i would never
how he invited
he asked and begged
and i did… Continue reading
Per Australia time, it’s my husband’s (“ex husband”) birthday today. Saint Patrick’s Day. It’s been a minute since I’ve written poetry. It spilled from my fingertips tonight: Continue reading
i turned. mySelf… i mean. US. i SCREAMED it
AND NO ONE listened or pretended to
plead. recognize what happens. piles of shit.
becoming sick from where you can’t see YOU.
i woke up and acted for the sake of
US. i crawled and scratched off sickness again.
i choked on concepts. ever. above.
sacks of skin begging for a sight of… than.
please bid me purpose. to say… i’ve been. touched.
if i escape time, that means. i killed. when…
wishes of sharing… it matters so… much.
being. born. to know where WE all came from.
where there’s no below. there IS no ABOVE!
The one I wrote today was actually to someone who already knocked me back once before, four years ago. I can’t really blame him. My book wasn’t ready. And my letter was like, “Ummm, I have a blah-g and I live in Australia and I’m going to go to New York City, and I’m writing about it.”
Needless to say, he didn’t really care.
Four years later, my letter is like, “Since my last pitch, I went from being a married wife in country Queensland to a single, Wall Street executive in midtown Manhattan. Professionally, I was writing earnings commentary for the CEO of a global finance institution. I recently exceeded three million reads on my blog…”
… I left out the part out about how I’ve been squatting in a 200-year-old farmhouse upstate for the past few weeks.
All of this made me smile. And it made me think back to the few pieces I’ve actually put forward that have been knocked back. The one below was originally posted in 2010. It had literally been years since I picked it up until this morning. I’m just as proud of it now, regardless of whatstheirname not being interested.
Don’t ever let anyone else’s opinion of what you create sway you. It’s one person’s judgement, utterly insignificant. In my experience, artistic work always connects with the most critical audience – its creator. Anything beyond that is icing, I reckon.
THE TENDER CALCULATION OF REGRET’S DISCOVERY
Brisbane is roughly 25,652 kilometres from New York City, give or take a few. When I left Manhattan, my shrink told me that I was approximately 14.7 years away from killing myself. This gave me a life expectancy of roughly 38.5.
Over the past two years the accent I arrived with has finally softened. I know to say ‘Bris-bin’ instead of ‘Bris-bane’ and can even get away with the occasional ‘mate’. I have a unique appreciation for blending in, keeping a low profile. Continue reading
evaporation (of self)
can you recall? reaching. without. darkness
was knowing how to smile. without. smiling
like a canvas with no painter. artless.
what do i know? a silence in writing.
i physically broke. time. 36 months
of panting and turning with no wake up.
and no one looked. for me… not even once.
i screamed and i smashed. i cracked. a glass cup
spilt. it’s ok. i can clean that. clear. gone.
a calculated step means no. erase.
she inhaled pollution and exhaled songs;
verses of better with no pace or race –
do you remember? how to walk? no… sound;
single rhythm dance. a place with no ground.