend

unnaturally

for a glimpse

moon illuminated faces

on tip toes while

he listens for breath

sure and slow

with each inhale

pulled closer

falling fast

in reckless infatuation

for she is love

held at a distance

in three glimmers of light.

Dan Estabrook.

"There will always be sadness and humor in our struggle to find meaning."
-Dan Estabrook

Yesterday I sat in the auditorium of the Art Institute of Boston and listened to Dan Estabrook speak. He skipped high school, went straight to Harvard where he studied alternative photographic processing with my current professor Christopher James, and is now one of the premiere artists in the country. His work is a mixture of alternatively processed images with processes like gum bichromate layered with drawing, sewing, and anything else he can get his hands on. I have had something like an artistic block the past few weeks and listening to this man talk unlocked something in my clouded brain. I suddenly realized how afraid I am to play and work slowly with one topic, to focus and really demand that topic to speak. All the material is in my head, it is at the "source" as Dan would call it, and I have to trust that from it I can create. Despite being on the brink of total, emotional exhaustion, I haven't even begun to push the boundaries with my art. There is a lifetime's worth of material in my head and on the pages of my journals. Now it's time to trust myself and create.

A few samples of his work, for more go to danestabrook.com

Twin Souls...stream of consciousness.

...to know that you can never get too lost, never be too broken, that the soul can always be saved, that the earth will always call us home and retain our soul and our memories in its soil, binding the wheat and roots with our hearts and minds, speaking to the innermost depths of our being, telling us to distinguish one headlight from three, to put away the gun, come out of the locked room and kneel before the creator, the beholder, the father, vulnerable and naked, begging for forgiveness, for vision, standing beneath the great vast Oklahoma sky waiting for rain, soul screaming out to the heavens let it rain, open up and pour, soak me down to the bone, the raw material of my existence and free me from this prison, entangle my feet in these roots, my hair in this wind and let the father call me home, call me home papa, call me home.

Breakthrough in Room 414.

She has no other way but this
alone in her precious room
with the ticking hands of her watch
and the steady rhythm of breath.

A hell she has chosen
and willingly accepts
that threatens to burn her alive
as fists pound at the locked door
desperate to rescue that which is already lost.

A pile of ashes from which she will rise
the barefoot midwestern maiden
cradling her soul in her arms
a fragile being held together
with red thread and rusty needle.

It quietly sobs as all children do
for the arms of their creator
and the vision given
by the wind and the rain.

Snow.

It doesn't matter where I go, snow will always be the same. It covers the harsh aroma of the city and finally makes it smell like nature, like home. East coast snow, midwest snow, it's all the same. And so am I, in any place anywhere in the world.

Morning in the city
before humans emerge
from houses in outfits
carefully planned
each night
before bed.

When only the
committed few
have risen
before the crowd
to share a
sacred moment with
the frail shell
of this metropolis

the buildings,
bridges, and empty stations
that have patiently awaited
human's return from
night's slumber.

Pappa's Flannel

This ain't no picnic papa

harder than it looks

but maybe if I hide

in your flannel shirt

it won't hurt anymore

and someone will come

to take me home. 

Grandpa's Lighthouse

This morning grandpa

boarded his sailboat.

 

Silently at work

with thick stubby fingers

and rough farmer’s palms

he steered the boat 

away from grandma’s house

out into the Oklahoma 

wheat fields.

 

He passed the red pickup

obediently waiting in the yard

and slid by his cows 

as they perked up ears

sensing significance.

 

Nodding to these companions 

raised from birth 

as children of his own,

his quiet eyes remained 

on the lighthouse ahead.

 

The sun began to rise 

and soon grandma 

would find him gone 

and the generations 

would flock home

called by a sweet whisper 

of the land coursing 

through their veins.

 

By then their guardian

will have reached his lighthouse

just in time to light the lamp,

pour a cup of coffee from

the silver thermos,

and sit back to watch

the wheat grow

for all eternity. 

This morning, the head of our table was empty.

Grandma's kitchen, plastic coffee cups, coffee thermos, table salt, playing cards, grease, dirt, barn, red pickup, tiny farmer's calendars on the dashboard, christmas tree, the Homeplace, flannel shirts, the Crown Victoria, firetrucks, falling asleep in the chair, religion, wheat, cows, thick fingers and fingernails, sailboats, lighthouses, robes and jewelry for Mema, history, storytelling, electrician, romance, rebel, cigarettes, alcohol, head of the table, quiet eyes, dry wit, silent affection, dirt roads, sturdy, nostalgia, handsome, savior, husband, dad, grandpa, papa bob.

A feminist thought.

As a young girl new to the big city, I have had to make many adjustments. Most significantly, becoming used to the objectification of women. It is common to be starred at on the subway or hit on while walking down the street at any hour of the day. While this wasn't unusual in Lawrence, it certainly didn't run as rampant. It's as if the constant movement of the city and the anonymous nature of the crowd allows for blatant and rather insulting remarks. I don't wish to write here what was said to me in Kenmore square a few days ago, by an EMT driving an ambulance nonetheless, however all you must know is that it was incredibly degrading and completely inappropriate for any setting. I stood in awe at a loss for words as the man walked away. What right did he have to enter my world and address me so crudely? What had I done to him to deserve that kind of comment? Sadly, I had done nothing more than be an attractive woman on the sidewalk. He chose me and that moment to exert his "manly" power over the situation. 

This event has left me thinking about feminists and women's continuing struggle with their place in a world often still dominated by men. This ongoing struggle is rooted in primal instincts and physical attributes. Women are generally built smaller than men and are less able to exert themselves physically over males. In the beginning of civilization women's physical limitations had an impact on survival. Men were more well suited to be the hunters and gatherers. However, no one said anything about our mental capacity. It has been proven that women mature faster than men and are at least on the same mental playing field. Women tend to live longer and only 1 in 200 of us are color blind as opposed to the 1 in 20 men that are color blind.

These are small facts and I am not attempting to shed women in a better light than men, but I do believe  that we are equal and don't deserve to be tirelessly objectified while walking down the street. There are considerable differences between the sexes, however we are all human and I will continue to expect a certain amount of respect as a creature of this planet. 

"Woman must not accept; she must challenge. She must not be awed by that which has been built up around her; she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression. "

-Margaret Sanger

on that same note, one more piece...

One more new piece based on ideas from my most recent post. 

please, just leave me alone.

This is a piece I did first semester of my senior year in high school. The photographs are taken in the bathroom at my parents' house. I started shooting spaces that had been labeled "home" but felt nothing like it. These were spaces I was embarrassed by and could only show people through photographs. The words are thoughts that used to run through my head while I sat in my room at home, "Please don't knock on the door, just leave me alone,  just let me be." 

I have been in Boston a little over a week and realized that those same thoughts still run through my head while in my room in the dorm. People knock on my door and I pretend I'm not home or that I can't hear them. When the floor creaks outside I hold my breath until footsteps pass on down the hall. 

I've thought for the past week this is just a tendency I've developed because I'm not completely comfortable. But after looking back at pieces like the one above, I realized this has been embedded in my personality all along. I am more of a loner than I thought, but perhaps this isn't a bad thing. Because at the end of the day all I have is me, and that person must be taken care of in order for any of this to be successful. 

So for now, my loner label is fine by me. Perhaps someday riding on the subway or sitting in the coffee shop I'll find someone else tired of being lonely and we won't have to make nice or pretend we are who we aren't. So go ahead college, encourage socialization and making friends at any cost. I'll be up in my room finding new ways to create and exist because for now, that is all I need. 

"Please, just leave me alone" 

Created September 10, 2011 

mamma and daddo.

I walked the city of Boston today. Accidentally ended up in Charlestown (not the best area of town by far) desperately seeking a Bed Bath and Beyond that had held hostage my new dorm possessions. Terrified of looking like a tourist or a target I marched on in combat boots and black outfit determined to find our destination, and beside me my mom and dad marched on. Walking ahead to determine subway routes I pretended I knew more and that they were mere back up singers to my Diana.

After scouring a bookstore and finally tracking down a copy of Sylvia Plath's Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams we trekked back to the dorm and began to assemble my room. At first, I was highly sensitive about my belongings and didn't want either parents moving anything around. Without fuss or offense they dutifully hung clothes while I sorted. As clothes disappeared from huge suitcases my dad began piling my books and without hesitation I joined him. We worked alongside each other unpacking and deciding the most aesthetically pleasing placement of my rug. My mom soon sat herself on the bed playing with the fan to distort her voice as she talked into its rotating propellers.

At that moment we were goofy, and completely happy. It is a scene that doesn't flash across the family screen as often as I would like, and while watching it play out I realized just how much I love them. After a floor meeting I asked them to come back and stay with me for awhile. We popped in a season of Modern Family and ordered a pizza. Everyone else's parents have been gone five hours and mine just slipped out my door not ten minutes ago. For the first time I can ever remember, I wanted to be totally dependent on those two wonderful people who birthed and raised me. I never thought I would be the girl at college who didn't want her parents to leave but it turns out I am and surprisingly, I am perfectly content. It has been a long time since I truly needed someone, and it feels damn good.

Thanks mamma and daddo, I couldn't have done today without you. I love you.

Boston, Mass.

I moved away from home today. I packed up all of my belongings into six bags and jumped on a plane with both of my parents to Boston, Massachusetts or Boston, Mass as the locals call it. I have no idea how I feel, but I do know that this is right. I am oddly comfortable and for the moment, I am happy. But most importantly, I am ready. I don't think I am or believe I am, I know I am.

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am."

-Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

This is all I have, a mantra that continues to instill in me the that I am ready for this, and for now that is more than enough for me.

The Soul's Choice.

I recently discovered that the man I looked up to, maybe more than anyone in my life, isn't the man I thought he was. Instead of a strong hero who believed in love and passion and words, he turned out to be a simple human. A human who makes mistakes, breaks hearts, and hasn't been faced with a difficult decision in his life.

I have always believed in world without perfect endings. I know not everything we wish comes true and that love will not always conquer all. But I do believe in the souls of people, and his is one that cannot continue to live in the situation he places himself. If he does, his old soul will reject the mind and body it inhabits causing permanent damage. Our choices are led be the spirit inside of us, our own personal flame that is the very core of our being. My fallen hero, no matter how broken, is an intelligent man who cannot ignore his soul desperately pleading for a rebirth and a new mindset to inhabit.

I cannot say what he will do, however, I cannot resign myself to believe that someone so remarkable can lead a life of such disappointment and complacency. I believe in what a wise old soul can do, and have not yet lost hope for his.

Listen close dear friend, life is calling.

Routine.

I saw you down the street today

outside the bookstore

I pretended not to notice you

by making phone calls

to imaginary friends

and pacing up and down

cracked pavement

silently watching

your performance.

Surrounded by coworkers

you did your dance

twirling in and out

of happiness

tip toeing across

discontentment

always with a smile

and a flourish 

to please the

anxious audience.

Onlookers applaud

and colleagues are proud

of this feat of deception

performed in rhythm

to the sweet tune of

evasion from your life

desperate to be lived.

The State of Things

To my old friend,

May you not live blindly to the rotten earth that surrounds your feet. Please find your way amongst the branches and ivy that cover the road signs. The journey is never easy, but it will always be worth taking.

Love,

The old soul who still believes in you

Old Friend

The colossal tree

down our block

was uprooted today.  

Plucked out of the ground

like potatoes

in mamma’s garden.

Watching from

living room window

I saw the roots resist

determined to grasp

soil it called home.

Let go old friend,

these young seeds

will always find their way to you.

  

Recent Musings

Happiness

I stumbled across happiness today.

Knick knack abandoned

beneath a bush

dusty and forgotten

foreign object

cast aside by

broken hearts and

mourning souls.

With reluctance,

I retrieved happiness

from its hiding place

and felt its universal pulse

within my hands

while complacency

warmed my body

right down to my toes.

But then happiness

took hold of my eyes

disabling my retinas

and sewing shut my lids

it crawled into my ear

settling just beneath

the ear drum

and whispered:

“Let go this grip

on reality and

trust my presence

to guide you,

happiness could

never lead you astray.”

With those words

I dropped happiness

to the ground and

kicked it deep

beneath the bush. 

Opening and closing

my eyelids

I took in all I could see,

the entire mess

of grief, sorrow, and woe

layered together

to make a beautiful

and tragic existence.

new work.

Trying to Write Better.

I recently had a session of poetry editing with a close friend and realized there are two basic principles to writing:

1. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO SAY?

and

2. Don't let your subject off the hook.

After two hours of Shannon crossing out whole phrases and sections, repeating over and over again "Do you really need this?" or "Is this really necessary?"and rolling my eyes in response, I realized the purpose of poetry is it's simplicity in describing a moment. It often needs less adjectives than you think and requires the writer to hone in on the most precise of moments and feelings.

So after returning home I sat down at my computer and attempted to cut down and clean out my words. This is what I produced:

Big blue eyes

straining to see the road

over a bear and a bunny.

Locked into my car seat

I was your sidekick

and you my hero

determined to save me

from a world

that frightened you.

Playing make believe

in homemade forts

of sheets and clothespins

my white knight

slayed imaginary dragons

while cookies baked in the oven.

Forever loved, daddy

it is here we must say auf weidersehen

at the dirt road that leads to

Citgo signs and subway rails

We have been guided here

by nights when I told you

to leave the door open

and the hall light on.

Please don’t turn it off daddy,

because I will always need it to guide me home.  

Sylvia Edit.

I.

Holding aspirations close

stitching tragedies into fabric flesh,

Blue-eyed babes stroke blank faces of loveless men

and run against the wind that breathes coincidence.

I have known and loved you for the ink you apply to page

But your contemplations consumed you

eaten alive by your own beast

 a creation of your broken and brilliant mind,

you paused only once

for petite faces in the car window.

II.

This is how we alter one another.

You, an ill-fated child

pining over the corpse of daddy ,

and vowing to return through a hole under the floorboards,

were consumed by her own madness.

I flashed blue eyes at unassuming boys, denying my age,

a freckled face desperate to be valued.

Catastrophic creatures lead double lives of normalcy and senselessness,

it is bound to overwhelm as it beckons us

 to the sweet fumes of domestic poison

yelling last call above the crowd in our heads,

pulling at our minds for a profit.

III.

But, this is where I leave you,

overlooking all your desires and delusions.

I let go of your hand

and cover the path that led me here

 so as to not tempt  my own fragility.

I am. I am. I am.

"Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted."

-The quotation on Sylvia Plath's headstone chosen by Ted Hughes

Reckless Boy

You’re a lost hope boy, a picturesque car wreck in neutral greys

smoking Marlboro reds and cursing at the stars, their twinkle too bright

for your hung over eyes.

You walk with the burden of a criminal, hiding the pistol inside a ragged coat pocket, always concealing the evidence behind a childish grin.  

Yet feet will never run fast enough, and the chain on your bike will always

be broken, and someday you will trip on a crack in the pavement and come face to face with a frightened and lonely little boy begging for attention.

The riddles of youth will shatter leaving a pernicious delinquent

discontent with the beaten and broken face reflected in every mirror,

for you are a ferocious extravagance, a subtle threat to the balance of complacency,

But perhaps you have come too far boy and it is time to go home.

This world is not for tenuous souls like you, reckless days

have passed and a dark figure waits ahead, holding the hands of fate.

For Sylvia: Mirrored Alteration

Holding our aspirations close and

stitching our tragedies into the fabric flesh of soul.

Blue-eyed babes stroke blank faces of loveless men

and run against the wind that breathes our names into the soil of coincidence.

I have known and loved you for the ink you apply to page

in my name, recording thoughts of a girl from a different time.

But your contemplations consumed you in a fiery mass of calamity,

eaten alive by your own beast, a creation of your broken and brilliant mind,

pausing only for a moment to consider the petite faces staring from the car window.

Perhaps this is how we have been altered from one another.

You, an ill-fated child of nine pining over the corpse of daddy

and vowing to return through a hole under the floorboards,

was consumed by her own madness.

I, a subtle extravagance flashed blue eyes at unassuming boys in denial of my age,

a freckled face desperate to be valued at the highest price.

We catastrophic creatures lead double lives of normalcy and senselessness,

when will the cease-fire be called above thick black smoke of souls at war?

Because it is bound to overwhelm, beckoning us to the sweet fumes

of domestic poison, yelling last call above the roaring crowd inside our heads

that pulls at our minds for a cut of the profit.

But perhaps dear, this is where I leave you. At the precipice of the end,

overlooking a black gorge of all your desires and delusions.

I must let go of your hand and cover the path that led us here so as

not to tempt fragility embedded within the creases in my brain.

Goodbye my lovely

you have fallen behind, the ropes of insanity

wrapping themselves tight around your sweet ankles.

A ghostly martyr whose words thump with the life of blood through veins

and whose deftly maneuvered fingers grasp at jaded minds to vicariously

live through that which you could never stand to bear. 

trying to write better.

The lemons on the counter

enshrouded in a dingy grocery bag

radiate through dark surroundings

to light the kitchen

as a replacement for the bulb that burnt out after you left.

I grab them with both hands

Their yellow

pock marked skins firm beneath my grip.

Steadfast and whole

Each predictable,

tiny yellow triangles form a circle

dotted by seeds

protected by thick peel

both defensive and alluring.

I slice them in half

one by one

and massacre them on the juicer

no warning

or mercy

squeezing the life out of these glorious, brilliant fruits.

Innards gushing into the bowl for all to see,

I conquer this impertinent object

and feel the juice of its existence

seeping into the nicks and cuts of my

beaten hands, stinging and searing the irritated skin.

The pain is welcome

because then at least I’ll know I’m alive

and the nectar of this passionate,

self-loathing world will course through my veins

to help me remember your absence

instilling in me, the naïve belief that

someday you will come home

to fix the burnt out light in the kitchen.

mad men.

I have recently been trying to watch new television shows as they come out on DVD (because I hate watching ACTUAL television) and recently stumbled upon Mad Men, a show about the top advertising agency in New York City in the 50's. The roles of women and men are very blatantly addressed as is the public's opinion of these roles.  I have always been fascinated with gender roles and the idea of domesticity, perhaps because my family never followed any of those rules. I did an entire journal based on the story of a man and wife during this same period of the 50's, early 60's. The husband is a high powered business executive and the wife is a stay at home mother. The journal tells the story of their relationship on one particular night when the husband doesn't come home and the wife stays up, waiting for him to call.

Although I believe we have come so far since these days of cat and mouse, I also believe we fall into gender roles much easier than we think. Many women who categorize themselves as strong and independent will still wait up nights just waiting for him to call. They enjoy the door being opened for them and a hand offered to get out of the car. Chivalry may be dead, but a woman's need for companionship and care is not. In the words of my coworker, "You just want him to at least make you feel pretty, don't you?"

So in honor of gender roles and Mad Men and feeling pretty, here are a few pages from my journal about domesticity.

the gift of work.

Clever review

Of last night’s event

The ruckus

And noise

Polluting cramped apartment spaces

Little girl accepted amongst

Those in black get ups

Servings food and filling waters

Waiting for approval and learning to exist

Plainly

And without consequence

Entrusting in her

Solid foundations

Of days gone by

Nights in bars

Dancing beside animosity

And fellows watching her hips

Swing back and forth

Back and forth

Possessed by rhythms of the DJ

No age

No consequence

Under red lights in confined spaces

Through side doors and back doors

Smoking cigarettes on porches

Pondering fallen hopes and washed up ambition

This they gave her

A package neatly tied up

With ribbons and bows

The card left blank

No signature

No consequence. 

a girl of the plains

In the past week I have been thinking more and more about my ties to the land and nature as well as weather. In light of the recent tornadoes that hit the hometowns of the various family members of mine, I wrote these two poems. 

Girl of the Plains

The sky is angry

And the girl of the plains

Waits quietly on the porch

She sits perched on the railing

The rain oozing from the dark clouds

Onto her curly mane

She watches

And waits

For the calm

The stillness

That precedes the eruption

The monster of the skies

Growls its warning

To the people of the wheat

Hide in your bathtubs

Your closets

Under the stairs

Cower in corners

And under beds to escape the unpredictable

The clouds begin to glow

A soft and iridescent orange

The farmers know so well

They look to the heavens

Their dirt covered faces

Silently pleading for a pardon

Not my crop

My home

My sweat and blood

For the tireless soil

That is embedded beneath my nails

And in the crevices of my hands

Spare this man

Save this soul

But the wind knows no heart

No mercy

Or solitude

Its destruction descends from the skies

In the shape of a funnel

Dark and brooding

It knows no path

And provides no reason

Because saved or not

Mother nature is upon you

And the burden of the moment

Hangs around your neck

And the little Kansas girl on the porch

Feet bare

And calloused

And beaten

Moves not an inch

As the monster draws near

Her stringy hair falls flat

And the trees cease to blow

And the dog begins to whimper

But she moves not an inch

Because this little Kansas girl

Descended from the dirt

And the small town

Is tied to the land

And the wind

And the soil that is permanently smeared

On her freckled face

And caked beneath her fingernails

Show knows no fear

Because the plains will call her home.

Ghost of the Tall Grass

Page 4A

Next to the sick and the elderly

Is you

The girl of the plains

Captured in printed word

A desperate attempt to preserve

That which so easily slipped through humanity’s fingers

The wind

The dirt

And the land 

Have claimed you

Taken you for their own

A ghost of the tall grass

And red soil

Mamma cries for you

And the villagers mourn your absence

With vigils

And prayers

To a god whose motives remain quiet

And subdued

It is you

The young ones, who are

Intertwined with tragedy

Speeding along in a pickup

Toward the mouth of the plains

Ready to swallow

You

Up.

sous le ciel de paris

Under the sky of Paris
Flies song
She was born today
In the heart of a boy
Under the sky of Paris
Lovers Walk
Their happiness is built
On a tune made for them. 

-Juliette Greco