I felt it was time to address something extremely important to me: the freedom to write what moves you - the real you - not censored propaganda for public consumption. I did it for years, you know, writing for newspapers. The things that get left out - that's the heart of the real news. That is what is chopped from the story, that is where the art is. And I am all about the art. I have felt the sting of censure as a young and giddy reporter, telling the entire truth and paying for it. The gleaming kernel of fact removed by an adroit editor felt like an amputation. It hated it. Writing the news sucks ass.
That is why I love to write poetry. Because to me, poetry is all about the feeling: the feeling of words formed and written first on brain, the roll of the tongue, the weight of pen in hand, the exact pressure of finger on keyboard. My poetry is not usually kind or sweet. Tho I love to read sweet lolly poetry from other people (Yeats comes to mind, with his bean-rows on the Lake Isle of Innisfree) I am loathe to write that way.
I am a poet of guttural hatred and unbridled fury. I write about what pisses me off, depresses me, makes me withdraw from society. Sometimes it's all happiness. Wait, no, that never happens. The verbal vomiting is my way of soul-purging. I can write terrible things so I don't have to DO terrible things. This is what art is, yes? I have a feeling I'll never receive accolades while I am still breathing. But that's okay. Someday someone will study me and think wow, she was really pissed off.
Here's the thing: It takes incredible courage and moxy to say what you really mean in poetry just like it does in real life. While I am never one to shy away from confrontation, I have been guilted into keeping my trap capped for fear of alienating my audience. The thought of losing those of you that read my blog scares me, but being artistically dishonest scares me more.
In college I had many, many poetry writing seminar classes. I think these classes suck and if I ever taught poetry writing, I would not ever approach it in the way it was taught to me. Apologies to my previous teachers. Oh wait, no, I meant to say suck it. The writing of the rosy lines, the xeroxing of the many pages, then the ultimate betrayal: sharing your rough cut diamond in a 'peer group' setting. Fuck the peer group. What the hell do they know that you don't?
I remember a particular session with a particular peer group. Of course my poem was 'about' watching my ex-husband sleep (we were still married at the time) and wanting to murder him. One of my peers read some hippy-esque dream of Pablo Neruda making love to her, another poet shared a tale of swimming in Lake Michigan and being in tune with nature. And so on and so on and then there was, to me, the worst of the worst: A rosy-cheeked teaching major reading her poem 'about' apple picking with her rosy-cheeked family and the ensuing pie making, etc. I wanted to slit her wrists for her. And I said that. Out loud. Because that's the way I rolled back then.
I try not to roll over someone else's work these days; I am largely supportive of anyone writing anywhere at any time. This shit is hard!!!! Writing is soul-wrenching, hair pulling agony! Or it is easy as apple picking and pie baking. But I digress. The purpose of this post is to share, honestly, a poem I wrote a few days ago because it is the way I felt at that moment in time. It has lots of bad words. It is not 'about' you, or you. It is not in any way real, or something that ever will or ever did happen. Because it is a poem. With bad words. Because that's the kind of poet I am, more often than not. And poems aren't right or wrong per say, but they can have a right or wrong audience. So I am feeling you out.
Fuck You Michelle
Fuck you
and fuck me
and fuck the world.
I will fuck you up,
murder your children
knife your grandma
fuck your grandpa
then stab out his eyes
with a stainless steel fork.
I will rape your husband,
slice your belly,
shatter every window in
your windowless house
you bitch.
I'd fuck the moon
if it pissed you off
then slit its throat and laugh
as burble-bubble-grunt-and-moan
moon beams spill
from dead neck hole
a milky silver pussy death.
Fuck you all
but fuck you the most.
I fucking hate you.
~
Mahalo for listening! ~Amy
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Hey, it's me again!
Will you forgive me for being gone so long if I tell you a secret? Please? Okay *gulp* truth is I've been a little nuts. Like feeling crazy. Like it has been a really long time since I've written because I've been a little bit not okay. Too much stuff has happened to roll out the dough and cookie-cut a story for you, but suffice it to say there were good times, bad times, and some really depressing times.
Like my dear sweet mother had cancer (she is well now, thank you) and I spent a month back home caring for her early this summer, which meant I had a nice break from being "mom" non-stop but also meant I missed an entire month (the 8th one) of my baby's life. As in when I came back home, he wouldn't come to me. For about a week. He screamed every time Matt left, since he took care of him when I was away and I felt like the shittiest shit-head to have ever breathed.
And while I was home, my mother's best-friend of 30 years, her soul sister, passed away. Suddenly and unexpected are two words that fit the situation; tragic and life-altering also work. Nobody will ever be the same after the loss of this dear auntie.
Two weeks after I came home, my uncle, mom's brother, and my life-long best friend died. Also totally unexpectedly. That was May 18, a very bad day. He was only 10 years older than me, more like a brother all my life. We shared the same birthday, April 19. We went to college together, and when I lived back home we spent every weekend together. After I moved away we talked on the phone almost every single day. He was wonky and weird and perfect and I will never be that close to anyone again, ever.
It is still hard to breathe most days and I don't know how I will ever get over this. I have some of my sweet uncle Baboo's "cremains" in a sweet little urn necklace that I will wear on my neck every single day of my life as soon as my baby boy stops trying to rip necklaces off me every time I put one on. It is hard for me to even look at one of the dozens of photos I have of Baboo, though I see his face in my mind almost constantly. You can read his obituary here: http://www.dailypress.net/page/content.detail/id/519290.html?nav=5004 Don't know what else to say about that.
Other than that, my plans for taking my two little boys to Michigan for the summer were derailed by my two back-to-back emergency trips back home and the subsequent financial drain that came alone with that. I am still an at-home mom for now so we are relying on Matthew's hard work to pull through and it is tough going sometimes indeed. But we survive. And when I look at the faces of my happy little ones I think yeah, this is what it's all about. Not Disney World or a new Wii or whatever the heck it is we think we're missing out on. Life is about this, this beautiful family.
And this morning at 3:30 a.m. when Grady decided he was up for the day and I reluctantly agreed, he took my hand and led me to the kitchen, where there is always a nightlight on and a radio always set to a rock station and there is always a fresh bunch of bananas for him to choose from. He wandered around munching a banana while I scrambled a couple eggs. I watched him dancing and eating to the Toadies "Possum Kingdom" and I was struck by just how incredibly cool this almost-14-month-old person is and how much I have to be grateful for and how it's time to get back to sharing it all with you, dear reader.
So here I am and I promise, I am making the commitment, to updating here at least once a week for as long as, well, as long as is possible. Till my fingers fall off and my brain doesn't work anymore. On what day you say? Ha! That's a surprise! (means I don't know and refuse to be pinned down!) So, welcome back to me. And to you. Please drop me a line some time, I'd love to hear from you!
Like my dear sweet mother had cancer (she is well now, thank you) and I spent a month back home caring for her early this summer, which meant I had a nice break from being "mom" non-stop but also meant I missed an entire month (the 8th one) of my baby's life. As in when I came back home, he wouldn't come to me. For about a week. He screamed every time Matt left, since he took care of him when I was away and I felt like the shittiest shit-head to have ever breathed.
And while I was home, my mother's best-friend of 30 years, her soul sister, passed away. Suddenly and unexpected are two words that fit the situation; tragic and life-altering also work. Nobody will ever be the same after the loss of this dear auntie.
Two weeks after I came home, my uncle, mom's brother, and my life-long best friend died. Also totally unexpectedly. That was May 18, a very bad day. He was only 10 years older than me, more like a brother all my life. We shared the same birthday, April 19. We went to college together, and when I lived back home we spent every weekend together. After I moved away we talked on the phone almost every single day. He was wonky and weird and perfect and I will never be that close to anyone again, ever.
It is still hard to breathe most days and I don't know how I will ever get over this. I have some of my sweet uncle Baboo's "cremains" in a sweet little urn necklace that I will wear on my neck every single day of my life as soon as my baby boy stops trying to rip necklaces off me every time I put one on. It is hard for me to even look at one of the dozens of photos I have of Baboo, though I see his face in my mind almost constantly. You can read his obituary here: http://www.dailypress.net/page/content.detail/id/519290.html?nav=5004 Don't know what else to say about that.
Other than that, my plans for taking my two little boys to Michigan for the summer were derailed by my two back-to-back emergency trips back home and the subsequent financial drain that came alone with that. I am still an at-home mom for now so we are relying on Matthew's hard work to pull through and it is tough going sometimes indeed. But we survive. And when I look at the faces of my happy little ones I think yeah, this is what it's all about. Not Disney World or a new Wii or whatever the heck it is we think we're missing out on. Life is about this, this beautiful family.
And this morning at 3:30 a.m. when Grady decided he was up for the day and I reluctantly agreed, he took my hand and led me to the kitchen, where there is always a nightlight on and a radio always set to a rock station and there is always a fresh bunch of bananas for him to choose from. He wandered around munching a banana while I scrambled a couple eggs. I watched him dancing and eating to the Toadies "Possum Kingdom" and I was struck by just how incredibly cool this almost-14-month-old person is and how much I have to be grateful for and how it's time to get back to sharing it all with you, dear reader.
So here I am and I promise, I am making the commitment, to updating here at least once a week for as long as, well, as long as is possible. Till my fingers fall off and my brain doesn't work anymore. On what day you say? Ha! That's a surprise! (means I don't know and refuse to be pinned down!) So, welcome back to me. And to you. Please drop me a line some time, I'd love to hear from you!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Food Stamp Foodie
So lately I've had a major case of Velcro Baby, otherwise known as Baby Who Never Wants To Be Put Down, which makes it hard to write. I posted a pic of this sweet little Velcro dumpling this morning one-handed as he held fast to my hair with both fists and chewed my cheek. Ah, motherhood. I have never enjoyed it so much in all its precious fleeting glory. As Dear Daughter is turning 16 next month, the F-Bomber is now 6 and tiny boy is the last of the fleet I feel, I don't know, exhausted, happy, confused, lonely already. The other night the two older children were gone with friends and baby was napping. Hubby and I actually had dinner together, neither of us juggling a grabby, crabby tot or refilling milk glasses or cutting meat, etc. It was WEIRD I tell you! Strange and outlandish! I felt my mortal clock ticking loudly as I was reminded: Good God woman, this is what old age will be like. Just you and Matt. Listening to each other chew. And my GOD did he always eat like that or is this a special night because no kids are around? The noise was unholy!
Anyhow, as per the title of this post, I am now embarking on a sideways kind of mini-feature of F-Bomb and Mom: a periodic posting that will ponder the issues of feeding one's family while feeling poverty's pinch at the supermarket but still feeling the keen desire to eat well. In this mini-blog, blog-ette or bloglet, as it were, we shall examine issues such as: Is it ethical to purchase luxury items such as brie, balsamic vinegar or toaster strudel with food stamps? (Uh, probably not); How can I feed my family of five on pennies a day (and still make them feel that they are still enjoying their favorite meals, with each food group represented); and cheap food product reviews. The latter I will tackle today in my first Food Stamp Foodie post. And please, if anyone out there is offended by the name of this post, please feel free to ream me a new one. I do realize that people are struggling and hungry and trying really hard to make ends meet. Rest assured, I feel you. I am you.
So. Lets talk ramen. Yes, these starchy turds in cellophane have been a staple of the broke for, I don't know, centuries? When I was a kid we once lived in a rented duplex alongside a very motivated, interesting and mainly non-English speaking Korean family who ran a home sewing business. The children, first generation Americans, were wonderful playmates. Their daughter, Ami (pronounced Ah-Me) and I were instant best friends. We even started our own neighborhood newspaper which is remarkable, since I was only in first grade and she in second and it was hand-printed in both English and Korean. My pen name was Jade Snow and we covered the north side of Escanaba like pros. Anyhow, I digress.
The neighbor children, which included Ami and her two young brothers, introduced me to ramen for the first time. It was their favorite after-school snack and I saw them eat it often. They were eager to share and after an initial period of doubt I gave in and tried. Salty. Weird. Starchy. What's really weird? They didn't cook it. Ami and her brothers would sit on the back stoop, peel back the crinkly wrapper, extract the silvery little seasoning packet, rip it open with their teeth and sprinkle it over the hard crispy noodles. Chomp and repeat, crispy white bits flying everwhere, the tiny curls collecting on their clothes for later, I guess. I didn't know that ramen was eaten cooked until high school, when it became a dietary staple after a night of, um, 'recreational smoking' with my friends.
The other night I was discussing ramen on the phone with my mother. Ramen is poor food, but it is a nourishing, hot meal that, for about .19 cents a package, fills up your tummy and your cupboard for a very reasonable price. But what about when company comes over and you're pinched for an entree? Enter the cup 'o ramen complete with freeze dried veggies and shrimp or TVP. Fancy! Still cheap! Same quick cook time, but clean up is even more of a breeze because it cooks and is served in the same container! Woo Hoo! My mother thinks I'm hilarious. And for about .48 cents a serving, your guests will be full, satisfied, and impressed that you stepped up your game for them.
But what about date night, you ask? What happens when you're still on a ramen budget but you have a special someone coming over? Not to worry. I have recently discovered the Holy Grail of ramen, the defacto champion of cheap noodles, nay, the GOD of all ramen: Nissin chow mien. Can I get an Amen?
My dear uncle Baboo turned me on to these sweet eats and I am eternally grateful. At about .78 cents a pack for these tasty num-nums, they reign as the most expensive ramen, but as you can imagine, the most delicious. They require more cooking time; five minutes compared to the standard three. Instead of one spice pack to open there are three to fumble with and they do not exhibit the curliness of regular ramen but by God, these are the most fantastic cheap noodles you will ever imbibe! I swear, they are WAY better than the noodles at my favorite Chinese buffet and an ocean apart from any other ramen, ever. The terriyaki beef is by far my favorite - it comes with a little veggie pack, seasoning pack and flavored oil. Yumm-O.
According to the Nissin website, there are 15 flavors, though locally I can only source three, the beef, chicken and shrimp varieties. I have had all three and all are delicious. Since I have discovered Nissin noodles, I have eaten them for lunch every day; I am sure my doctor would be so proud of me (not so hot on the sodium content, like all ramen)! So try them, for real, you will thank me, your date will thank me, your wallet will thank me, your doctor, not so much. And that's it for this post. I am tired and it's late. Over and out.
Anyhow, as per the title of this post, I am now embarking on a sideways kind of mini-feature of F-Bomb and Mom: a periodic posting that will ponder the issues of feeding one's family while feeling poverty's pinch at the supermarket but still feeling the keen desire to eat well. In this mini-blog, blog-ette or bloglet, as it were, we shall examine issues such as: Is it ethical to purchase luxury items such as brie, balsamic vinegar or toaster strudel with food stamps? (Uh, probably not); How can I feed my family of five on pennies a day (and still make them feel that they are still enjoying their favorite meals, with each food group represented); and cheap food product reviews. The latter I will tackle today in my first Food Stamp Foodie post. And please, if anyone out there is offended by the name of this post, please feel free to ream me a new one. I do realize that people are struggling and hungry and trying really hard to make ends meet. Rest assured, I feel you. I am you.
So. Lets talk ramen. Yes, these starchy turds in cellophane have been a staple of the broke for, I don't know, centuries? When I was a kid we once lived in a rented duplex alongside a very motivated, interesting and mainly non-English speaking Korean family who ran a home sewing business. The children, first generation Americans, were wonderful playmates. Their daughter, Ami (pronounced Ah-Me) and I were instant best friends. We even started our own neighborhood newspaper which is remarkable, since I was only in first grade and she in second and it was hand-printed in both English and Korean. My pen name was Jade Snow and we covered the north side of Escanaba like pros. Anyhow, I digress.
The neighbor children, which included Ami and her two young brothers, introduced me to ramen for the first time. It was their favorite after-school snack and I saw them eat it often. They were eager to share and after an initial period of doubt I gave in and tried. Salty. Weird. Starchy. What's really weird? They didn't cook it. Ami and her brothers would sit on the back stoop, peel back the crinkly wrapper, extract the silvery little seasoning packet, rip it open with their teeth and sprinkle it over the hard crispy noodles. Chomp and repeat, crispy white bits flying everwhere, the tiny curls collecting on their clothes for later, I guess. I didn't know that ramen was eaten cooked until high school, when it became a dietary staple after a night of, um, 'recreational smoking' with my friends.
The other night I was discussing ramen on the phone with my mother. Ramen is poor food, but it is a nourishing, hot meal that, for about .19 cents a package, fills up your tummy and your cupboard for a very reasonable price. But what about when company comes over and you're pinched for an entree? Enter the cup 'o ramen complete with freeze dried veggies and shrimp or TVP. Fancy! Still cheap! Same quick cook time, but clean up is even more of a breeze because it cooks and is served in the same container! Woo Hoo! My mother thinks I'm hilarious. And for about .48 cents a serving, your guests will be full, satisfied, and impressed that you stepped up your game for them.
But what about date night, you ask? What happens when you're still on a ramen budget but you have a special someone coming over? Not to worry. I have recently discovered the Holy Grail of ramen, the defacto champion of cheap noodles, nay, the GOD of all ramen: Nissin chow mien. Can I get an Amen?
My dear uncle Baboo turned me on to these sweet eats and I am eternally grateful. At about .78 cents a pack for these tasty num-nums, they reign as the most expensive ramen, but as you can imagine, the most delicious. They require more cooking time; five minutes compared to the standard three. Instead of one spice pack to open there are three to fumble with and they do not exhibit the curliness of regular ramen but by God, these are the most fantastic cheap noodles you will ever imbibe! I swear, they are WAY better than the noodles at my favorite Chinese buffet and an ocean apart from any other ramen, ever. The terriyaki beef is by far my favorite - it comes with a little veggie pack, seasoning pack and flavored oil. Yumm-O.
According to the Nissin website, there are 15 flavors, though locally I can only source three, the beef, chicken and shrimp varieties. I have had all three and all are delicious. Since I have discovered Nissin noodles, I have eaten them for lunch every day; I am sure my doctor would be so proud of me (not so hot on the sodium content, like all ramen)! So try them, for real, you will thank me, your date will thank me, your wallet will thank me, your doctor, not so much. And that's it for this post. I am tired and it's late. Over and out.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
And now without further ado...
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was a little over a year and it has flown and we have grown and you can't even imagine how much. We are now a family of FIVE with the birth of baby Grady James on June 22, 2009. Much of the time I've been absent has been spent on the growth, birth and nurturing of this new addition.
You see, it was not an easy pregnancy, birth, or postpartum. In fact, it has been the toughest physical challenge I have ever undertaken. But I am no cocky young hen; rather this bambino is the last of the litter, there will be no addendum past Grady in the book of this life. And what a sweet, savory little morsel Mr. Grady is. He is infant perfection in all his stinky sweetness and truly has the best personality of any baby I have ever known (and I have known a mess 'o babies, I am here to tell you).
So in the course of medical issues of mountainous proportion (baby's and mine), and a whole host of other bothersome personal issues, I seem to have taken quite the hiatus from writing personally and professionally. It was as though there was nothing I could say, for more than a year, that warranted written (or keyed) words. Nay, the commitment of it all was too much I tell you! Yet the words and stories kept building up till my head is full to bursting and the voice of my soul is screaming for release! Yes, drama! Though it seemed as though I could not find the words. Niblets!
Then, as the great Oprah's phrase is coined, I had an Aha! Moment. Literally. I had laryngitis. A bad case. So bad I couldn't ever whisper. And in the course of still having to manage a house with Three! Children! and Confounded! Husband! I had to communicate and thus the paper and pen was discovered and the words poured forth through pursed fingers then excited fingers then fastly flowing fingers of fury and it all came back to me! Yes! Oh YES! Writing is, for real and for me, as simple as putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). Okay stupid, there it is, as it has always been, and yes, I am a writer and yes, it is the only thing I really know how to do and yes, it is still all there and I can still do it and oh my GOD I am so glad to have myself back again because I don't necessarily like where I've been and I wasn't too sure about where I was going but hey, today it's all pretty okay.
So, what to look forward to here: Recipes! Christmas projects sewn badly! With pictures! Hilarious family fiascoes! Swear words! Run-on sentences that you have to read three times to "get" yet somehow you know what I'm talking about from the very first second and you're like yeah, that's what it'd really be like to have a conversation with this crazy woman and does she ever shut up!?! And more pictures!
So, please, if you're still out there, give me a shout-out! I'll be here whether you like it or not!!!
You see, it was not an easy pregnancy, birth, or postpartum. In fact, it has been the toughest physical challenge I have ever undertaken. But I am no cocky young hen; rather this bambino is the last of the litter, there will be no addendum past Grady in the book of this life. And what a sweet, savory little morsel Mr. Grady is. He is infant perfection in all his stinky sweetness and truly has the best personality of any baby I have ever known (and I have known a mess 'o babies, I am here to tell you).
So in the course of medical issues of mountainous proportion (baby's and mine), and a whole host of other bothersome personal issues, I seem to have taken quite the hiatus from writing personally and professionally. It was as though there was nothing I could say, for more than a year, that warranted written (or keyed) words. Nay, the commitment of it all was too much I tell you! Yet the words and stories kept building up till my head is full to bursting and the voice of my soul is screaming for release! Yes, drama! Though it seemed as though I could not find the words. Niblets!
Then, as the great Oprah's phrase is coined, I had an Aha! Moment. Literally. I had laryngitis. A bad case. So bad I couldn't ever whisper. And in the course of still having to manage a house with Three! Children! and Confounded! Husband! I had to communicate and thus the paper and pen was discovered and the words poured forth through pursed fingers then excited fingers then fastly flowing fingers of fury and it all came back to me! Yes! Oh YES! Writing is, for real and for me, as simple as putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). Okay stupid, there it is, as it has always been, and yes, I am a writer and yes, it is the only thing I really know how to do and yes, it is still all there and I can still do it and oh my GOD I am so glad to have myself back again because I don't necessarily like where I've been and I wasn't too sure about where I was going but hey, today it's all pretty okay.
So, what to look forward to here: Recipes! Christmas projects sewn badly! With pictures! Hilarious family fiascoes! Swear words! Run-on sentences that you have to read three times to "get" yet somehow you know what I'm talking about from the very first second and you're like yeah, that's what it'd really be like to have a conversation with this crazy woman and does she ever shut up!?! And more pictures!
So, please, if you're still out there, give me a shout-out! I'll be here whether you like it or not!!!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Messy Hessy and all that Jazz
Yes, the Banks fam survived Disney World. and it survived us. Oh, what stories there are to tell. But that is for another day. Loved it as I did (and I REALLY did love it) I am sort of Disney-d out. So much gets skimmed in the retelling that it seems unfair to reflect here in a blase way. I will update on that later, I promise, complete with pics of frazzled and hot kids, me with a humidity-induced afro and gorgeous husband on silly rides.
But today I am posting on the messiest children's rooms on the planet, yes, I dared to say planet because if your kids' rooms can top these, then you deserve some sort of big-ass prize like a year's supply of Swiffer Sweepers or a Dyson vac (I'm not sharing mine!!!) or some other stupendous thing that I will say I'll send you and won't. So. If your children's rooms are worse than mine, I'll send you stuff. Maybe a box of McDonald's toys I've gleaned from the pile or terrible vending machine stuffed animals (or worse yet clowns) or busted Hotwheels tracks or piles of crayon nubs or half-eaten sidewalk chalk buckets.... MoooHoooHawHaw....
So how do you make children clean their rooms? Gwen, even threatened with no allowance ever or no sleepovers or no food or no anything will clean up minimally but as soon as my back is turned, the crap pile is back. And whenever I tell Fletcher it's time to clean up his room he gets a hangdog attitude and sadly muses, "But I like it messy. I can find anything I need here!" (The top two photos are of his room, the bottom three of Gwen's).
And maybe he's right. Creativity thrives in chaos. Or so I've lived. My whole life. As my little sister once said to our mother about our home, "Mom, this is one messy hessy!" And how. We grew up neck-deep in craft projects and magazine piles. And I am certainly not a neat freak (and let me tell you - neither is hubby!) We live in a large, divinely dumpy old home where even the yard isn't immune from "Stuff" like the giant trampoline with draping walls that have seen better days and loads of bedraggled garden plants, overgrown sunflowers and sun-faded Little Tykes toys. And home-made bricks, a broken car, collected busted glass for a "someday" mosaic - it goes on and on. Inside and out. And really, I like it that way. But how much is too much?
Come on, readers - anybody out there got a messy hessy - or messy kids rooms they'd like to share? I'd love to hear your thoughts and see you photos...
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