Goldberg Writing Exercise - I (Don't) Remember

This is a writing prompt by Natalie Goldberg, author of Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life.  My response to this prompt is a free write based on the phrases 'I remember' and 'I don't remember.'  The writing time for each segment was 10 minutes with a break in between and is not intended as memoir or as story.  For more prompts like these and more information on writing in general please visit the Detangled Writers Blog.

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I remember thinking that I would really like to kiss her and I felt some regret because I never did.  I remember that it was hot that summer and a little Chinese girl wanted to use me as a mattress and a pillow and I loved her dearly for it but found myself constantly trying to scoot away from her furnace like body so that I could catch a hint of the ever elusive Belgian breeze and maybe get some sleep.  I remember the lace capital of the world and I remember things that never even happened.  We climbed to the top of the cathedrals and sang out existence to the world and I recall that we did it all while drunk on Sangria.

I remember being there in the sixteen hundreds, my blood and sweat coating the rock before me as I scraped my fingernails back and tried to lift it just like my father had done, just like my son would do.  I remember looking at the mess that the architect told us would someday be a house of God and I thought to myself that he was mad.  I was godless, but employed and I was building a sanctuary to someone I didn't know.  My father had died when a pulley snapped and a net enclosed load of bricks plummeted down and crushed his skull.  I remember how it tasted - I was standing so close that his brains and flesh and blood spattered this way and that and covered my young face and filled my young mouth.  I'd never even tasted wine.  I remember that I didn't cry because it was raining and it's impossible to cry in the rain.

I remember that the Chinese girl sat the right of me, her legs on my lap and her head pressed to my shoulder, and the Japanese woman sat to my left, her hip and leg pressed firm to mine and I smiled happily and cried out to the rest of the van that I was happily squished in Asia.  I remember standing there at the end of the war, looking up at the large cathedral and crying.  I cried so hard that the rain was like a pittance compared to my tears that welled and flooded my eyes, my face, my shirt, the whole world.  I remember hearing the screaming of the women and children who had run to this place seeking sanctuary and who had found nothing but a tomb; theirs.  I remember thinking that 624 years was a long time, but ten minutes was even longer because in that horrible moment when the side fell in and the roof crumbled and crushed those who had worshiped under it a thousand times before, it all moved in slow motion.  Taking eons to fall as I stood there watching and crying, my own life pouring out of me from where a bayonet had met my belly.  I saw my beautiful church become a murderer.

I don't remember anything after it happened.  Some people get drunk and do stupid shit and use the excuse that they don't remember as a way to justify their idiocy but for me it's the opposite.  I don't remember the morning after, I don't remember waking up next to him, don't remember his name, but there are parts I know, rather than remember.  I know what he tastes like and what hour he was born.  I don't remember how I know it, but I do.

I don't remember when it happened, but something changed.  I don't remember why you left me when you did but I'm glad that you never came back.  I don't remember how painful it is to have a crush on someone for nearly three years and finally tell them you love them only to have them spit on your face and tell you that they don't swing that way.  I don't remember anything like that.  I don't remember the time I nearly drowned.  My parents told me about it, about how Dodi rushed into the little forging river (I don't remember, it may have been a stream) and dragged me from the frothy water to the safety of shore (I don't remember she may have just nipped at me until I got out of the water).  I don't remember getting my wisdom teeth out and I don't remember the second Harry Potter book at all, just that there was a snake and there were spiders.  I don't remember chutes and ladders - not even once.  I don't remember everyone who was at that Halloween party with the black candles and the Children of the Corn, but I have a very vivid memory of 'Amanda is bad' leaping out of the Ouija board and making everyone look at me as if I were some kind of murderer.

I don't remember space travel.  I wish I did.  It's been years and years since my arrival on this planet and sometimes I don't even remember my real name and my real form.  I see a girl in the mirror, sometimes a boy, and I make words with my mouth but I don't remember the old words and the old ways and the smell of my people when they gathered in the divine hall.  I don't remember that anymore.  I thought I could close my eyes and see the skin - I don't remember the color - and that I could hear their voices - I don't remember how it sounded - and I thought that I could bring it all back one of these days but that was another life in another time and it is not me anymore.

I don't remember the point.  Half of it is real; half of it is unreal and I'm caught between hating and loving and feeling hopeless and feeling outlandishly confident.  I don't remember if I took my medicine.  I don't remember if I said 'I love you' to the people who needed to hear it last night.  I don't remember to brush my teeth as often as I should and I feel bad because I just had them cleaned not long ago and sometimes when I eat sugar, the teeth hurt.  I don't remember the last time I felt really and truly useful and productive.  I don't remember the last time she smiled and meant it.

Amanda LaFantasie © September 2012

Five Minute Free Write... on Pussy *cough* Cats

As per Dani's prompt: a five minute free write based on the phrase "I can't understand the ways of a cat," I give to you a short exploration of the things I think about when I think about the kitties.

They are fucking disgusting!  They are the filthiest, nastiest creatures I've ever seen in my life.  I love them muchly to be sure, but that doesn't mean that they aren't gross beyond measure.  Poop cruts hanging off their fur as they hop up onto your lap or onto your fucking pillow!  Spasmodic coughing fits that produce hairballs and fluid of varying staining quality.  And kitty litter in the bed, always in the bed!  They lick their genitals for hours and hours and then, in the case of Ellie, they come over and cuddle up to you and lick your face.  They stick their kitty feces tainted paws on your mouth and do all these cute things so that you make sure to touch their nasty little bodies.  And they lick your ice cream and if you're Hannah, you shrug and continue eating.  I'm even getting this lax now, thank you very much, you wicked, patience obliterating, balls of fur.  But none of this is as bad as the mewling because they want more food and the bowl is already half full - so you give them more food and they scarf it down quickly and then promptly find the nearest electronic device that you cherish and they puke on it.  Hannah's cell phone was one such victim.  Computers, cords, remotes... you name it and they'll puke on it.  They puke in the bed.  And with kittens sometimes they even pee in the bed.  They're marking you because they love you.  No.  That's bullshit.  They're peeing in the bed because they are assholes and they are gross.

Believe it or not, I'm a complete cat person, but I stand by my reasoning that they are deceptively filthy.  Everyone thinks they are so clean and so easy to deal with, but what they don't tell you is that cats are liars.  Cats are beautiful and graceful (some of them) and they seduce you.  They are the prize wife that you marry so that you have a gem to parade around on your arm, but shortly after the nuptials you discover that she belches and farts and scratches her crotch.  All I'm saying is, don't be taken in by the 'cute;' they are just as nasty (and lovable) as any dog or younger sibling.  That is all.  On a positive note, Purina One (a recent food change) has all but cured our disgusting little babies of their puking, so there's that at least.

Amanda LaFantasie © August 2012

Death in the Bathroom

There was the spider first.  He was little and black and by the time I arrived to the scene of the crime it was too late.  Mom has squished him and his crime, beyond that of being a spider in the first place, was that he was in the bathtub, trespassing as it were, in the territory in which she intended to make use of.  Mom needed a shower.  But why did the arachnid have to die?  He was so little.  Maybe he was full grown, maybe he wasn't, but we'll never know that now.  And maybe he was even smaller than I can fathom as his squished state made him all the larger with bits and pieces pressed here and there, his innards pressed outside his body and his legs spread long and splayed out in the submission of death.  Poor little thing didn't have a chance and shortly after his squishing he was wiped up unceremoniously with a square of toilet paper and flushed.  There was no circle of life for him, just death in the bathroom.  He was just a casualty of humanity.  Oh, humanity.

I won't lie.  I've killed my fair share of spiders, but I've saved more than I've killed.  I give them a fighting chance.  Same with all the bugs.  I scoot the earwigs out onto the patio, I shoo the moths and butterflies (have we ever had a butterfly inside the house, I wonder) out through the door, and I scoop out with cup and paper plate each and every hairy spider that Hannah or my mother, inevitably, discover.  Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.  If you don't notice the spiders and the little beetles when they make their random and rare appearances then you don't go through the panic and the fits and the screaming wildly for your daughter, your girlfriend, your father, your uncle, any passing good Samaritan with a cup or paper towel or - grotesquely enough - a shoe to come and end your torment.  Ignorance is bliss.  But when you look down into the tub and see the little black spider, ignorance is not an option and that is why there was a death in the bathroom.

Amanda LaFantasie © August 2012

This was a 10 minute free write based on 'Death in the bathroom.'  It is one of the prompts from the Detangled Writers blog.  Please forgive any errors; I am not going to edit it, as it is a stand alone exercise.

Two Poems

Mass According to Taste Buds

Little boys all kneeling, innocent taste buds suggest that wine is fire and they 

wonder how blood can be so bitter;

pierce the tongue for succor, give it real blood so it knows the difference.

It's just grapes in a glass and there's a song as they drink, harsh like horse hair scraped strings,

and do angels sing? 

No. 

A gold tuba killed them.

It's just a bass clef, all cows eat grass, and save face because it's painful sometimes

when you slit the Catholic throat. 

That's what David Bowie said anyway and his skin is perfect.

Water Balloon

It wasn't sex... it was something else.  

He was not inside me,  

Underneath but not inside.  

I felt it scratching,

But it was wet everywhere!

Like a punctured water balloon in summer.

Wet and killing me,

So much water in my eyes.

I couldn't see.  

But it wasn't black, just fuzzy.

And firm.

We disappeared into a shadow and he made a joke about death,

Then the moon came back and we were white and naked.

We were like hair, like strands in the laundry

That strangle the corners of towels,

We were like circles, like a graph with a piece intersecting, 

But it was not sex.

Something else, something unctuous. 

It stained my underwear.

Amanda LaFantasie © August 2012

Free Write Exercise

Dani submitted a writing prompt for her fellow writers/bloggers.  It is a free write with the intention of inspiring a poem.  It has been years since I sat down and wrote poetry and, quite frankly, my life is poorer for it.  Tonight I am going to attempt to rectify that and I'm not promising that the results will be all that awe inspiring or even worth reading, but they will exist and that is the first step.  I'm going to use pictures to start off the free write section.  I will look at the picture and draw words from it until those words spark my own creativity to take over and I may look back at the picture for more inspiration. It's there, I may as well use it!  Both of these pictures were selected by a friend.  I asked for one and she sent two.  Waste not want not.  I'm going to use both. I'm supposed to 'free write' for a minute only.  But alas, I can't tell time.

Lamb, horn, glow, chest, young, baby, hair, gold, glass, nothing, printing, painting, shading, piercing, hole, falling, hurting, painful, fell, scraped, blood, pool, pooling, drowning, gulping, fish, white, tail, hoof, gold, knuckle, knuckle, knuckle, chuckle, suckle, succor, frown, eye, nostrils, flaring, flaming, fire, hat, hair, balls, eyes, grey, sea foam, deep, where, table, buffet, brocade, corner, shine, live, living, promise, keep, forehead, unicorn, horse, myth, Catholic, blood, Christ, cannibalism, Trey Parker, mountains, eye, skin, eating, innocent, hanging, death, redemption, light, clothing... 

Nails, ring, lips, death, black, seductress, eyes, piercing, collar bone, shadow, dark, vulnerable, naked, contrast, blood, dripping, circles, blue, dark blue, brown, vampire, teeth, puncture, pierce, animal, tiger, lion, killing, pride, mane, bald, disdain, proper, etiquette, unknown, unruly, unreliable, undiscovered, unbelievable, unctuous, underneath, fingers, scratching, man, arm, pit, falling, death, hidden, sex, fuck, delicious....

The next part is to highlight a certain number of words (we'll say ten in this case) and use them in the creation of a poem.  I'm going to alter the text color to red.  Because red is awesome.  And so poem number one will use the following words: gold, glass, piercing, painful, scraped, succor, fire, Catholic, skin, and innocent.  The second poem will feature: death, black, shadow, circles, puncture, killing, unctuous, underneath, scratching, and sex.  I am going to try and use the words as they are, unmolested from their tense and pluralizations, but I'm not making that a firm rule.  Also I am going to make the poems separate posts so that I don't see the pictures as I write; I am going to use the words for inspiration rather than the images that spawned them.  Hmm.  Spawn is such a great word, in any tense.

Amanda LaFantasie © August 2012