A poem by Kurt S. Olsson.

Drinking with Li Po


And I'm thinking America, I'm thinking and that's as far as I'm getting.
It's one of those nights when we're up to our ears in wool and hats

even though we're in the house and there's the last of someone's fence
in the stove, but we're still shivering despite being on bottle number three, or four,

of vodka, a tsar's drink, and I'm eating turkey they've slaughtered special for me,
saving me all of the dark meat, which reminds them of sheep,

even though I like white meat best, but I've never been a good guest anyway:
I didn't bring my own bottle of vodka, or chocolates.

America, I'm thinking, America, but it's impossible thanks to all the laughing
over how one of us just went outside, it must have been me,

and hugged and kissed the family cow. I'm watching my friends light up
in bonfire smiles: the one who told me he worked all summer "like an American Negro"

planting mountain rice, another who'll die next month of failed kidneys,
a third who learned English because he heard Reagan at Reykjavik,

and others blackballed forever from memory since homebrew can,
among other wonders, propel small cars. America, I'm thinking,

America someone says, and one of my friends,
not the soon-to-be-dead one, another, launches into this story he's read

about the two brothers and what they did to Marilyn Monroe,
swapping her back and forth like a village mare, and I don't know,

maybe it's the vodka, maybe it's the atomic bomb China tested 500 kilometers away,
maybe it's nothing to do with anything, but when I hurtle out

to the roofless outhouse and sway hard into the steam piss makes,
I glance up and- I swear- see every star ever made.

by Kurt S. Olsson

For my sister on the first day of the eighth month of her pregnancy!! I love you!

A few of the best things I learned yesterday.

hush

Taking a twist.

My therapy session yesterday was incredibly good.  It is such a relief that after all of this time I am able to finally talk about the past and really FEEL it as the past.  It makes it easier to talk about things that still need yet to be said.  And it makes it much quicker to work through them and then to heal.  Pretty wonderful.

Here is a video that Jessica made and I think it is great. (Her blog is here.)


And here is the poem from "The Writer's Almanac" for today.  When I first read the title I was a little surprised and then I just love where the poem takes a twist...

Your Punishment in Hell

by Gary Leising

Someone will douse a cobra in gasoline,
light the sucker, and shove it headfirst
down your throat. It'll speed straight
through your esophagus, unfurl
its hood to fill your stomach
then begin to strike and strike and strike
and strike and strike: fangs pierce
your stomach, venom pours in,
the little burn of incipient ulcers
grows quick, paralysis sets in.
Your lungs stop before your brain,
before your hand, which lifts
to your mouth the plastic-lidded
paper cup holding the caramel
macchiato cappuccino with a double
shot of espresso and frothed soy milk
topped with two shakes of cinnamon
and no, NO (yes, you said no twice)
sugar that was made for you
slowly, while I, already running late,
waited behind you for a simple,
already-made black coffee.
You will lose all motion before
that drink reaches your mouth,
but you recover and the drink,
strangely, has vanished, and barrista
and cobra-douser-slash-lighter do it all again
and again. I know this because,
for my angry impatience,
I am behind you in line in hell
forever, the pot of black coffee
behind the counter steaming,
turning, I know, bitter.

Letting go. (Over and over.)

The very same thing keeps happening to me as I continue to get better (which is also happening more and more quickly).  When I start to face something difficult- about the past, present or the future- I get scared.  I get kind of scared and then I try to hold onto something.  And it is just the opposite of what I need to do and I mean every time.  When I come up against something difficult I do not lean into the change- I fight it.  I lock down and wish it were different.  Until I don't.  Until I can remember that the only thing I can count on is change.  That change is always happening and it is life.  And that fighting the very nature of life is not only impossible but it causes a huge amount of pain.  So I am trying to remember sooner to go with the flow of change.  The flow of healing.  The flow of feeling better, being happy and of letting go of fear.

A favorite.

draw, bike, dance.

Yesterday I went out for a long bike ride.  It was good.  Helpful in quite a few ways.

The very next thing I do.

I am not quite sure yet what that is going to be.  Here is the poem from "The Writer's Almanac" for today:

My Father's Green Flannel Shirt

by Andrea Hollander Budy

He wore it when he mowed the grass, walked the dog,
lounged with the Sunday papers. Whether
it was his favorite, I'm not sure, the way
I'm not sure if he cared for me
more than for my brother. When I was a child,
he would pull me aside sometimes
and tell me a secret – perhaps about his sister
or one of the brothers he wasn't speaking to,
a few times about my mother, whom I knew he loved –
but always something that nagged at him.

Afterwards he would tell me not to tell anyone,
then walk away whistling the way
Alec Guinness, in The Bridge on the River Kwai,
walked away whistling when they let him out
of solitary confinement, as if he knew
something wonderful and important
and no one could scare it out of him.
Sometimes at dinner, my father would whistle
that same tune. And wink at me.

How I loved being in cahoots with him. Loved
feeling chosen, being the one selected to receive.
I took each secret into me and kept it.

Happy. Monday.

I love everything about this video clip.  Everything.  Today I have been feeling good so I have been drawing, reading, running and I might go for a quick bike ride before it starts to rain.  

Here is an image of a piece of paper I taped up on my wall today- right next to my bed- so I can draw on it while I lay there if I want.

And here are candles I taped to the top of another work in progress.

Dress in progress and a poem.

Late November in a Field

Today I am walking alone in a bare place,
And winter is here.
Two squirrels near a fence post
Are helping each other drag a branch
Toward a hiding place; it must be somewhere
Behind those ash trees.
They are still alive, they ought to save acorns
Against the cold.
Frail paws rifle the troughs between cornstalks when the moon
Is looking away.
The earth is hard now,
The soles of my shoes need repairs.
I have nothing to ask a blessing for,
Except these words.
I wish they were

Grass.

-James Wright

To carry. (Thank you.)

I started this blog because I felt like the trauma that happened to me was too much- too much for me to carry by myself- too much for one person.  It has helped me that so many people see and read what I write here. Every person who reads this is helping me to carry a piece of what once felt like far too much for me to carry alone.  Last week I wrote here about a blog I read written by Jessica Hirst.  She too is a survivor of trauma.  I just now read what she wrote yesterday and the pain of it is enormous.  I am sure that she could use some of the same kind of help- the help that comes through having your story and your voice be heard.  If everyone who reads this could click over to her blog and read what she wrote yesterday it would be wonderful.  And even just a tiny comment (it can be anonymous if you want) on her blog would feel much greater than tiny to her.  Click here to read what she wrote yesterday and to comment if you would.

Beautiful photo for today: Here.
Beautiful poems for today: Here.

Thank you.
Jenny

Don't have to fear it.

sketchbook pages, graphic poem (**trigger warning**)

Bicycle shorts (work in progress). Poem by Kurt S. Olsson.

MY BAD NAME

Seems a million years ago I sauntered home
to a shattered door and my name stolen

along with a dresserful of change and my best loafers.
The cop said he could dust for prints

but ultimately isn't a name like a row
of wedding bands in a pawn shop window?

When people say my name it makes me flinch
like a hand coming out of nowhere

to slap me upside my head. My name grates
like a service elevator, I always hated it,

wasn't surprised when someone informed me
in her tongue it means worm.

I always suspected such treachery.
In a Burger King bathroom, I slip off my shoes,

but none of my toes is missing or gangrenous,
still one through ten all unmistakably mine,

nothing my dog, if I owned one,
would bare its canines at and bite.

Forgive me, father. Bless me, mother.
Tonight I'm going to set out chair and glass

and begin a vigil steady as a one-eyed infielder
under a high pop fly and wait not for the old name,

but the new, a little less curt, a name soothing
as a belt of 80 proof after a fist fight,

one that can insinuate itself into a coil of hair,
like cigarette smoke, breathy with laughter,

not happiness exactly, but close enough.

-by Kurt S. Olsson

favorite room

Today I went out for a run and resolved a bunch of things in my head.  I am done with the big huge grief over what my parents did to me.  I let what they did consume me- I think I had to- had to feel it in ways I couldn't the first time around because it was too awful to know about.  But today I was out running and thinking even though I still have a lot of work to do in therapy- I feel like I can do a lot of it there (during therapy sessions I mean).  And start to really live my life.  I am going to go back to this list I made recently of things I want to do but have been scared to- draw more, bike more, run more, apply to grad schools, figure out how and where to sell my work.  The list is enormous.  Sometimes when I am running I like to image taking a huge stone out of an imaginary bag on my back and throwing it off of me.  I like to image throwing away things like SHAME and SELF HATE.  Today I decided to heave GRIEF and FEAR.  I really think I had to be sad for so long- or I just didn't know how to stop- maybe both.  Anyway- I recognize now I can do what I want with my days and I have a seemingly endless list of things I want to do- so I am going to start to work on that.  And moving towards happiness.  More music.  More dancing.  More making clothes and drawing all over them.  More baths in the yellow tub.  More belly laughter.  More photos, more art, more nature, more LIVING.

Philip Glass: Glassworks

poem from "The Writer's Almanac" from this past Thursday.

Derry Derry Down

by Seamus Heaney

i

The lush
Sunset blush
On a big ripe

Gooseberry:
I scratched my hand
Reaching in

To gather it
Off the bush,
Unforbidden,

In Annie Devlin's
Overgrown
Back garden.

ii

In the storybook
Back kitchen
Of The Lodge

The full of a white
Enamel bucket
Of little pears:

Still life
On the red tiles
Of that floor.

Sleeping beauty
I came on
By the scullion's door.

Yes Yes Yes

Today I had my art therapy group and I had this big break through about some things I have really been stuck on in my mind for a very long time.  So it was really great- but after art therapy I felt really sad.  This is how it goes.  It is painful to stitch together the pieces of the past and understand them so well.  I know it is the way to get better.  I know it is the only way.  I know it hurts me less than it used to.  But it still hurts.  So tonight, on the last evening of my being 32 years old- I am going to draw, maybe email my doctor about what came together today, maybe watch a movie while I knit and feel good about how very very far I have come.  I feel extremely grateful tonight for the fact that I am going to be with my sister tomorrow, that I have so many good friends and so many wonderful people that read this blog and support me through their love, comments and emails.  Thank you.
I have posted this poem on here before- but it is on my mind today and it is wonderful- so I am going to put it here again.

God Says Yes To Me

KAYLIN HAUGHT

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Impact.

One of the many things that helps me on my path of recovery is to read the writings of other survivors of trauma.  When I first started writing this blog I searched for blogs by other survivors of incest.  It took me a while to realize it but: trauma is trauma.  It does not matter so much the exact type of trauma that you have survived because the after effects of any trauma are very similar.  Trauma changes you.  It changes your life and every single thing about the way you look at yourself and view the world.  I am going to start sharing here some of the people whose blogs I read online.  People who inspire me with their own stories of courage, fear, struggle, pain and the braveness to recover and reclaim themselves and their lives.

The first blog I want to share here is written by Jessica Hirst.  The name of her blog is "Impact" and you can find it by clicking on this link.  Her story (like any survivor of a trauma is very painful) is written out on her blog.  She is an artist and many other things.  I will not even try to describe her complexity here, I will only suggest that you follow the link and read her words yourself.

There are a few reasons I am writing about her blog first (there are many survivor blogs that I read which inspire courage in me).  A lot of people leave very encouraging comments for me here and each one is always immensely appreciated.  Jessica recently left a comment for me here saying that my blog inspires her to keep going and keep creating.  Like I said- all of the comments people leave here for me always help me- but when I read the comment from Jessica I nearly burst into tears.  So much of the time I still feel lost.  I wonder what I am doing and if I am really helping anyone by sharing my story here.  I know I am helping other people but sometimes it is difficult to really know it.  Knowing Jessica's courage, her story, her willingness to share that story and the clearness of her comment- it was like an excellent shock to my system and I thought: I do matter!!

I hope that you will look at her blog and read about her.  She is an amazing person.  And I know that any comment left there for her would mean just as much to her as the ones left here mean to me. 

"Monday's child is fair of face"

"We have not even to risk the adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us.  The labyrinth is thoroughly known.  We have only to follow the thread of the hero path, and where we had thought to find abomination, we shall find a god.  And where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves.  Where we had thought to travel outward, we will come to the center of our own existence.  And where we had thought to be alone, we will be with all the world."  Joseph Campbell

My idea of what is good. My original pain releases itself.

My therapy on Thursday night was difficult but helpful.  It rained all day here on Thursday so when I woke up Friday morning to clear skies I took my enormous bundle of anxiety out the door with me and went running.  I am really grappling with the running I am doing.  It helps me in so many ways- it clears my head, pulls me into my own body and allows me to think about thoughts that are difficult to tolerate when standing still.  All of those things are good.  Or I could even write:  All of those things are wonderful.  Today my legs are sore but my feet and knees feel fine.  And I so want to be grateful that my physical body is able to do the running and that it helps my brain/mind so much.  And I am trying to be happy about it.  I am still really working on my fear of happiness and my fear of my own power.  And my fear of having my mind calm down.  And my fears of knowing myself and of the clarity of the truth.
I am just going to keep going.  Running, making art, enjoying the happiness as much as can, having my sadness as much as I need to and can.
I keep wishing I was doing better- which makes me think of my doctor saying something like "the healing can never come fast enough".  I know what he means.  And I know that he and I both know that I can not totally heal overnight.  But I am going to try everyday to keep doing the best I can.  And let the healing both wash over me and also go out and run into it when I am able.  And so I am in it- the getting betterness, the healing, the bizarre miracle of recovery.

From "The Courage to Heal":
"If you enter into healing, be prepared to lose everything. Healing is a ravaging force to which nothing seems sacred or inviolate. As my original pain releases itself in healing, it rips to shreds the structures and foundations I built in weakness and ignorance. I am experiencing the bizarre miracle of reincarnating, more lucidly than at birth, in the same lifetime." -Ely Fuller