First there was Brian.
Cherry - popping Brian.
What was I, 15?
My technical physical first.
He was a crush, a saxophonist, a soccer player, a jerk.
Not a big damaging jerk,
Just a little high school jerk.
He was a kid. So was I.
It was what it was.
And then came Kenny.
No pun intended.
My first love, as much as I could at 16.
The first that made my heart quicken.
In the back seat of his car.
Axis Bold As Love by Hendrix,
Wish You Were Here by Floyd.
Heineken.
The smiles were genuine.
He made me feel all warm inside. For the very first time.
I'd fall asleep thinking about him.
Good guy. Good love.
Good friend,
Still.
And finally there was David.
David made me a woman.
My first Lover.
My first orgasm.
David taught me my body.
My buttons.
My Desire.
He was seductive, and sultry.
I was 17. He was older.
He taught me how to sink,
How to grind.
How to use my mouth,
How to...
mmmm...
He used I-Ching, and the phrase "The Bottom Line."
And then he lay beside her.
Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl"
was on the radio, that morning drive from his apartment.
I was tingling everywhere as I drove away.
after spending the night in this man's bed,
in this man's hands,
in this man's ...
and for the first time,
I felt like a Woman.
My thighs felt aftershocks from the earthquakes for hours.
And I still grin wickedly
At the thought of him.
So you tell me.
Who was my First?
August 31, 2006
August 30, 2006
Cohesion, Part 2
Look at Anne Rice. She fleshes out characters. She invents Beings. Now look at Mario Puzo. He writes a story. Don’t you see the difference?
He nods, but I can see that he isn’t convinced.
Neither is better. Neither is harder. They are just different. Some writers’ talent is in the making of the story. Chuck Palahniuk tells a story. JRR Tolkien’s gift was background. He wrote history and myths and created a whole universe.
“But Anne Rice did that too.” He’s pouring me another glass of wine, quietly. Trying to listen. Trying to get this.
I know. Every novel involves a plot, and characters, and some history. But I’m talking about the writer’s real talent. I’m focusing on the specific part of the process that is the gift of any given writer. Rice’s characters are unparalleled. She penetrates your mind with them. The way Tolkien can, with his worlds. The way Stephen King does with a plotline.
I sip my wine as I thumb through the manuscript.
Every good writer has to be able to create a balance of all things required to birth a book. Rice has great legend, Tolkien has great characters. But most of us have a forte. Maybe my examples are arguable. But the point remains. Most writers penetrate their readers first and foremost with just one true gift. One aspect of the process. Most of us mark you in some way.
He looks over my shoulder at the manuscript. “And this guy can create a story.”
God, yes. This guy can create a story.
“Do you like the story?” He gestures toward the pages, covered in my pencil marks.
Yes, I do.
“What changes are you making, then?”
Rimbaud. Bukowski. Sometimes it’s not what’s said, be it tale or hero, be it future or past. Sometimes it’s how. Sometimes it’s about the way things are spoken. The Words chosen. The Words not. The Words.
The Words.
The flow and the rhythm. The triggers, and the drift. The penetration. The journey. The emotion. The way it works… is all in the Wording.
All. In the Wording.
Some of us can spin tales. Some of us breathe beings. Some of us envision legends.
And some of us
just Write.
He nods, but I can see that he isn’t convinced.
Neither is better. Neither is harder. They are just different. Some writers’ talent is in the making of the story. Chuck Palahniuk tells a story. JRR Tolkien’s gift was background. He wrote history and myths and created a whole universe.
“But Anne Rice did that too.” He’s pouring me another glass of wine, quietly. Trying to listen. Trying to get this.
I know. Every novel involves a plot, and characters, and some history. But I’m talking about the writer’s real talent. I’m focusing on the specific part of the process that is the gift of any given writer. Rice’s characters are unparalleled. She penetrates your mind with them. The way Tolkien can, with his worlds. The way Stephen King does with a plotline.
I sip my wine as I thumb through the manuscript.
Every good writer has to be able to create a balance of all things required to birth a book. Rice has great legend, Tolkien has great characters. But most of us have a forte. Maybe my examples are arguable. But the point remains. Most writers penetrate their readers first and foremost with just one true gift. One aspect of the process. Most of us mark you in some way.
He looks over my shoulder at the manuscript. “And this guy can create a story.”
God, yes. This guy can create a story.
“Do you like the story?” He gestures toward the pages, covered in my pencil marks.
Yes, I do.
“What changes are you making, then?”
Rimbaud. Bukowski. Sometimes it’s not what’s said, be it tale or hero, be it future or past. Sometimes it’s how. Sometimes it’s about the way things are spoken. The Words chosen. The Words not. The Words.
The Words.
The flow and the rhythm. The triggers, and the drift. The penetration. The journey. The emotion. The way it works… is all in the Wording.
All. In the Wording.
Some of us can spin tales. Some of us breathe beings. Some of us envision legends.
And some of us
just Write.
August 29, 2006
Cohesion
I'm just waiting for my ride.
The editor hands me a manuscript. Someone else's baby. Someone else's future.
Some One Else's.
"It's a good story. But he can't make it work. He can't make it flow."
So what do you want me to do with it?
I'm looking out of the window, I'm searching for a car. I'm looking for a way out. I'm looking for my ride.
"Cohesion." He's futzing with the fan on his desk, aiming the air at his face. "Bridge the scenes. Fix it. Rewrite what doesn't flow. Just make it work."
What's it about, anyway?
I'm not ready to thumb through it. I'm not ready to crack it open. I'm looking out the window. I'm waiting for my ride.
As he tells me the story I cast the characters in my head. I give them faces so I can see them. Jason Behr is the bartender. Gale Harold is the killer. Thomas Ian Griffith is his father. I see the story unfolding although told in brevity. I see the story. And it's good. It's actually pretty damn good.
"It just needs to be written better. That's why I called you."
The compliment isn't lost.
I take that, for what it's worth, and pocket it for later.
I'm looking at the street. I'm the one who will write it better. I'm the one he hires. I'm the one that isn't signed. I'm looking for my fucking ride.
Does he know you're having it ghosted?
He's closed his eyes, and leaned into the fan. Not that it's hot in here. Not that he's sweating. "I told him it needed extensive work to be usable. He knows the story is great. He knows he's not much of a writer though."
The irony isn't lost.
Feels like I may be the only thing that is.
A story teller gets a publishing deal. A story teller that knows he isn't much of a writer, gets a publishing deal. And his editor has to hire a Writer to make the book work. My ride still isn't here. I have to see how bad the writing is. I have to look.
I crack it open. Right in the middle. I run my hands over the edges, and run my eyes over the Words.
The editor is right. This guy isn't much of a writer. I'm turning pages, reading the story, waiting for my ride.
"It would make a great screenplay."
I would have to agree.
We hear a car horn. And it's an "F", not an "A" flat. It's my ride. It's the sound of leaving.
He watches me take the manuscript with both hands.
He watches compliments and irony not lost.
He watches me at my best and my worst; as the writer hired, and the writer not signed.
It's a good story.
The editor hands me a manuscript. Someone else's baby. Someone else's future.
Some One Else's.
"It's a good story. But he can't make it work. He can't make it flow."
So what do you want me to do with it?
I'm looking out of the window, I'm searching for a car. I'm looking for a way out. I'm looking for my ride.
"Cohesion." He's futzing with the fan on his desk, aiming the air at his face. "Bridge the scenes. Fix it. Rewrite what doesn't flow. Just make it work."
What's it about, anyway?
I'm not ready to thumb through it. I'm not ready to crack it open. I'm looking out the window. I'm waiting for my ride.
As he tells me the story I cast the characters in my head. I give them faces so I can see them. Jason Behr is the bartender. Gale Harold is the killer. Thomas Ian Griffith is his father. I see the story unfolding although told in brevity. I see the story. And it's good. It's actually pretty damn good.
"It just needs to be written better. That's why I called you."
The compliment isn't lost.
I take that, for what it's worth, and pocket it for later.
I'm looking at the street. I'm the one who will write it better. I'm the one he hires. I'm the one that isn't signed. I'm looking for my fucking ride.
Does he know you're having it ghosted?
He's closed his eyes, and leaned into the fan. Not that it's hot in here. Not that he's sweating. "I told him it needed extensive work to be usable. He knows the story is great. He knows he's not much of a writer though."
The irony isn't lost.
Feels like I may be the only thing that is.
A story teller gets a publishing deal. A story teller that knows he isn't much of a writer, gets a publishing deal. And his editor has to hire a Writer to make the book work. My ride still isn't here. I have to see how bad the writing is. I have to look.
I crack it open. Right in the middle. I run my hands over the edges, and run my eyes over the Words.
The editor is right. This guy isn't much of a writer. I'm turning pages, reading the story, waiting for my ride.
"It would make a great screenplay."
I would have to agree.
We hear a car horn. And it's an "F", not an "A" flat. It's my ride. It's the sound of leaving.
He watches me take the manuscript with both hands.
He watches compliments and irony not lost.
He watches me at my best and my worst; as the writer hired, and the writer not signed.
It's a good story.
August 20, 2006
Just The Facts
My grandfather had 2 children.
My father and my aunt each had families.
My father, who was not a good man, died.
My grandfather was ever grateful to my mother for standing by his son throughout his life, throughout all the heartache he caused.
My grandfather told my mother and I, over and over, how much we meant to him.
My grandfather died.
My aunt told my mother and I not to come to the funeral, as it was for "immediate family only." Only her and her family went.
My aunt had my grandfather's will changed to exclude us.
My aunt's 2 children stood by and let their mother do this to the family.
My aunt's 2 children spent my grandfather's small inheritance.
My aunt's 2 children defended my aunt in this.
My grandfather's wishes meant nothing to my aunt or my cousins.
My father meant nothing to my aunt or my cousins.
My mother and I mean nothing to my aunt or my cousins.
My mother and I stopped putting ourselves through this.
Stopped returning phone calls.
Just let it go.
My cousin wrote a letter to several members of the family who had been judged, or excluded, claiming "we never had a chance."
Apparently, they were all very shocked when I wrote back telling them to go to Hell.
This was 5 years ago.
We haven't spoken since.
Apparently my cousin would like to know if I am "over it" yet.
Sometimes there are just No Words
to relay with full accuracy
just how hard
someone should
go fuck themselves.
My father and my aunt each had families.
My father, who was not a good man, died.
My grandfather was ever grateful to my mother for standing by his son throughout his life, throughout all the heartache he caused.
My grandfather told my mother and I, over and over, how much we meant to him.
My grandfather died.
My aunt told my mother and I not to come to the funeral, as it was for "immediate family only." Only her and her family went.
My aunt had my grandfather's will changed to exclude us.
My aunt's 2 children stood by and let their mother do this to the family.
My aunt's 2 children spent my grandfather's small inheritance.
My aunt's 2 children defended my aunt in this.
My grandfather's wishes meant nothing to my aunt or my cousins.
My father meant nothing to my aunt or my cousins.
My mother and I mean nothing to my aunt or my cousins.
My mother and I stopped putting ourselves through this.
Stopped returning phone calls.
Just let it go.
My cousin wrote a letter to several members of the family who had been judged, or excluded, claiming "we never had a chance."
Apparently, they were all very shocked when I wrote back telling them to go to Hell.
This was 5 years ago.
We haven't spoken since.
Apparently my cousin would like to know if I am "over it" yet.
Sometimes there are just No Words
to relay with full accuracy
just how hard
someone should
go fuck themselves.
August 13, 2006
Perceptions
"He's a Blockhead who wants a proof of what he Can't Percieve And he's a Fool who tries to make such a Blockhead believe."
-WILLIAM BLAKE
The texture of things
The illusion of memory.
Something tangible, in your hands
That can be sensed, and known.
For you to know.
This is how you make your world: from these perceptions, from these things you know.
You make your world.
The rights, the wrongs, the truths, the awakenings.
Reality mastered, and objectivity extinguished.
Because nothing is as subjective as perception.
The places we mark. The things we calls ours. The moments we remember.
We choose our ghosts.
The unclear remembrance
The hauntings
and the fadings.
The people we deem evil.
And the way we make God.
There is so much more we refuse to see.
We find comfort in the gray places
Because the black and the white is so sharp.
We perceive this to be the truth
But it's not.
It can't.
You can't make the thunder. You can only listen.
Interpretation
Salvage & sinners
There's no such thing as "absolute."
or "erase."
There is no such thing.
Because we weren't designed for black and white.
We weren't meant to really know.
-WILLIAM BLAKE
The texture of things
The illusion of memory.
Something tangible, in your hands
That can be sensed, and known.
For you to know.
This is how you make your world: from these perceptions, from these things you know.
You make your world.
The rights, the wrongs, the truths, the awakenings.
Reality mastered, and objectivity extinguished.
Because nothing is as subjective as perception.
The places we mark. The things we calls ours. The moments we remember.
We choose our ghosts.
The unclear remembrance
The hauntings
and the fadings.
The people we deem evil.
And the way we make God.
There is so much more we refuse to see.
We find comfort in the gray places
Because the black and the white is so sharp.
We perceive this to be the truth
But it's not.
It can't.
You can't make the thunder. You can only listen.
Interpretation
Salvage & sinners
There's no such thing as "absolute."
or "erase."
There is no such thing.
Because we weren't designed for black and white.
We weren't meant to really know.
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