Monthly Archives: September 2010

Yay, past-Shannon. You’re like a fuzzy friendly monster eating daisies in the sunshine

Please check out the new additions to my wayswearelost blog.

And now, this silly thing:

Don’t you just love when you randomly find something that you forgot you created and it makes you think, oh wow! I don’t remember making that?

I’m not sleeping because I’m flying tomorrow and I never sleep before I fly. So instead I’m surfing old blog entries.

I found this one and it reminded me of a former-self that was less concerned with so many things, and more joyful. I could take lessons from her. She’s neato. Yay, past-Shannon. You’re like a fuzzy friendly monster eating daisies in the sunshine, occasionally dipping in and out of rock-shade for a drink of water and laughing a lot at your thoughts.

Anyway, here’s what I found and rather liked.

Knots have been away, resting their bodies against a sea rock, I suppose, perhaps in Maine. I don’t blame them. Wander the lights, I think, lean against the glass, eyes pressed to an ocean dress.

One of them wanted to come back to me tonight. The herd stamped that idea out of its mind immediately.

It’s not time! knot 34252 said, untangling seaweed into the shape of a helix.

But the one who wanted to come back looked for Jupiter in the sky, drew an equation in the sand for the distance between.

Between listening, the carpet has names for my breath. Another language that perhaps the knots could translate.

Something beams inside me, whispers,

don’t you know, in the listening one composes things, hangs lines of beauty in the air,

As grass keeps growing, though the roots know nothing of it.


Pressed, I think I see knots,

in Maine, or where my thoughts

and You, settle.


when the knots come back, beauty

will reveal She’s been sitting in my corridor,

all along, handing me things like: Your intentions,

the sun caught in a toads throat, forgiveness

open cotton-field-wide under

my feet and You. I will tuck under my bed

the sandpiper who stands one-sided, drunk

from whatever it was my words bloomed in the other life.


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Photos & wayswearelost Update

A new session today of self portraits.

And a new post over at my wayswearelost blog.

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Carrying three cherries in teeth of the once dead is difficult

I’m different now. I braid my hair

To the side. Today, caterpillars

On windowsill tore themselves—

Your hand, praying thing, in my yellow

Coat. On fire in a dream, field-skin.

I’m different. I look for your lost

Body in him, in the train conductor,

Taking my ticket, the waiter, saying:

I can’t wait to see you naked. Hands

Reach for the other side of nets, tearing

Themselves apart, horrors—

My gods are different now. Angry,

They listen, ghost, the way pain

Bends, separates body from need—

I forgot what man looks like, frightened,

Waiting to split wood apart, find me.


The yellow coat—horrors gods will say

in my ear next to fruit. The window opened,

I picked round bellies, thought of teeth.

What do you want from me, a way out of tasting—

The net gathers here, you said, pointing to my neck.

Is that so? I said. Buttoned the doorframe after

You left. Ghost-herd pawing the green. I’ll lay

Three cherries in a bowl. Beat your body, dream.


On a line in blue, a yellow coat

Hoards child porn in pockets.

I ate it. Is that so? I’m angry,

Different than before. Not a cherry-tree,

An oak. A door in a cavern

Everyone’s scared to open.


Carrying three cherries in teeth of the once dead is difficult—

They moan from behind a screen—Give it. My children in it.

What do they expect me to do—beat her,

My reflection, until the gods come running—

The last time I read the gospels, an oak opened

Me, yellow coat child—I felt cutting

through the windowsill, a body peeling

fields of skin, said, Let me taste him.

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Farmer Market Dream

Farmer’s market dream–

orange melon burrowed in someone’s

hands, yours–body

strangled in a choice between

licking you, eating a bee, or

touching myself and cursing–

did we ever meet?

I think I’ll buy this pumpkin.

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And then the blank face of water

And then the blank face of water

pressed goldfish. Our other-bodies–-

wild-curved canoe–-your hands–

I want them spiked open, spines

broken on the boat tied

into you. I tried, your throat,

to open. But it won’t. Stoned,

I tear water-bones, shred thighs.

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Ways We Are Lost

I started a new blog project, but don’t worry, I won’t be abandoning my creative Wordlings. However, please check out the Ways We Are Lost blog. I’ll be updating it frequently with various posts on all things Lost.

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Aura Girl 13

Isn’t normal to see auras. Not that she sees ‘em all that much anymore.

The girl keeps writing against herself. Tearing pieces of paper off trees and tryin’ to eat ‘em so they’ll tell her somethin’.

I watch her walk around, scratchin’ her head, listenin’ to Muddy Waters croon about a woman. She runs and thinks, That’s what I have inside me—hip bones.

So I send her visions of rabbit ears in pavement cracks.

See that? That’s 33X07, I say. And she hears. Writes it down.

Dreams of falling down a cave. Dreams of tattoos on the inside of horses.

Yeah, it isn’t normal. But is drinkin’ all night, stumbling into the sidewalk, laughing at the shape your body makes, normal?

Let’s think about it. Let’s listen to what’s goin’ on inside. You know that Joyce character? He walked around and wrote whatever was on his mind.

I tell the girl that God isn’t gonna just hit you on the head, drop an acorn of prophesy on you and say, Write about it.

I’m the girl with no-face. I live in the Other Place.

She carries on in That Place, with its trees and beer and men that don’t really know what’s goin’ on inside her.

So I send her visions of the man by the East gate. He’s lost, too, in that Other Place. He’s scratchin’ his head, walkin’ around, lookin’ for tattoos on the inside of horses.

He likes to eat animals. He listens to them. I send him mice. Or rabbits.

I told him, I said, shoot the rabbit. Rip off its ear. Nail it to the tree in the field you should know about.

No one sees auras of people in the Other Place.

I know her Great Gradfather, Fred. He used to speak to her when she was a kid. She used to run around, gathering rocks and listenin’ to wild flowers.

She’d say, Fred, Where are my secret stones? And he’s say, In the barn, or,

Under the horse with two white hocks.

You probably think I’m bullshittin’ you.

But what you should understand is what most of the scientists already know. Time isn’t what you think it is. And space has its own desires no one talks about.

The girl thinks she’s lost somethin’. So she sticks notes in her pocket.

One says, I am nothing but dust and ashes.

The other says, For me, the world was created.

She thinks this will help. Nothin’ but faith helps. Even when you’re standin’ there, lookin’ at the ground, ready to dig your bones into the concrete. Ready to tell the next stranger who asks if you’re alright that, No, in fact, you’re lookin’ for death, where’d it drop, can you see it?

Listenin’ to Muddy Waters helps. Dancin’ all night helps. But unless you got a spirit willin’ to go into a cave, listen to itself tongue and all, you’re missing somethin’.

I’m the girl with no-face. I live in the Other Place. Most of the time, I dig my nails into the sky, sit back, and wait to be dropped down to This Place.

You know that Joyce character? He tried to get to the Other Place by takin’ the stream and running with it. Puttin’ the water in his mouth and lettin’ it come up with whatever fish he’d find there.

The Other Fish, from the Other Place, are magical. They understand that space has it’s own desires no one talks about. And Great Grandfathers can come to This place, long after leaving.

You ever lie in bed and think, If I don’t move, if I stay real still, I might just float away? I might just find happiness and forget the noise and the men who don’t know what’s goin’ on inside me?

She does that. And I tell her to. I listen to her.

Like I said, she used to say, Fred, where are my secret stones? And he’d say, By the tree, or, Under the horse with two white hocks.

She doesn’t remember this. She’s older. She can’t see auras anymore.

So I send her the little girl with stars in her skirt. What she means is, The Book of Life is hemmed to what you can’t see.

I know you don’t listen, sometimes, to what’s goin’ on inside you.

And this builds walls, tall enough to keep out Great Grandfathers and fish from the Other Place.

So what do you do? You get on with things. You build homes. Take care of plants, what have you. Sometimes you find yourself drunk, fallin’ into side walks, laughing at the shape your body makes.

You live in This Place, but the Other Place is here, too.

The girl, she rips pages off of trees. Tries to eat them. Thinks they’ll tell her somethin’.

You know how you lie next to someone and their body is there, but they aren’t. Maybe they’re sleepin’, or thinkin’ of someone else. You know how loneliness feels?

But what you don’t know is, space has its own desires no one talks about.

You know that Joyce character? He used to look at his daughter and think, Where’s the door? I don’t know what’s goin’ on in there.

What I mean is, there’s things goin’ on inside you that you don’t know about. And the Other Place tries to get in. But you won’t let it.

Listenin’ to Muddy Waters helps. Takin’ yourself apart is helps.

She thinks, That’s what I have inside me—hip bones.

So I send her visions of the man by the East gate.

What about fear?

Fear either drives you deeper into the waters of the Other Place, out of This Place and into what’s hidden, or it keeps you lookin’ at cement, feelin’ like death.

Like death has a doorway, or somethin’.

The man by the East gate? He looks for signs, too. And the little girl? She’s got stars you can’t see.

I’m the girl with no-face. I live in the Other Place.

So I send her visions. Sometimes she tries to eat them. What’s goin’ on inside her—


If I was to take apart this minute, it feels like a circling back. I know I talk about the way things bend. The writing hasn’t been


Neither have the visions.

Last night, I saw an opossum. I wanted to tell it, Speak. A friend of mine was sitting next to me. We talked about dreams..

Nothing to note from the man by he East gate. Or the little girl. Though I did dream there was a little me in a field I should know about. A boy made of light. We were playing toward something in the middle. And then a door. I checked to see if there was a tree

With a rabbits ear nailed to the side.

If I was to take apart this minute, it feels like a circling back. The wind is blowing through the windows, telling me to listen.


The opossum showed up again. I wanted to say, Speak.

Showed someone my piece about the stables, with the orange light coming through, and the man pointing to the sun, saying, THAT.

Sometimes it feels the people who write are off in a field I should know about, waiting for me to return.

This minute—if I was to take it

Apart. I remember Muddy Waters, and he came on the earphones this afternoon.
He told me to keep myself close to the ground. That’s what I have—hip bones.

I wonder if the man by the East gate wants to taste the little girl, her stars or, wherever he believes his visions come from.

I wonder if I am actually going from one side to another. And none of this is real.

Not once have I thought about auras today. Except now, in this minute, taken apart.

The weight on my forehead again. But I tell myself this means nothing.

The opossum says he thinks otherwise.

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