Paper Cuts was months in the making, where eight poets came together, shared their work, critiqued each other, applauded each other, and worked as a team of artists to become better poets. At times, it was difficult, and sometimes the paper cuts took longer to heal, but they did, and so, too, did we. Our words, like skin, became more beautiful, textured, and interesting over time. Where layers grew, so did our integrity and character. It took some mistakes, some Band-aids, and some trial and error; but mostly, it took vulnerability. Without that, there is no growth for a poet. And as we exposed our wounds, slowly allowing ourselves to become more and more uncomfortable, we realized our deepest poetry was brimming just below our surfaces. We are now ready to share our work with you, hoping our poetry cuts into your heart, your feelings, your emotions, and that you’ll heal, somehow, along with us. To read moe about our journey and our special thanks, get your copy of PAPER CUTS: We bleed but do not die.
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I’m looking at a nest precariously sitting in a tall tree, and the birds look like floating leaves in the clear, blue spaces between the branches. And hear them, even with my windows shut. Spring is coming! And it demands to be noticed. It feels…different. It’s as if your whole body reacts to the change, and something shifts. That heavy winter, the one that made you drag your feet every morning in the dark cold, where coffee wasn’t hot enough, now shifts to hope, like those floating leaves, and something says, deep inside you—Clean up. Get it together. Shake that baggage. Simplify. Become lighter! It makes me want to strap on my Converse and walk and notice and breathe. That’s what spring is. BREATH. It’s the conscious inhaling and exhaling of breath. And that does more for our psyche than any drug or substance. It is a physical and mental warmth. It’s a meditation, if you let it be. You put your head to the sun and let it warm you, and FEEL it, not superficially. You feel less harried. Less stressed. You don’t want to rush the way you do in winter. There is no longer a need to rush from house to car to car to building to car again to get anywhere but the cold, running to get out of the pelts of snow or wind. Instead, you feel your neck removing itself from your ears. You let your arms hang in a natural rhythm by your side. You’re no longer freezing. It’s quite fascinating when you stop and really think about it. That tension of pulling coats close and tucking scarves into necks so they don’t move as you walk is gone. You don’t even mind standing in one place. You feel each muscle unfurling, the tension and aches--gone. You can…think. That blue is brighter than any color you’ve ever seen. So what will you do to stop and breathe? What baggage will you leave behind? Sit for a bit. Watch the birds-- for they are "the secrets of living”—and hear them, even if it’s the first time.
Have you ever tried to shut down for just 24 hours? No technology whatsoever? No phone. No internet. Just quietude? Or what about just Social Media? Staying away from Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and the myriad other places you might frequent. How did it make you feel? I want to try to go at least one day without checking into my accounts, just one day of not going onto Messenger. Just one day of not checking book sales. As I sat down to write this, and opened my computer, the screen saver was a universe of blue and purple and teal and bright and light stars. Beautiful really. Like a Van Gogh painting of space. But the longer I sat behind my laptop, the more I saw myself blending into it. The longer I stared, the more I could see myself in its reflection, just a shadow, and the stars became blurred and universe, so pretty when I opened it, faded into the background as I became more prominent in the picture. It was the exact reverse of when I first opened my computer and stared at the screensaver image, full of color and wonder, now it was just me, faceless, a black outline. Sounds like a bad acid trip, doesn’t it? But I’m afraid, it’s who we’re all becoming, extensions of technology. The very first thing I do when I wake in the morning is search for my phone. It lights up in my face like someone with a flashlight, and I draw my legs into a comfortable position, tucking myself on my side, and lounge and search and drift and write, perfectly content to lazily stretch and roll about, making my already messy sheets messier. It relaxes me. It’s much like the days of old, reading a newspaper slowly, pouring coffee, and then sipping it alongside the Arts and Entertainment section. Though I still do that on Sundays (less and less it seems), this is similar. I open my news apps first, then I surf Pinterest, get caught up on some blogs, and then begin the Social Media frenzy. No coffee, just me, my bed, and my pal, my phone. The mere thought of not waking to my phone produces a bit of panic and anxiety in me. Usually waiting for me under my pillow, my hands search blindly for the rectangular handheld gold, and when it’s not there, I feel my heartbeat rise, my eyes pop open, my feet already on the cold floor, searching desperately like the most important part of me has bee stolen, before I realize it’s on the nightstand. And then, I can climb back in, roll about in the wee hours of morning, like a lazy semi-conscious slumber: calm, languid, as long as I can scroll my phone and hold it close like a teddy bear. Its soothing...And it’s dangerous. Because as much as I tell myself it’s bad and I must put it down and I must shut it off and that the time is getting away from me, and I’ll be throwing my hair into another messy bun because I’m late, I’m finding it harder and harder to stop it. And even as I’m telling myself I need to put it down, I can’t. It’s addiction, I’m afraid. Plain and simple. So, next week, I’m going to give it a go. Shut down for at least 24 hours. Like anything else in life, baby steps. I’ll try just one day. But with any addiction, it takes more than one day, and perhaps, that is why I know I can do it. Because I’ll be back, right there with my favorite blanket to comfort me. Will anyone notice? Or miss me? Highly doubtful. And that is the saddest part of addiction. The addiction doesn't need you. It will find its next victim. But you? You'll go into serious withdrawals, because you need IT, and if you don't? Perhaps you don't. Need. It. At. All... I’m becoming
the screen, the glare all I see-- mesmerizing addictive vapid-- a black hole of light, swirling with impermanent nothingness. I fade Into the background of its rectangle. Everything blurs. Everything’s lukewarm. Everything’s grey. I’m bored to tears, the plop of them, hard and heavy, echoing in my ears of sleep and wake, my thumb, my brain, the click click tap tap of another digital number turning its red face. And I am a constant blue. R.B. O'Brien Author Have you heard people use the term “love of my life”? Have you used it? And what is it really? What constitutes using that phrase? Can it happen more than once and therefore, an overused, trite phrase? Is it really “love of my life right now”? Or worse, do you only know that because it was someone you let get away? Someone you wish you hadn’t? Or have you yet to meet the “love of your life,” and are you still waiting? To me, this means someone you love wholly. Someone you don’t want to change, and someone who doesn’t want to change you in any way. It’s that someone who fulfills you--emotionally, sexually, intellectually. That person who makes you laugh. Who “gets” you. Who finds you beautiful even when you know you’re not. It’s acceptance. It’s that someone who makes you love yourself, even when it’s very hard to do. It’s someone who looks into you, at your scars, both figuratively and literally, and loves you anyway. And it’s symbiotic. To me, it doesn’t mean a perfect love or a love that is superficial. It is deep, fulfilling. It is a love that challenges you on occasion. A love that is passionate. A love that transcends anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s poetry really. It’s beauty but not in a physical sense. Not at all. It’s about souls connecting in another dimension of living. It makes you feel as if you weren’t living before. And it’s never jealous. Is this “love of my life” real? Fleeting? Just another romantic fantasy? For those of us who have been there, it’s the very reason for existence. i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) E.E. Cummings -I love to write blogs, and I still love to read them! It brings life into focus for me. I still peruse the internet looking for blogs that interest me on numerous topics. I enjoy it. I started writing my own blogs, because I needed a voice to record my thoughts as they were happening to me. Events of the day. Things people would say to me that made me want to scream or rejoice. Feelings. Relationships. Emotions. Basically in a word: Therapy. Or in another: Health. I found that writing down my feelings and thoughts, much like a journal, help me process. Lets me move on. Forces me to think, deal with my cauldron of demons, and exhale or heal or make sense of a world I sometimes can't. And maybe it helps someone else. I never thought to publish them here, like I have been regularly. Who cares? Who would read them? Most of the time, they're stream of conscious type rambles that I think will be about one thing and morph into another. It was friend of mine who said: "Publish these. And not just on your website." I'm still debating that. Probably not. But as I learned of a new feature here on my website, Categories, I started to update my posts into topics for people to find easier, and I realized, I've written about a lot of topics (see right-hand column), some more meaningful than others. From poetry and philosophy... ...to goals, religion, and sexuality... I've got shit to say! But who's reading them? Am I wasting my time sharing them with you, maybe a handful of people who might click over and see what I have to say? Again, I ask myself, "Who cares? Do people even read blogs anymore? Is blogging a silly thing of the past? Is blogging dead?" A co-writer recently said: No one reads blogs anymore. Stop spending your time of this crap. It's not like it's driving sales... No. It's probably not. But I guess it doesn't matter. I write these for me just as I do my poetry. I write them because I'm an emotional person. I write them, because if I don't, I might carry things with me far too long, and that's not who I am. I write them to forgive. I write them to love. I write them to discover who I am. Plainly, I write them, because I'm human, and if I didn't, I might implode. Does it matter if people read them or praise me or any other reason? I would love it if they did. But I've realized that's not IT for me like it might be for other people. It will NEVER be the reason I write ANYTHING. Fuck that.
I've written them because I don't have a choice. I've written them to improve. As a writer. As a person. And as a thinker. There are too many days I want to give up because of something someone else tells me. I didn't think I'd write a blog today, "too busy," I said to myself...and then, I found myself writing, without even a conscious decision to do so! And here I am, finding a way to process things on my mind. It's helped me work out my demons. And what I really discovered is that being a writer is happening all day long for me. It's a part of who I am. I can't shut it off even if I wanted to. I have a voice. We all do. And this is what I do. I write. So even if blogging is dead. This little ol' blogger is alive...the tree really does still make the noise, even if no one is there to hear it. ~Robert Frost We talk of New Year resolutions this time of year, something we use for fresh starts, new outlooks, and perhaps ways to organize our lives, reflect on what is working and what isn’t. No life is perfect, and sometimes it can feel as if it’s spinning out of control. The start of a new year gives us hope. Hope to right the rails, hope to plod through the storm, hope that we will take our lives back. I’m fortunate that I get a long vacation this time of year after the madness peaks and explodes. I am never a rash person. And I never make decisions under duress. Ever. When things settle, so do I, and I think. And this year will be a particularly pensive one, especially when it comes to writing. This year I will rethink my journey. I’ve traveled near and far all at the same time. I’ve written my dark fantasies far removed from my world and I’ve written my autobiographical truths into them. I’ve written sweet romance in distant tales and turbulent ones that mirrored my own past. I’ve taken leaps I never thought I would into new writing territory, some long, some short, and I’ve stayed in the same place with dear friends and goals, honing my skills to be better. And I’ve bled my soul into verse, reaching new depths, publishing a collection, and continually doing so every day, challenging myself to grow, steady on the course. I write because I have to. Make no mistake there. And I’ve said it a million times. But what got me publishing? That. That is what I need to ponder. And I need to ponder it deeply. With Amazon as seemingly the only real avenue these days (yes there are others, less lucrative ways), I must ask myself: Do I want to continue to support a company that puts everyone else out of business? That has arbitrary whims that can destroy years of work in one fell swoop of a sword? That hasn’t just slashed the little man but has slashed large corporations, toy stores and craft stores, leaving only one option: them. We live in a world of greed and instant gratification. Of a I-want-it-now-or-at-least-no-later-than-tomorrow world, and I want it at the cheapest price. And we indies rarely can make it, not truly, not the way we hoped, not the way we need to make it a dream realized. Is it worth it anymore? As many of you know, a tale I’ve cultivated for a couple years now come to fruition, and it was arbitrarily and swiftly torn down. There was a time when I shared my writing for free, where it was read copiously, where I didn’t worry about my “rank” or if it sold, where I actually placed my head on my pillow at night and slept, and where the only reason I wrote was to exorcise my demons, to cut open wounds to bleed to heal. The wounds now almost never stop bleeding. The Band-Aids I’ve used no longer work. So I end this year with some questions to answer, ones only I can do. It’s true. We can only travel one path at a time; we are but one traveler. If I choose to take the one less traveled this time, I, like Frost, doubt I should I ever come back to the other. But as I write this, I ponder that, perhaps, there are more than only two roads, that I just need to see them in the yellow wood. And maybe, just maybe, knowing that, will make all the difference. We live in an age that contradicts itself. Do you notice that? Recycle but not plastic bags. Open your mind but not when it disagrees with my politics. Don't pirate my work but, here, it's all free. And buy books, but save trees. It's a polarizing time to live, and it's also a confusing time. And what is happening to the poet in all of this? Is there any such thing anymore? Has the internet killed the poet? Does anyone BUY poetry? Or are they just cruising the internet, reading what snippets come their way? This discussion has been on my mind lately. and I asked if people still bought poetry books. Do you? Or are poetry books a bit of a thing of the past, that the internet is littered with poetry if you want it, so why buy a damn thing? I buy books. Oh do I buy books. Not like the ones I write much, but nonetheless, I'm constantly reading before I fall asleep at night. Many of my newer books are on my kindle now, yes, because of the environment, but also for its convenience. I used to be against the kindle, until, of course, I actually owned one and could take and read as many books as I wanted at once. But poetry books are the one thing, besides my own, I do not have on my kindle. I own Dickinson and Shakespeare and Cummings and Plath and Whitman and...and...and...all in paperback or hardcover. I read them over and over. Paper books, somehow, are just perfect to plop down in a chair with by the fire to read. One poem or two at a sitting, sipping wine or drinking tea, god, I want to be doing it right now! I have no idea what it is about it that needs to be paper for me when it comes to poetry. Maybe it's because somehow poetry carries with an antiquated sense of romance, perhaps one we fear we are losing with the ubiquitous presence of the internet and technology and the constant barrage of poetry in bite-sizes, quick candies, not to be savored and marked and shared as we once did, but now to be shared in a sentence or two on those damn squares I've bitched about before (and won't do it again. You can read it here: BLOG) as if bumper stickers are poetry. Grab a coffee. Read a line. Breathe out the hot steam of coffee and call yourself a poetry lover. I'm not sure if the internet has killed or is killing the poet or not. There are certainly no shortages of poets out there. I, myself, call myself a poet, never said a great one, but I am a poet nonetheless. Hell, I think everyone has a poet in him/her if I'm being honest, so who I am to say what is and what isn't great poetry. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Instagram squares are the best invention ever made for the writer. I will say this. I think really great poetry gets overshadowed by what has become standard poetry. People want their quick fixes. They don't often want to think or reread poetry or read it aloud. Today, if it's not understood on the first read, someone shouts: "I hate poetry. I don't understand it. I don't get poetry," unless, of course, they find it on Instagram. And the moon is mentioned. Next to the sun. :) Maybe I'm not young anymore. Maybe I need to get with the times. Or maybe, I'll just sit down here at work for a few moments, savor a poem or two, and shut off the internet for a little longer than a flash of a disappearing tweet. I think of all the years she protected me and to be kneeling now, taking the flowers out of my hair to plant in front of the soil of her grave, I worry the stone’s shade can’t protect them for long. Tears and sweat mix to blur my eyes from fully being able to read the engravement: Loving mother, wife, and Nana. I look up and watch a cloud, like my mood, move to the left to cover the sun, and the weight of my sadness imprints deeper into the earth. But then I think: Maybe she’s just trying to protect her flowers now. I smile. That would be just like her. Call today's post my closure on my mom’s death, something I think I had been avoiding…but have somehow found this weekend in a cloud. Yup. A cloud. All kidding aside. Nature does that to me. It speaks to me in this very strange way. I’m not sure if it’s because I stare a lot at it--a tree, the sky, the earth--but my mind goes “limp” in a way. It relaxes, like being in a hypnotist’s chair and being told to stare at a spot or a dot on a paper. It serves the same purpose, but it’s more organic. It’s us reflected in IT. I somehow have come to believe that. Maybe Emerson’s “Transparent Eyeball” really does exist. I certainly felt that way this weekend, and that poem came out above. I’m sure there’s not one of us here who hasn’t lost someone to that crabby and persistent dude called Death. It’s really just a fact of life. Like light and dark and good and evil and pleasure and pain and any other opposite, so too, we have life and death. But here’s the thing. Are they opposites really? What happened with my cloud was supposed to be a bad thing, but talk about opposite! Do you think death is a bad thing? A sad thing? It hurts, because we’re living still, especially if we loved that person, and they’re not. It’s almost a selfish thing when I think about it. That’s where the pain is. In our void. That we still have to live without them. We also don’t like to talk about death, and yet we must. We must plan for it. For everything else we plan for--retirement, saving money, etc.--death is really the only sure thing. Have you thought about what you’d like your funeral to be? Do you want to be buried? Cremated? I know. Morbid. But why does it have to be? I realized something about my mother’s death this weekend. I hadn’t dealt with it. Not the way I thought I had. In fact, I realized I hadn’t really gone through the proper stages of grief at all. It wasn’t denial. That is not it…it was just so compartmentalized that I didn’t deny it, I just didn’t want to look at it, face it, think about it in any way. If you read my share last week about my mom, you know why.: The topsy-turvy relationship between mother-daughter, between traditionalist and free-spirt, between stoic and emotional, between proper and wild. But I also realized something else. My mother planned everything. Her plot was bought, funeral paid for, her spot on my dad’s stone just waiting to be engraved, also planned. Everything was a blur, as if my body went through all the motions in a dream I watched from a safe distance, but wasn’t really happening, not to me. I hadn’t really had to do anything but show up and cater it…(that’s not entirely true, I realize, I did), and as I stood in front of her grave this past weekend, planting flowers, I finally saw her death and I somehow let go of so much guilt and resentment and fear and what-ifs. I exhaled it. Quite literally. Right out into the air. And now, I finally have the closure and peace of mind I’ve been searching for these last couple years. It's okay. We must learn to forgive ourselves. Life isn't a game of villains and heroes. It's much more real than that. And grey and all its shades, as my cloud taught me, can be a beautiful color too. On a hot, summer day this coming July at my family lake cabin, you might find me taking a hit of a joint, back firmly placed against the peeling wood of a floating dock, eyes closed, knees slightly bent, a contented smile hard to hide, the sun caressing my half-naked body as it welcomes the slight sunburn it knows it will garner, having been covered in layers of wool and cotton for too many New England months. Pink is such a pretty color. Perhaps I’ll roll over onto my tummy, hold my chin in the fists of my hands, elbows firmly placed on the wood to get comfortable. My legs might even cross behind me at the ankles to sway, and you might even hear me hum a tune, something like Weezer’s, “And it feels like summer,” as I take long, slow inhales and exhales, watching the smoke disappear up into the clouds like my stress. (‘course, I romanticize. You realize there is no way to get a joint out to a dock without, most likely, ruining it. 😉). Funny I’m thinking about this, isn’t it, with so much snow on the ground and sticking to all the trees this morning? It’s beautiful really. The snow is still even coming down ever-so ethereally, so lightly, and the trees, the huge pine trees, are weighed down by the wet, white wonder. It makes me wish I could paint. But not all the trees look so lucky. Some are bare but for the snow that sticks to them. And even that pretty white color can’t hide its pain. I almost feel bad for them. They look cold. Old. The one I look at right now as I write this has what appears to be a wound. I see the chipped wood of its protective outer layer gone, exposing what could almost be described as a slice in its soul, the bark, red, visible, even as I know summer will do its repair. But not all its broken branches will find their way back to rebirth. Even with all this romantic beauty around me, the picture only artists can do justice to or famous photographers, like Ansel Adams, and even with my fortunate life that allows a safe distance of warmth as I sip my coffee to marvel at it through my window, I’m beginning to feel cold myself. Winter out-welcomes her stay, and so, my mind drifts to that special summer place, where anything has always been possible. It’s where I wrote my first love letter, where, for one summer, innocence got gladly lost under a crescent moon, where, if you’ve read Ruin My Lipstick, I sometimes dared to swim to the deep part of the lake, where teenage girls shared one joint between eight lips and dared to tell our secrets. This summer, a new law will be in effect. I will be able to walk into, I’m assuming, a smoke shop in my cut-off, jean shorts, sun-kissed, messy hair, skin still damp, and buy a joint or a bud, or what will it be? I’ve never actually bought the stuff. It’s hard to fathom. Smoking weed has been such a taboo, secretive act for so long, to think about doing such a thing in the open air, makes me feel like that teenager who is finally able to drive for the first time alone. It’s a bit like masturbation. You’ve kept it hidden for so long, to share it freely, it just seems…well…odd or out of place, not something we brag about or share. That stuff is private. The funny thing is that I don’t smoke marijuana. Of course I have. I don’t mean that. I even inhaled it. ;) But I never really liked it. Not my bag. Anymore than a puff or two and I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Felt a bit out of control. Paranoid. I wonder if it’s because I was so self-conscious back then, worrying about EVERYTHING, if my legs were long enough, if my shifting eye color was too weird, if I was smart enough or good enough to get into the college I dreamed of. I wonder if I just wasn’t confident enough in who I was to alter my psyche, but instead it just highlighted my perceived flaws. I really don’t know. But this summer, I may, on a warm, July day, lie alone, in a newly-purchased bikini, much more comfortable in my own skin than all those years ago, and contemplate all the things I wish I’d done but didn't, and perhaps, too, blow a bit of the past in rings of smoke and see what words it writes across the limitless, night sky in front of me. Or perhaps, still, all these years later, I won’t have the urge to alter my state of being at all under a night sky, and instead, safely smile in the daylight of the blazing sun. Yes, perhaps, that will be quite enough. ~Ruin My LipstickI’m pondering, today, like many days, life and death and relationships and the rush of trying to accomplish everything in 24 hours and for what, besides a tear in our nylons? (Okay. I don't wear nylons, but I do wear tights! I'm being metaphoric here. ;) ) What are we exactly rushing about for? How many of you can relate to THAT? While in the grocery store checkout line, my mind drifted to my mom and a poem poured out of me and onto the note pad on my phone. And after I wrote it, I thought back to an older post I wrote, about the way I’ve always been compelled to write this way, this stream-of-consciousness way, even in the weirdest of places: I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: the woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind; the shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous; or the plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention. I was always looking for a “story.” And though I don’t carry a notebook anymore, my phone has replaced it. Easier even to record ideas, thoughts, snippets. The truth is, I wrote a lot about my mom too. I had a complicated relationship with her. Can any of you relate? I wonder if it’s more common among mother/daughter and father/son relationships. That dynamic. Those high expectations. I wrote about this before: (loveand-all-its-idiosyncrasies.html). You see, my mom had a tough life, dreams ripped from her more than a few times, and she was what one may call a pessimist as a result. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother? But what I realized in that checkout line, now that my mother has passed, all those things I used to do for her when she was ill, that I sometimes internally complained about, produced an bit of an epiphany in me…and hence, the poem. The tick tock is deafening. Muscles ache from strain. Rising sun. Feet on cold oak. Passing cars, honking horns, angry fists of move over and fuck yellow lights. Undress. Dress. Leotard. Bun just right. Spray in place. Grab an apple. Keys? Don't forget the milk for Mom. Dash to the express checkout and curse and hiss Into the back head of the too-chatty, blue hair, fumbling in her too-big purse, fingers not quick enough. Pour a quick glass of red to match cursory letters on black and white Times New Roman font In teacher's ink. Speed-dial family. Snapchat friends and try to breathe. It's what you've waited for. Except now, the silenced whirring rush tramples the solace because you realize that the only way to stop is to admit: Not anymore. And you look to see Irony holding Time's hand with a grim grin. Every year. One fewer thing to do. One minute. One second. Closer to death. It might seem a little dark from Rosemary, the romantic. I have a lot of them. These kinds of poems. And they probably don’t make sense to anyone but me. But they’re there. Often. And just below the surface. Always. It's okay. We all have a little dark in our light. I'm just grateful I have this little thing called writing to allow me to see them. It makes me whole. Tattoos were once thought of as marks of the troubled, the degenerate, the troubIe makers. Employers shunned those with tattoos and lies and myths about them were widespread and full of misconceptions, exaggerations, and lies even. Times have changed, like most things based on fiction and lack of knowledge or understanding. And tattoos are more common and accepted than ever, even consider works of art. I have one small tattoo that I got in college on a whim, and though not profound or "serious" in its outward appearance, I do love it. I got it at a time when I was truly discovering myself and my sexuality, where I could finally accept that calling myself a feminist and having submissive sexual tendencies didn't have to be opposing forces. Thank you, college, for that! I'm pondering getting one more, either on my shoulder or lower hip, right on the bone, or on the underside of a breast. Something also small. I'm not a fan of ostentatious tattoos. My body just isn't big enough for that, and it's just not something I find attractive, personally. Plus, I like skin. ;) I want it to be a quote, and I would have gotten one already, except that I'm not sure which one! Of course, Shakespeare comes to mind, and I've narrowed it down But lately, I've been pondering my own quote, one I penned myself. Is that too self-indulgent? I was thinking about "Ruin My Lipstick" to mark and forever remind me that I published my first poetry book, something I never thought I'd have the courage to do, but I'm not sure at 80, I'd be happy with that choice! And then again, why not? It's another turning point in my life, another mark of accomplishment, a growth, a reckoning. “Ruin My Lipstick” is the title poem of the collection, but it has layered meaning for me in many ways. Literally, there is this: “I liked to wear lipstick and nothing else and found myself fascinated with the shape of my lips and the different colors I could make them.” But it’s also very symbolic and figurative. We all have insecurities, and as I was compiling my poems to include, I realized the theme of facade runs through much of my work. In fact, most of my writing does, even my novels, those fronts we all put up in real life: who we are expected to be, which is sometimes in direct competition with WHO we really are. “Ruin My Lipstick,” therefore, is that idea. I look “put together.” Or I look proper. Or I look the part of whatever role I must play in the moment I am in it, but just under the surface, there is always this brimming sexuality or sensuality that is as much a part of me as breathing. And so secretly, I guess the idea of “ruin my lipstick,” puts those two ideas together as one, and allows me to be flawed, to accept those flaws, and to be loved because of them. In “Nude of Her Tights,” I talk about that symbolically and literally. Here’s a bit of it: Insecure. She lifts a leg, one at a time, rolls the nylon up over painted pointed toes, across straight knees, up higher over the spot charged with electricity because of him, and at last rests them around her waist with an elastic snap. She stands, exposed, but for the nude of her tights, and runs her fingers down her body one last time. The legs that were never long enough are suddenly just right. So frankly, perhaps I want this tattoo to be less frivolous, less rebellious really mean something to me, more of a reflection of the person I am now today, not the college student in the beginning of self discovery and rebellion, but the older version of myself that I am happy I am becoming, albeit, slowly.
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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