My Love for the Penpal.

I am a rather unusual spirit--a lover of all things strange and extraordinary.
My weird ways and mannerisms have touched every aspect of my life, and has even reached the farthest edges of my person...
proving to encompass even my friendships.

I can remember as a girl, I would write letters to my cousin who lived in the next town. I used to do this only because that is what I saw my grandmother do. Phone calls were casual, somewhat vulgar inventions--they were used only for the most rapid of conversation, and the most unimportant. When my great-grandmother would sit down to write a letter, her rituals were always very well-placed and elegant.

She would prepare the paper and envelope to make sure they matched. Her favorite was a cream-colored linen parchment with a latticework trimmed at the top. She would always write her letters with a little grey pen, finely pointed, and her penmanship was a flourishing cursive.

"My Dearest Friend," She would begin.

"It has been such a long while since I've seen your children--won't you come down for the Christmas holidays?" She would implore.

"God keep you, darling, and I do hope to hear from you soon." She would conclude.

And at last, to finish, her beautiful and immaculate signature--underlined and swooshing.

In school, we were taught how to write letters. I always took it so much more seriously than I was led to, and it is all because of that instance of watching my great grandmother composing her verses. My letters became longer and more frequent, so much so that my cousin tired of them and sent me crying with the capitalized valediction in a clustered print: STOP SENDING SO MANY.

I stopped writing to anyone in the outside world, and saved my verses for me and my imaginary intimates instead...

It started to spark again as a longing for adventure.
I had always looked for friends in different places, places no one else seemed to look.

I like to keep a little color in my life, and with the advent of Facebook and Etsy, I was introduced to a new and exciting world of international friendships.

I was thrilled that, with every few people I met from different places within the states and around the world, some were indeed thrilled to write to me.

Among my most loyal penpals have been Rachel of Missouri, Shikha of Mumbai, India, and the man who would become my fiance, Richard of Middlesbrough, England.

I told Richard I could never truly love him unless he wrote me letters. I was using this as a threat of course, but it was also to test his willingness to take up a new hobby. I had never encountered a boyfriend who lived somewhat a distance away to ever comply to this unusual desire--the first or second letter were filled with incredibly boring and honestly plain descriptions of the weather and scenery around them. I like a little poetry in my verses, a little something tangible...I found myself constantly disappointed...

Richard stepped out to the challenge and delivered letter after letter of brilliance and honesty-- refreshing little questions and stories and all sorts of colorful morsels littered the page.

I was equally delighted when his mother and grandmother took up writing to me as well. They, too, proved to be as apt as he in writing darling tokens and humorous accounts of their daily lives--all of it, in turn, I was eager to read.

There is perhaps no one with whom you can share more intimate details of your life.

The penpal is a loyal, unbiased person with whom you may share every situation that is occurring to you in the present. It is a friendship that demands no true sense of devotion outside of paper products. You are loyal to one another by means of the secrets you each keep to one another, and to the promise of a return.

I must say, one of my most favorite letters came from an author I had written to regarding her book. She told me she was 'truly revived by the eloquence' of my words. I couldn't bring myself to reply to that letter, because I thought I'd truly be wasting her good time.

My newest penpal, and perhaps the one I may be devoted to for quite some time, is a lovely personage. He is Tomas of Croatia--and thank heavens we can communicate in English, for he knows nothing of French and I certainly know nothing of Croatian!

I look forward to see what stories we can bounce between each other, and how grand of friends we can become through the power of words.

The Catholic Debate.

From the minute I was born, I had been unquestionably consecrated to a belief that I was completely ignorant of.
In time, I had become a well-oiled religious machine--capable of following, explaining, and defending the faith of my family, my neighbors, and my friends.

I only began to question my faith after having most of my formative adolescent years dedicated to an unwavering desire to be a Carmelite nun.

And, my one moment of real reckoning came when I attended a religious retreat designed for teenage Catholics. We spent all weekend praying, fasting, and partaking in friendly communal activities... (That is, when my peers weren't having sex in the woods or smoking dope in their cabins.)

One night, we had a question-and-answer group. Everyone gathered around to ask some older Catholics questions--these people were in their early twenties, really cool, well-dressed, attractive, and in college or had really great jobs.

The point of this was to be able to see how we'd be in the future if we kept going down a righteous path. We could ask them about their families, their daily lives, their opinions on anything and everything--and always, their answers had something attributed to being Catholic.

Well, I had a friend in my class at the time who found herself at the retreat because if you attended our school it was mandatory to attend the function. However, it was common knowledge that she was a lesbian. She was also notoriously poignant about the way she was.
So it was no surprise when she started asking this very crisp-looking twenty-something Catholic woman why it was so wrong to be gay.

"Well," said the Catholic girl, "Let's be honest here...the parts just don't fit..."
"But I'm human, and I have human feelings. I'm the only being that can feel the way I feel. I'm not gay because I chose to be, I'm gay because I have the capability to recognize what I feel and for whom I feel it."
"Yes, well..." the Catholic girl sneered. "God gave you those feelings to test you. You're not supposed to act on them."
"What if I don't believe in god?"

There was a dead silence in the entire room.

I stared at her. A sick, weird feeling rose up in me...it wasn't because I was disgusted, as the rest of the people around me appeared to be, it's because in my heart I knew I believed her.

In my heart, I had always known that there were things I never agreed with about the religion in which I was brought up. Everyone told me this was simply the way it was, and that to not accept it would mean I was completely out of my mind. Upon recognizing that I wasn't docile in my mind, I realized I simply couldn't be a nun. Though I hungered to be devout, and to dedicate myself fully to something greater than myself, I knew this wouldn't be my path.

My mental rebellion made it uncomfortable to be around other people who I knew would disagree if I told them how I really felt. I began to spend my time with people who were more open-minded, and who accepted me for whatever I did or didn't believe. I began to be truly happy with myself.

These experience also helped me to see with open eyes exactly what I didn't know about being Catholic.

Though I've never had any qualms about any religion, and I remain a firm believer in the phrase 'to each his own', I know all too well the pitfalls of being so involved in one thing that you forget there are people who don't share your belief systems or ideology.

I have never wanted to be the person who told you you were wrong for believing something I do not. Just because you are different from me, does not mean that we cannot be friends.

People, for instance, who like to judge the Islamic faith most likely know absolutely nothing about it--as an educated lapsed Catholic, I can draw several parallels between Islam and Catholicism. They are not entirely different religions, but are actually more similar than one may imagine.

As an adult, I have become comfortable with who I am and what I believe. I no longer feel this guilt I often felt in childhood, the emotionless agreement to something that I had no control over. I regard myself as a thoughtful, generally good, non-religious person.

I have read and studied the Bible. I have had lessons in Latin. I have learned the particular religious meaning behind the vestments of the priest. I have examined the religious and lay callings. I know each in turn, and I respect each in turn. I enjoy the knowledge they've given me. But, in my quest to understand, I have also learned so much from opening my mind to other beliefs.
I have read on the gurus of Hinduism and Buddhism, I have been welcomed to prayer at Ramadan, and I've appreciated it all in turns.

So, why am I so annoyed at this particular incident that happened a couple of days ago?

My parents regularly receive bulletins from their diocese, and like any other bulletin it usually just follows up on the events the parish is putting on and what's generally been happening recently. This was a letter I found myself reading, and it was a little different.

This letter was from the priest who oversees the parish where my parents attend church. It was a polite, well-written letter--but the content completely dumbfounded me.
In the letter, Fr. So-and-so explained he regretted having to do so, but he was writing the letter as a matter of urgency because there were maintenance issues the church needed to take care of. The collection money, he went on, has been down for some time.
To conclude, he aggressively mentioned that the parish specifically needed $50,000 and enclosed is an envelope for donations because the air conditioner needs to be changed and it needs immediate attention.

...I really haven't enough words to explain my complete annoyance.

Perhaps I'm an entirely selfish person, but $50,000 can go a long way for anyone--I have stepped foot in this church myself: it is ornate, well-maintained, and--dare I say--it needs very little maintenance outside of the minimal?

I have been to the Vatican myself, and I know the Catholic church itself is perhaps the wealthiest religious organization in the world as far as its monetary value. I know that the pay priests receive is dictated by their bishop, and their bishop answers to Rome...

But, I find myself wondering, why the Dalai Lama never asks his followers for a single physical thing...he only asks for their understanding, appreciation, and acceptance of each other as human beings?

Why must the wealthiest religious organization on earth ask for hard-working, perhaps even struggling people's money in a time like this?

We live in a beautiful world, but there are children starving and being murdered in it. In light of this idea, why does a priest not ask his congregation to be a little uncomfortable in the event of no air-conditioning, and instead offer donated money not to his own cause--but to the cause of those children and people whose lives are forever uncomfortable?

But hey, I'm only an ignorant agnostic these days.
One who spends her free time tipping local businesses, paying her bills, and attending school on a very limited income--who also one day looks forward to taking a parentless child, and giving them a home.

But, I'm only an agnostic...
So, I guess it doesn't count?

An Analysis Poetry, and of the Poet

A class I find myself taking this semester has opened my eyes to a different perspective of the writer--particularly, I suppose, because it is a writing class.

However, we now find ourselves venturing into the often strange and foreboding world of poetry. This is a topic that appears to frighten my fellow classmates. Poetry is confusing to most of them, and it is easy enough to understand why.

I have been a poet for as long as I can remember. I began writing poetry at the age of ten, though I only saw it as sentences describing my moods. I didn't know the intricate details of what it took to create a poem, nor did I care.

See, one of the keys to being an effective poet, in my opinion, is the flow.

Poetry is simply one of those things that cannot be forced. Unlike prose, the poet is inspired by the voice inside telling the story--often from a very stream-of-consciousness point of view. There is often a beat involved, there is often a sort of rhythm ebbing from some unnamed place inside.

The freedom of poetry is something that also separately identifies it from prose.

I was somewhat disturbed by my professor's comments concerning some of my own poetry. Though he called it "rendering", "compelling", and even "psychologically complex"--things that every poet wants to hear--he also mentioned that my imagery was ambiguous, and that at points I didn't give a "clear" visual of what I was trying to get across...

I asked him if he ever wrote poetry.
He said no.

Aha. There is the reason.

See, it is different being a reader of poetry, than being a writer of poetry.

When I visualize the differences in prose and poetry, I clearly see the different things I am wanting to receive from both. I see and respect their differences, and I look to identify their separate qualities.

The way I see it is this: When prose steps forward, poetry steps back.

Prose is the loud guest in the room, the individual that is mingling and introducing themselves. Poetry is the quiet, aloof figure in the corner on a settee--watching the room with a very peculiar glimmer in their eye.

The beauty of poetry is the room the author gives us in order to draw our own conclusions about what it might mean. In my understanding, I have never read any poet--Keats or Eliot or anyone in between--that wanted someone to read their work once and never pick it up again. As a poet, my job is to have you sit and stay a while. I want you to meditate, mull over, and analyze what the voice on the paper has to say.

As a poet, I want you to re-read. I invite you to re-read, I beg you to! I want you to be confused at first. I want you to think--what the fuck?
I want that! Because that means that you want to figure it all out. That means you're confused, and because you're confused it means you're wondering.

Any great poet probably smiled when someone came up to them and said "I have absolutely no idea what you meant by that..."

I bet you want to say it to Plath or Dickinson right now, as a matter of fact.

Prose hands us the meaning on a platter, offers it to us with willingness to understand.
Poetry sits and waits to be understood.

What I Is, and What I Is Not.

I am someone who tries to be honest.
I am not someone who is going to tell you what you want to hear.

I am going to be a friend to you.
I am not going to hang on your every breath or every deed--that isn't my jurisdiction.

I am sympathetic.
I am not going to listen to all of your problems, and take pity on your inability to take action.

I am independent.
I am not going to refuse help from you, if you offer it to me.

I am someone who likes to be touched.
I am not someone who thinks a randomer making a pass at my ass is appropriate.

I am a person who likes to be talked to.
I am not someone who will give you a snarky look if you say something wildly inappropriate.

I am a spiritual person.
I am not someone who uses my religion, or system of beliefs as an excuse to alienate people I don't understand.

I am going to try to understand you.
I am not going to judge you because you're different than I am.

from: "And Then" (novel)

“Who’s that?” Clayton inquired, nodding to the blond sitting at a table full of finely dressed people.

“That’s Corrine Valmont.” Monroe clarified. “She just left St. Agnes.”

“Is she a nun?”

“No, a widow.”

“Oh.” Clayton shrugged. “I’m surprised no one’s drooling on her yet, with the face she’s got.”

“You’d be surprised.” Monroe chuckled with a smirk. “But I’m not interested.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He turned his friend to spot the dance floor. “She’s already got me hogtied.”

Monroe smiled at her with a bright, unassuming smile.

“That’s Ruth Saxe, her sister.” Monroe clarified, still smiling. “She’s got the fiercest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Clayton frowned.

He had caught sight of her as she swung around to the tune of the music. She was dancing with a weasel of a younger man, who looked as green as grass. Her hair was flying around her face, and she was laughing—a deep, hearty laughter. She was free, and flirtatious, and everything he had recalled.

Clayton held back the sensation of fury and melancholy that suddenly rose up into his throat.

“I see you’ve found her.” Monroe smirked, catching him around the shoulder. “Hotter than hell, ain’t she?”

“The man who plays in that fire is an idiot.” Clayton muttered, removing his friend’s grasp. “I need another drink.”

“Indulge yourself while I fetch the sister.” Monroe chuckled, easing away, and heading towards Mrs. Corrine Valmont.

Clayton shook his head, and moseyed over to the refreshment table. He nodded to the scotch, and the negro fixed him a glass. He held it in his hand for a moment, before tossing it back and swallowing the entirety in one gulp. He was about to hold it out for another, when someone wheeled him around and he suddenly found himself in the presence of Monroe and Mrs. Corrine Valmont.

She was pretty. It was a womanly, worldly, unexciting kind of pretty. Her hair was pulled neatly back. Her dress was prim. She smiled as if having been in uninterrupted happiness for centuries. Clayton mustered a weary grin.

“Mrs. Valmont, I’d like to introduce you to my oldest friend—fresh from the North, I may add—Mr. James Clayton.”

“How do you do, Mr. Clayton?” She inquired lightly with a smile.

“Nearly drunk, but I can’t complain.” Clayton replied with a shrug.

“The man’s a jokester for sure.” Monroe chuckled, giving his friend a little nudge.

Corrine still smiled as if she hadn’t heard the remark.

“Are you from here, Mr. Clayton?” She asked.

“Pattersville, born and raised.”

“Not far, then—it appears you are a local boy indeed. How did you like it up North?”

“It was only Tennessee. Mountainous. All that.” He replied without much effect.

“Lovely…” Corrine nodded, trying to remain interested, but catching his blasé.

The sound of the music suddenly caught them all with a loud beat, and the dancers were whipping around—to Clayton, they appeared as good as blurs in an abstract painting.

Auburn hair suddenly swept around and around, and Ruth flew from the crowd and out of the arms of the youngster who danced with her. Clayton raised an eyebrow. She spun around, and around, and suddenly found herself tripping right into his arms. She was dizzy, and disoriented, and laughing without looking up. Then, slowly, she brushed her hair from her eyes.

She stared at him for a second, and he stared at her.

Her face grew white, suddenly, and she startled back as if fleeing from a ghost.

“Ruth! Dear lord, catch your breath!” Corrine laughed, grasping her sister’s hand. “Ruth, Mr. Monroe brought a friend tonight. This is Mr. James Clayton.”

But Ruth’s eyes were on the floor. She didn’t answer.

“I believe we’ve met.” Clayton interjected, his tone marked.

“Oh, good!” Corrine giggled. “It saves an introduction.”

The sound of the band kicked up again.

“Miss Saxe, would you like to dance?” Monroe asked Ruth, keenly. “I know you’ve been dancing all night, but I was hoping you could spare one more for me.”

She didn’t say anything, but grabbed his hand as if it were for life, and he took her to the floor.

Corrine turned to Clayton with a bemused smirk.

“My sister certainly isn’t shy around many people, Mr. Clayton.” She giggled. “I wonder what’s gotten into her.”

“Perhaps the fear of God.” Clayton murmured, turning to the table and nodding to another drink.

Back to Breathing.

I have not written a poem, a story, a novel...in so long...

I attribute this great block to being entirely too content.

When a writer is too content, a strange thing occurs:

Life suddenly becomes this day-to-day routine of work, activity, and sleep. They aren't too happy, they aren't too sad. They are nestled contentedly between the fullness of both polar emotions. It is an equator of sorts.

This equator is possibly the worst thing that could ever happen to a writer.

I am a writer, and it has finally happened to me.

I sit around every day, waiting, hoping some crazy tragedy or fit of elation comes to me. My best work has come from the deepest moods one could never wish to possess. My best lines were penned in my darkest despair, or my highest ecstasy.

I used to be an utter nihilist. My entire life was centered around my own pleasure. I took what I wanted, I threw away what I didn't want. I played music night and day, I took drugs and snorted anything I could get my hands on. I had my fill of men and women. I chanted from the Book of the Dead. I cried in misery for nights on end, fearing death and illness. I couldn't have looked in the mirror and seen anything uglier if I had squinted harder.

I was a hot paradox of emotions, an utter freak, and I could not have felt more alive--more free from chains.

NEVER, when I have been contented, did I write anything memorable.

I am in this limbo today. It makes my heart heavy to only think about it.

My financial life is stable. My romantic life is stable. Everything is so stable, stable, stable--bland, bland, bland...

My pen is like my very breath.
My breaths give me life.
I want to be alive again.
I want to be in pain again, or flying again.
I want something so vivid that it haunts me in dreams.

I want my identity back.

Blaine.

Blaine is my father.

The only compliment I could ever give him is that he is an excellent provider--and that is the entirety of the good things that he has done for me in my life.

I don't believe I have fully loved him for the majority of my adulthood.

A lot of people would be quick to judge me for whining about a man who paid for my livelihood until I was out of high school, and who kept a roof over my head and all that. A lot of fathers, one would say, haven't done so much for their children.

I'm not speaking about a lot of fathers, I'm only speaking about one. And I'm speaking about him from a place that is very personal, because I have always been too ashamed before.

One who provides is not always deserving of the title of "father".
I'll tell you why.

Ever since I was very little, my father has been physically and emotionally abusive to both my sister and I.
He has never been this way to my mother, only his two daughters.

His physical abuse ceased when I became old enough to understand that when he hit me, yanked me or grabbed me, I was supposed to call 911. I told this to him one day as he came at me in a rage, and since then he has never once touched me in anger.
I was about thirteen when this ceased.
I had been contemplating the courage to stop him for a few years by that time, because we were always taught "abuse" was punishable at school. They would lecture us about calling 911, if we knew someone was being abused. I would look around at everyone, wondering if they knew I was a child who was constantly physically and verbally assaulted in my own house...I would wonder if they were going through the very same things, and if they were thinking of trying to stop it.

When I did have the courage to stop it, I understood all the dynamics of what was going on.

He would prey on my sister and I because we were weak little girls. When I was young, I thought these outbursts were my fault entirely. I was a rambunctious child who was not easy to manage, and when he would attack me I felt that it was my punishment for misbehaving. He would often leave me bruised in a corner, with my mother yelling at him for "going too far".

She never helped me escape him.

It made him feel like a man to take all of his own anger, disappointment, and rage out on his two very young daughters--beings who could not fight back.

As I got older, he was exclusively verbal and emotionally abusive. This continues to this very day.

I'll be berated for being lazy, dumb, and useless--when I am putting myself through school, working and attending class five days a week. This happens nearly three out of every five days I see him.

I've grown eerily accustomed to it all, standing up for myself often, which leads to fighting.

When a dog is provided a kennel and food, but is still constantly beaten--does one actually think it won't bite back?

I'll bite back, and I'll keep fighting it until I don't ever have to see him again. I've already made very clear decisions about how I would like the relationship between my parents and my children to be. I cannot, and will not, subject them to the erratic behaviors of people who have no idea how to channel their feelings.

I don't want to blame him entirely. I know there must be a problem inside of him that he is unwilling to address. His behavior is entirely too unexplained for me to say he is an evil person, and not regretful of his actions. He is too quick to apologize after the things he's done, his conscious tells him that what he just did was very wrong--he simply does not know how or why he did it. It's a blind rage he goes into when he acts this way...

However, in the same instance, I cannot pity a grown man who has had an entire adult life to fix it.

Had he seen a doctor, or had he even took precautions to not loose his nerve at the drop of a hat...he and I's relationship would be so much better than it is today. I would not have so much distaste for him, had he at least tried to better himself.

I'm a woman now, so I must deal with these things with a woman's judgement--and pray to god that I'm doing it all the right way.

Such is where I find myself today.
I've been provided for, but maltreated by one of the people entrusted to love me unconditionally.
I'm biting back in the best way that I can, with patience and acceptance of what has happened--and a resolve for it never to repeat itself in my future.