Sisterlock

Her face was green. Like an olive skin oxidating on the early morning sun. She screams as I was stared. Nothing is ever enough. How did I dare to…mess up my brain? I all made it up. She thinks. The rattling in my head is real. The white lights on the red stage are real. The occipital stane, in the third, right up corner in the coordinating system of my life is real. Still. How did I dare?… To wake up at 7 and exercise. Lift my legs. Squat. Launch. She does pilates. Like a thread in a needle.

How do I know I feel worse than her? Her face is now blue. Blue like a fried eggplant with shiitake-mushroom cheeks. How did I dare?

My life is worth 15 000$. And an airplane ticket. One direction. No more than that. And her hand around my neck. Teared pink shirt.

Every word pierces. Boils blood. She bends like a nimble serpent toward the elevator. Short in the middle. Wide in front. She steals the stealth wings. In a two-folded street.

My hair falls down in remembrance.

I call my father. Mutation is on her way.

Elevator pitch

Darkness. I remember the darkness. Soft, warm, and extremely volatile. Fragile. With the smell of freshly washed underwear. Naked. Without feelings. Just holding curiosity with my small clenched fingers.

Break. I don’t put together. I break. Not to pieces. Not to particles. To invisible and back. To deflated Super Nova. I am wrenched. I am dishonest. Dissociative in the warm darkness. Now with the smell of freshly picked roses. I am invited. I am called out.

Even though I never wanted to begin.

I am pulled. But I am not scared. My scream protects me. Brings me joy. Brings me ecstasy.

I walk barefoot. But I feel tingling under my tongue. Tongue is curled, bent, stretched as it hatches a like hen’s egg into words I finally roll out. In bravery. In mastery. Of the incoming daylight.

I still walk, as coldness envelopes me. There is a sudden nudge. I stand still now. Like a proud trunk of the tree in the cold winter wind. I stand and withhold. I stand, but darkness moves upwards, in the delight of echoing noise coming from beneath. Buttons are lit on my left side. But only number 5 works. I press it gently.

The door opens to a garden by the river. There is a flock of magpies lying around. Mating. My father takes me by the hand to search for dandelions. Their yellow, perching, capricious heads open and close, fast as the minute goes by. I smile.

I blink and coldness envelops me. The nudge is even stronger this time. I crouch to remain still and by accident, I press button 17.

The rhythm of drums seduces me. I move in a trance as wet bodies, reckless limbs, and disjointed intentions rub against my pale and bruised skin. The kisses fly around me. Some I catch and wear instead of lipstick. Some I imprison and they wiggle in my mouth like a drunken moth fantasizing of a broken bulb. Some I lose in the distant gaze of dim lights and beer stains.

As I breathe I am in newly found darkness. I need rest. I need to put my beating heart in retard fast. I lean on a cold wall, but suddenly there is a hand against my neck. To my surprise is gentle, slick, and tracks my arrow bones so tightly. As it founds the way to my pants, parts me with all my will and his experienced skill.

As I moan in fervor, the nudge double in amount. 34. The strange new land in front of me. The network of water, out of this place tulips pauses, smelling of early autumn and forgotten spring. Rain pouring flinched in pondering little lakes. I jump over. But I never get it there. The jump. The step. The walk. The run. The fly. The wings. The pace. The padding. It’s so saddening. Never enough.

I crave coldness. Under my nails. Above my eyebrows. In between flickering lights on my left side. I crave going down. The stairs. At my own pace. Without wings and safety nets. I crave zero. Below zero of Russian taigas and Norwegian tundra’s. I crave below the earth, where there is only 1 sun to admire. One basement to wish for.

The Wind is still Strong

The container of time lost by the wind. It escapes the boundary, as I float towards my culmination. Twists and turns in red lights, no floors in between, bends at her own knees, lovingly seeing true colors of the day. The morning has the smell of fear, the one that sticks to your nostrils, and as much you try to exhale it, it plaques stronger to your bones.

The say resilience is the savior, many moons looked after. And I miss, like a Halley’s Comet I miss, once, again, just like 40 years go, to be fully me. To accept myself. To value myself. To honor myself. Fear is ever-present, it’s my new air. I don’t know of anything else.

I try to remember in my own container of space how can I collect myself and knot the peace out of pieces of my broken soul. My head was bowed for too many suns and my back only recognizes heaviness and disappointment.

I often write of happiness, of that meeting, collided opportunities, where your true self shines, as you embrace your shadow. But nobody tells you how to tumble in the dark in the meantime. How to find a meaning in rhythms, as you try to fathom repetitive cycles of lessons you refused to learn – or your teachers were simply lousy?

I laugh at myself often, as the wind kicks me in the chest, still I swallow my fear, cannot spit it out fast enough. In the remnants of what I would like to be my old self, I find trails of never-forgotten childhood stories and anecdotes, so finely wrapped in the middle age tears and regret.

I lost my gravitational tides, I recognize only one e-motion, as my moon has dissipated far away. I don’t know how to rise again. As everyone around is so neatly pulled together, I break, once again, I break and there is no end.

I am a bat, carved in my cave, there are no senses except for my heart that beats so loud and relentlessly in hope it will frighten my fear. Will it ever run away?

The wind is still strong. Maybe if I hold on tightly for just a second will I become more resilient. More real. More me.

A Day without Me

It was just a day, an ordinary day. I was dressing up, putting on my black winter jacket, when all of sudden I was surrounded by darkness. A throbbing pain came down my neck and I was lost. Gone. But a Day without Me was born. I was eleven when I first heard that song. I remember how much I loved it. It had everything. That emotion. That power. But I never knew that one day, a Day without Me, might turn into Life without Me.

I still don’t know where it is. It’s not that dark but, my left eyesight is damaged. Still. But it’s not still. It has thousdounds of little, white flickering lights that my brain by mistake flashes up in an attempt to understand something. The bright lights are here, in a Day without Me.

Sometimes I swim. Towards lights. Trying to find my anchor, as a tempest storm rages in my head, my ears, my chest, my lungs, my womb. Rages and I spin. I try to swim. My core is still strong. I do every second morning 200 abb pushups. In between Days without Me. And my spirit sings. And says walk. You are a spirit walker. Or swim if you like. And I tell “But I am a spirit daughter. And a walker. In Life without Me, I can be anyone I want!” And he withdraws in confusion.

Darkness over my head I can conquer. I am safe for another 29 years. In the meantime, how can I create A Day with Me? And maybe then, a Life with Me!

The fireworks this very moment interrupted me. Again. My heart pounds. Spirit hides behind my ribcage. Crouch. Doesn’t walk. Doesn’t swim. It swings in the cradle behind the bone-bars, waiting to be born, one Day without Me.

NaPoWriMo: Day 30

Poetry prompt: “Collage” your way to creativity

A collage as an art form was especially popular in dada movement. Many artists used this technique to provoke their unconscious thinking and explore metaphysical origins of reality. For example Hans Arp was famous for making a series of collages based on chance; he would stand above a sheet of paper, let squares of contrasting colored paper fall on the larger sheet’s surface, and then he would glue the squares – in any position they took by falling. Arp was interested in I-Ching fortune telling (where coins fallen by chance were interpreted for future forecasting) and he was curios what kind of visceral reaction would his art produce.
So how can you use technique of collaging to exercise your creativity?
The basic idea is for you to find small items, pictures, texts and letters from newspaper –anything that moves you and that you can rearrange into your own collage poem. By collaging your items, a new reality will start to form. Prune anything you find excess and look at new relations, surprises, metaphors, combinations. Your mind will try to justify any item by its origin, position, and dimension. This is an excellent exercise for your creative rebel, to shout, to say, to sing, to whisper anything in particular you can’t. Let this collage poem be the messenger of your creativity.


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NaPoWriMo: Day 29

Poetry prompt: Jot things down

Whenever you have an idea – write it down. No matter how silly, impossible, distant from the solution you’ve been contemplating, write it down. This unconstrained writing, where you simply don’t censure your thoughts is a technique called free-writing” or “free association”. You can go even step further and write it in the form of a poem.

I pretend this white page is a container,
a casket,
I can fill
with all of my screams and strengths’ of my lungs
that drip needless heart beats.

I pretend
I climb this white page and I linger on its edge
dangle, like an elephant’s rotten fang
I balance between words of sweetness and kindness
what I ought to be
and my giant gap mouth
ready to exfoliate rusty voice.

I pretend this white page is nimble
feasible enough to be my blanket in hours
of loneliness in the streets,
in the minutes of unanswered phone calls
in seconds of disillusioned awe
when I need to cover myself
and escape your stone-sturdy face.


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NaPoWriMo: Day 28

Poetry Prompt: Group effort

Once you become comfortable enough with your own creativity, why not spice up things and work in groups? So grab some of your “pen-friends”, play together and see how can you inspire and help each other become more creative.

Visual stimulation can unleash your imagination in the most exciting ways. You can pick some random picture and each of players has to make a story in the form of poem, inspired by the picture. Afterwards, you can all debate and see whose story is the most interesting or you can take it step further and compile all stories into one: it has to be believable and follow some logical structure. It’s best suited for groups of two, three people. With certain moderation you can use these ideas for your own creativity exercises, as well.

Every lock has a key.
there are ones you have to go

Look for. Search under every rock,
frisk every pocket and empty the tiniest

Drawer.

There are the ones you need to steal in order to enter
that want you to be brave, look fear strait in the eyes and defend
them with your body.

And there are the ones, just in front of your nose, but cleverly disguised,

Ones able to mold themselves to every hole and with one click

Takes you there.

If you listen carefully to jingling no door are closed to you.


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NaPoWriMo: Day 27

Poetry prompt: Try walking in their shoes

This prompt is all about changing perspective – viewing situation from someone else’s point of view. If you feel stuck with your writing, or you experience some oppositions from your peers in advancing with your project, this can be a good exercise to experience a different perspective and tackle problem form different angle. You can write about situation seen from a different cultural, educational background or even about sub-cultural differences. Prepare yourself for writing by getting acquainted with the culture you chose – through reading, watching documentaries, ext. For example, someone addicted to romance novels might try to write as someone who likes horror movies and stories with gothic elements.

This is skill we want to develop especially if we are engaged in fiction writing. It can help you foster empathy, broaden your view of the world and how other people think and feel.

Selfish sun

They think I’m the center.
Center of the galaxy.
That the world revolves around me.
I watch stars born and eat themselves to death.
I watch planets chase each other in dim vacuum
Showering meteorites at this lovely, blue midget planet
So confused and lost in its own grief and greed.
I watch how its people praise me for giving them life
And light. They sing songs about me and write verses.
But I burn, burn with each day and night more.
Boiling in my own redemption, fighting my own darkness.
That’s all I know and care for.


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NaPoWriMo: Day 26

Poetry prompt: Visualize with words

This exercise is very simple, yet effective:

Your task is to name three things, topics, projects – whatever you are working on (or would like to achieve) and describe them using words you never used before to describe them; how that accomplishment looks like, feels like. Try to be descriptive as much as you can, use your senses and be precise – write a poem about it.

Independence

‘No man is an island’, one poet said.

Yet I like to think of my life as an independent state.

I like my sovereignty, being my own boss,

making my own decisions.

As my flag proudly flaunts on the wind,

There are no borders or walls. It’s safe for you

To  cross on my side.

 

Self-confidence.

It used to be just a label. An exterior you need

To validate your worth. But you, an extension

Of everything breathing and living in this very moment,

You are all you need to be, you are light.

 

Instinct

It’s not a feeling. It’s not knowledge. It’s a voice you

Neglect so often but it recognizes better than

your mum and dad,

brother and sister,

friend or colleague

What is best for you,

but you often shut that voice down.

Listen when it whispers, it has answers to all your questions.


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NaPoWriMo: Day 25

Poetry prompt: Going sideways for boosting creativity

Write a poem using kennings. The word ‘kenning’ comes from the Old Norse verb að kenna, which means ‘to describe’ or ‘to understand’.

Bed of fish, smooth path of ships, island-ring, realm of lobsters, slopes of the sea-king, whale-house, land of the ocean-noise, blood of the earth, frothing beer of the coastline…

These are some of the terms and phrases used by the Viking and Anglo-Saxon poets to name/describe the sea.

Poetry asks us to think and view the world from the different perspective. And kennings question our habitual way of thinking and are an excellent ice-breaker for writing block.

Poetry (list of kennings)

A lost ’n’ found companion,
Words, making different unions,

language of the beauty and emotion
captured moment, written in ocean

Ongoing play of syllables,
Ambiguity, sign of mutables

Expression of non existent
Perspective of all existent

Illusions coming true
A saviour when I’m feeling blue

A rhyme worth any dime

Fastest creativity
Life’s ingenuity

Post-it note in lover’s pocket
A heart flying to the moon on the rocket

Who I am

Who I am not

Who I might be

Who I am becoming.


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