Recollect

Brainstorming like the back of my hand/ Recollect/Recall/Tribute

"You can't go home again."

I lived in the same house for 19 years of my life, and I was homeschooled for 15 of those years. That is 5, 475 days that I could explore the three acres of our homestead, and beyond.  I knew each and every tree, rock, and plant that grew within the stone-wall boundaries of my home. I captured and studied most of the animals that are native to the area. I gathered my share of scrapes, scratches, prickles, blisters, and splinters. These acres were filled with the tools that I used to build my store of knowledge and experience, my imagination, and my future. (An indelible mark)

But memories fade, lessons are forgotten, and places change. The world moves on. Moving on is a healthy part of growing up. For most people, becoming an adult means leaving your home—and crafting another. I have left my home, outgrown those acres, and learned new lessons. But my home has also left me.

I want to move on, but I do not want to forget, to neglect to attribute the weight that this place had in shaping my life. Spurred by the recent industrial development of my home in Susquehanna county, I am filled with the need to catalog, capture, remember, and celebrate this place that will never be again what it was to me as a child.

(before the tankers pummel it all to dust/before the backhoes dig it up/and the methane poisons the water/and silica clouds the air)

This was my home, a place that I knew “like the back of my hand.” I created this place/I imagined this place to life.

And now, “home” is reduced to collection of objects… the things I need, the things I keep, the things I throw away.

Objects hold echoes. They elicit the emotion of the past. They are shells that call to us – singing of what was and what could be. Some are well-loved, some neutral, and some broken, discarded, forgotten. Some once were living.

The loneliness of forgotten objects speaks to me. It reminds me of a time when I had a story for each blade of grass, each container tossed aside. It reminds me that once, I was lonely too. Here I will capture the things I have forgotten; the memories which slowly float to the surface, or hide, wither, and die.

WHEN
Does it pay to be dedicated?
I have countless times
that testify to No.
we reward the slackers.
I tried so hard to
be good
do what i should
work hard
excel
keep up
be on time
stay on track
listen
go above and beyond
and it never matters
recognition is just empty words
and nothing ever comes of it-- so
why should I try?
just say Fuck It like everybody else
and
i won't have to work so hard
and i'll get everything I wanted
just because i stayed up late
and scribbled something
say, "woops, i didn't do it
I didn't have time
I didn't pay attention."
I HAVE ANOTHER CHANCE
and i won't care at all
--that's the way to succeed, sweetheart.

it is the failure to acknowledge

everything is remembered incorrectly
and now I only remember remembering
a photograph.

Deferring the now,
the essence of signification.

You say softly
Well, she's dying
A painful prospect remembering

seemingly very late to realize
this is what it is--

Text from "A Botanical Biography"

"Flowers that Trigger the Memory: a Botanical Biography" September, 2011
 These are the poems that appear in This Book

Blackeyed Susan

Blackeyed Susan is the smell of the solstice:

Winding wildflower paths

In a sunlit field—

Filled with stars of summer.

The cicadas sing around the drum circle

And blue smoke follows me

From the footpath to the forest,

Where Sun-tired children

Collect firewood and bee-stings.

Honey-sweet

Little Blackeyed Susan,

Pummeled pollen against our legs;

Dance and nod until the shadows grow cool

And we drive the dirt roads home—

And Mom chants the solstice to sleep.

Lily of the Valley

Lily of the valley smells green

Like mother’s shirt

A threadbare sweater she wears

To walk in the cool evening

When the shadows grow long

We pass the poplars and quaking aspens –

I love how they shiver—

To see the dusk go down—

We wander past the house

Where unknown neighbors

Came for weekends to dump their trash.

Piling up and piling up, until the roof caves in

And the neighbors come no more.

Behind the tumbling stone walls

Lurks this tarpaper shack:

Filled with discarded trinkets.

During the day I dodge tetanus to explore this

Dangerous treasure.

The Hemlock tree drops little cones to earth

Near the flower bed.

Soon all this trash will burn away:

Flames reaching tree-top high

And bulldoze under the eyesore,

The little lily’s home.

Snowdrop

Pretending I hear chanticleer’s crow

I pull on my Oshkosh boots

And hurry up the hill, thumping through the snow

That coats the path.

At the barn door I undo the latch and hesitate,

Push against the weathered red wood—and listen

For a kid’s bleat from the dark stalls.

The door squeals open and I flick the electric switch:

The barn comes to light and I am disappointed—

No babies born this morning.

The nannies chew their cud and eye me

With frustrating patience.

I toss some hay into the trough,

And trudge back to the house

To relay the news and wait in the bitter chill—

Hands stretched near the woodstove.

Alone, snowdrops push furled heads up

Through the icy soil

To take their first breath.

Goldenrod

Birthday bouquet,

Dust drifting up the hill,

Apples in the autumn sun.

I climb the tree to shake the top branches

Where I am still small enough to stand.

Dad braces the ladder

As the apples thump to land.

Touch-Me-Nots

Snap, pop, touch me not—

Curls of green

Seeds fly at every step.

This is their home:

Thick bog mud and the taste of mint

Water cress’s crunchy leaves

Rough lichen-covered stones.

The cats follow me downhill on padded feet,

Black against the green.

I wade, and they hunt

For field mice in the saw grass.

Queen Anne’s Lace

Queen Anne’s Lace and ant-hills

Multiply in the drive way

Where Dad hammers rocks to pave the wheel ruts.

Queen Anne’s Lace guards the pasture,

And signals the end of the electric fence.

As I crawl under, I hear its buzz above my braids.

Under the lacy tops sweet ripe strawberries

Hide among spittlebug towers,

Waiting for me to crunch their seeds

Against my baby teeth.

Holly Hock

Little Dolls,

Dad shows me how to fold them:

Purple skirts,

Wide white eyes, green caps

And sticky skins.

They dance in the sunlight, twirl

And fall apart—

Leaking seed medallions.

Japanese beetles hold hands

With their prickly stalks.

Done with their day—abandoned

They dry on the cracked porch.

Dead dolls smell rich like loam,

Tea leaves in the sun –

I’ll plant them in the spring.

Writing from Two Years Ago

 Life was the same two years ago. I was different. I was the same two years ago. Life was so different. Here is what I wrote then that is not who I am now... here is what I wrote then that is who I am still:

December 3, 2009

Intro to Poetry, Final poems

What I’ve Left: Poems on Possessions, Memories, and Uncertainty

The Box Room

In shoe boxes, in milk crates, in plastic bins

I store the accumulations of my life—

These are the things I couldn’t carry with me;

Too heavy, too old, too useless

They slough away like shedding skin.

Underneath the sloping brown-paper ceiling of the Box Room

Is the Lion King tent, the old plastic swimming pool,

the bee-hive screens, doll-heads, shuttles from the loom,

the Christmas ornaments and tangled thread,

Dad’s electrician kits, lonely pairs of one-worn shoes,

clothes I never liked---and ones I liked too much,

holes in the knees of ancient jeans, my baby blankets…

The musty reminders of

What I have abandoned, what I’ve left behind.

Here is a box of legos, rattling like the loose teeth

The fairy hid in a jewelry box on Mom’s dresser.

Here are the plastic dinosaurs; triceratops and brachiosaurus,

pterodactyls and a mastodon whose tusks have been bitten off

Lizards tumbled into a plastic birdcage

Tails and legs twisted,

Their adventures are all but forgotten.

I left behind my red-headed Ariel doll

The one Dad didn’t want me to have because he thought it was a Barbie

But my sister was visiting, and she bought it for me anyway.

Underneath the glittery mermaid tail, the doll’s feet were flat and rubbery

Not like Barbie at all.

I left behind the teddy bear named Dora

The quill pens I cut from turkey feathers

My pink rubber Oshkosh boots

The sound of peep frogs in the pond across the road

The clatter of rocks when I walked across a stonewall

The way frost covers the windows

And how to slide on an ice-glazed pond.

I left behind goodnight songs and stories

Pressing my nose against the Green-room window every night

As I watched the red light blinking on a far off hill

And whispered, “Good night, Radio tower.”

And wished on a star.

I remember the wishing

But not the wish.

Maybe it’s in those boxes

Somewhere beneath that sloping roof.

Fires in the Green Room

Cold.

Cold is both here and home

And the homestead’s insulation is thin.

But I know now

there’s nothing like a fire to warm you

Here, I turn the thermostat

Heat comes to life, an automatic roar.

But shivering in my apartment’s draft

I know this is not warmth.

I remember: the Green Room

The snow is piled high against the windows

And long rays of light filter in

Above the eaves, icicles shiver

3 p.m. and the air’s getting cool

Knocking snow from our boots,

Dad and I hurry down to the cellar

and gather up the kindling

for the Franklin stove.

The fire takes words

crumpling their ink

and turning yesterday’s news to ash

Then carefully piled twigs come ablaze

eager young branches

and guttering logs.

If the wood is too damp

The fire will blaze and flounder

And you must squat on the stones

And breathe on the coals.

This is what I remember

Warming me.

But here there is only a gush

Of tepid and dusty air

Pretending warmth against my skin

Electricity Outage

Home alone, lightless

I wait in the cold.

It’s so hard to be positive

Sitting alone in the flickering light of a candle

Because snow lies too heavy on power lines.

It’s 4 pm and it’s too dark to read

And the candle flutters too quickly

To steady my eyes with light.

The heat’s off and I’d rather not

Move from the couch where the blanket covers me.

What would we do, I wonder

Without television

Without the internet

Without light and heat and microwaves?
How soon we will perish. I think.

I think, how unfamiliar this darkness feels.

At home, I know where Dad keeps the flashlight

By the radio-cassette player and the tin lunch boxes

The matches and candles

And the ever-ready woodpile.

But here in the city, with lights all around

I thought I’d left the shuddering candle

on Rural Route 2.

I’d taken for granted

The warm showers

The toaster

The electric kettle

The light on the inside of the refrigerator.

But here I am

Thinking so much about myself

And none of it is going anywhere;

All fluttering in darkness

And the future will always be this room.

So I open the door

And go out into the snow.

Remembering Loneliness

Hello old friend

I wish I had left you behind.

But you follow me

Like a habit, whining at my heels.

I can drive across states

And still

You are waiting right there,

To remind me I’m alone.

You whisper to me of 9^th grade dances

And empty summers

Foreign beaches

4H meetings, field trips

And state fairs.

You wave to me as

I stand on the edge of a crowd

Surrounded by laughter

Still pretending that I belong.

Yesterday I existed outside circles

Waving, peeking, asking to be let in.

And tomorrow I will still be as invisible

As an only child.

Oh loneliness—you belong to me,

For every time I would abandon you

I clutch you tightly;

You are so familiar.

I eat another meal in silence—

Feel you creeping up to embrace me;

And wish you would go,

Because I’m just another performer

In this mad dance of incompleteness,

Everyone as alone as me.

The Problem with Leaving

The problem with leaving

There are just so many things

Little odds and ends

Untied shoes and mate-less socks.

Who keeps the oven mitt,

The pie pan

The poster of the Eiffel tower

The soup spoons.

Where’d we keep

All the things

That really matter

There are so many boxes to pack

So many goodbyes

And notes

And words left unsaid.

When you think

It’s time to go

You still need

To fill the car

And the gas tank

Close the door,

Lock it

And return your keys

I wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving

If I could just

Stand up,

And go.

September 8, 2009

            Seven at Heart: Coming of Age in Rural Pennsylvania

I’m going to be twenty-two in ten days, but most of the time I feel like I’m seven.

Seven is the “age of reason,” Dad says. Just old enough to learn how to read, but I already think I know everything. I know how to catch a moth and hold it with its wings pinched together so the dust doesn’t rub off—I know how to light a candle when the power goes out and how to save water, I know where to find the best raspberries and how to catch small mice, I know how to draw a nose, what is the correct way to tie a shoe—I know my best friend’s telephone number by heart. I know how to carry heavy firewood, how to hit a nail with a hammer, how to put in a battery, how to bake bread. I know how to put a worm on a hook, how to tear holes in the knees of my jeans, and the sound the mailman’s truck makes when it rumbles up the dirt road. I know how to bottle-feed a kid, how to find lost kittens under a stack of haybales, and how to crawl under the electric fence without getting zapped.

Maybe I’d be better off making a list of the things I don’t know. I don’t know where the Atlantic Ocean is, or what taxes are, or how cars work. I don’t know how to multiply or divide or write in cursive (I still don’t know that). I have no idea what school is like. To me it seems a vast and terrifying place to which I will never go. I don’t know where I’ll be 15 years from now. I can imagine finding castles and monsters and hearing one of my stuffed animals talking—but I can’t even imagine being any older than I am now. At seven, I can’t imagine being away from home for more than a night. I can’t imagine not wanting to live in my little red farmhouse and tend to my goats.

I’m not seven anymore. How did that happen, and where did it go, I wonder. I can’t imagine being that person, and the memories are fuzzy. Somewhere in those years something happened that meant I am no longer a child. What is coming of age? The next age marker always seems so far off and distant, promising, beckoning, as though at that point we will be an entirely different person. When does it get there? I told myself when I reach the age of 16 I will have no more fears, no more trials and tribulations, I won’t have to listen to my parents anymore. Well, I don’t have to listen to my parents anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. I don’t know how I got from there to here, except living days upon days. I remember lots of snow falling and puddles melting their way into our cellar, stacking wood and picking apples and writing essays about cats and novels like Little House on the Prairie. I remember crying about math homework and crying because my friends couldn’t come over and being silly when someone said the word “penis.” I remember how exciting it was to leave the country for the first time, but I don’t remember a specific point at which I was no longer a child.

There were some pretty evident markers that I was growing up, of course. I went through the awkward haircut-and-glasses phase. I wore bellbottoms with writing on them and sparkly shirts that said “Angel” across the chest. I wore training bras and I learned how to put on mascara; I shaved my legs and stood by the wall at school dances. I wrote love notes and got detention for kissing in the hallway. I gossiped with my friends about periods and boys and who was getting high under the bleachers at football games.  I got my driver’s license, I graduated from high school, and I chose a college. I’m a senior in college—all that’s happened. I’ve gotten graded, I’ve cried, I’ve drank and smoked and laughed and stumbled. I’ve learned how to defend myself physically and verbally. I’ve quit jobs and found new ones, said goodbye to friends and re-connected with old ones. I’ve made some mistakes, and I can write about my experiences and sound like a brochure for college-bound teenagers. But when I think about growing up, I guess I still don’t believe it until I go back over the list. I used to count my independence by all the things my parents didn’t know about me, and now I count it by all the things I can tell them.

Twenty-two is so young. Yet I have been under the sun and rain for so many days, there must be some way to enumerate the things that have made me more adult than I once was. So here is a list: I can survive without someone to feed me. I know how to cook simple foods and I can do so without burning myself or lighting the house on fire. I know that I have emotions: sometimes I have to control them, and sometimes I have to express them. I can take care of myself. I can go somewhere new without having a meltdown and crying in the corner of the airport or bus station. I know how to read a map. I get my work done, and I clean up after myself: I spend a large portion of my time organizing, doing laundry, sweeping, doing dishes, collecting trash. I am interested and curious about the world around me, and I want to learn new things and to be different from everyone else. I know that I am responsible for certain things, like paying bills. There are others out there who look up to me, but I know it’s okay to make mistakes. I have basic knowledge of the world around me, and I know where to go to find some answers. I have ambitions and hopes and dreams and desires, desires that I can act on.

October 1, 2009

It’s cold in the house again, and we’re writing rent checks and planning grocery trips. I know I can do these things. Ever since I stepped out on my own I knew. I am Capable. I’m not a lost little girl, and I don’t need anyone to save me. Just because I’m meek and soft doesn’t mean I don’t belong in the world. I don’t need any advice. I will push them away and push them away if they try. I’ll take all their advice and do the opposite. I am independent, I am reliable, I am strong and stoic and you’ll never see me cry. Never, and by that I mean…before the new moon rises or the full moon waxes, or the hormones trick me softly. Or some sort of criticism crushes me suddenly, unexpectedly. And I fall on my knees & cry like a little baby, hiding in my room. Because nobody, nobody will rescue me. I’ll never let them know. Eyes red, I cover my breath with the pillow and grit my teeth.

And then Monday comes, and I get up in the still dark and scald my throat with tea and Cheerios and stumble up the hill. And read my books, and write my lines, and open my eyes to remember: I am capable. I am strong and independent. The air feels fresh and light, for a moment: again. There’s so much out here to see, and I’m ready for it now.

As long as the full moon hides its shiny face—

I am me.

October 20, 2009

 A Poem on Kisses

Sometimes it’s not about skill

The way your mouth pins me

Calls me, holds me, silences me

Until I am helpless

Breathless, we turn together

Clumsily tripping over shoes and boxes

Hands tangled—our knees clash

It’s not about skill.

It’s not about skill,

The way our lips try to find each other

In the dark

And sometimes you find me

But sometimes you miss

It’s not about skill

How suddenly I laugh

And you (breathe in) the laughter

And hold it in the corners of your eyes.

Doors Rewrite

My door always sticks

As the wood swells on humid days

At the first touch of snowy weather

And summer thunderstorms.

Some doors are welcoming

With honey-warm light

Shining from partially lidded windows

Round knobs and easy steps.

These doors greet me with open arms

Paint peels from the lintel

But I step inside without hesitation

Knowing mom & dad are waiting

There are doors I wait outside—a stranger’s door

I wait and listen for the thud of footsteps

Wondering when he will answer

Wondering what face he’ll wear

Some doors swing too easily

And I stumble into the light

Not ready to go home and leave

The soft familiarity of friendship.

In the morning the doors are heavy

Making me strain my shoulders

To catch their cold metal and glass

And keep them from closing their jaws.

Some are locked, and without the key

I pace back and forth—

I bang my fists on hollow wood

While empty windows reflect my face

But some doors, like mine, just stick—

I don’t know whether I want to be here or there

Am I going or staying—

I need a little push:

Then I’m out, through the door,

Into the world.

Another Place II - Rewrite

The first of November:

It’s cold in my room.

Today the blue sheets are bluer in the windy light

Tangled around our feet they’re hiding.

Get under the covers, I say

And we pull them up around our faces

Like two cocoons hiding in a fog of change.

I breathe into his shoulder, like

This is the only source of warmth in a bare world—

This is some other place.

I know the wind that whispers around the windows

Is the same wind that bites my cheeks.

I listen to the whisper of breath

Soft, like wind in frozen pine trees.

Time to leave, I say to the hum of his heart

But here I am, in my blue cocoon—

If I leave the comfort of his breath on my cheek

I don’t know where I will go from here.

The Safer Thing Rewrite

I feel trapped today. It’s all wait, wait, wait.

I wait for the words to come;

To spring from my throat like a marvelous well.

I wait for the boy to explain

Why I need to feel so lonely

When we’re together.

The boy says, “How are you doing?”

And I say, “I’m ok.”

That must be the answer—so

We sit side by side

And think about everything and nothing.

I reach out to touch him—as though

My fingertips could form some connection,

As though through his eyes I could see past and present—capture

What he thinks in this instant.

He shrugs me off

And he is silent, as though everything

That needs to be said is already there

Hovering in my abandoned fingertips

Last night, we argued about what food to order.
What a safe thing to fight about, I think—

But it wasn’t safe when he hid behind his glowering eyes

And said, “You’re allowed to be silent and I’m not?”

Maybe the words felt bitter on his tongue.

I need to believe in my silence when I hurry home

With tears behind my eyes.

I doubt whether words are safety—is

Silence not a safer thing?

If I don’t say anything he won’t know

How small, how vulnerable I feel

When my fingertips touch nothing.

Here, in my silence, I am safe.

Theme III: Another Place

It’s time to leave.

I can feel the ache of restlessness

In the shivers of air across my forearms.

This place grows small around me.

I know the creak of my room mate’s footsteps on the stairs

And how she struggles with the swollen door

I know the sound of the dryer in the basement

The soft whirl of chores.

I know the biting wind on my cheeks

As I struggle up Hudson to campus

I know the whisper of the pine trees

Beside the chapel pond, where I hide on lonesome days.

I know the relief of Sammy’s—

Pizza, a welcome goal for the tipsy

The hurried, hot smell of burned cheese

Nothing else will do, waiting for TCAT to screech up the asphalt

And sullenly transport you home.

I came here once, searching for adventure

But I saw the trees and rocks were all the same, I

Mapped this land and outgrew it.

What is there for me now but waiting, waiting?

I need something unfamiliar.

It’s time to leave.

But I sit in my tiny white-walled room

Searching for faces in the pixels of my computer screen

Writing to-do lists and crossing them out;

Staying here because I have nowhere to go.

 

(why) ihategames

I don't understand games. I just don't get why they are fun.
Here's my reasoning behind why:
I don't like games. I don't like competition, and I don't like to do things I am not good at.
I'm bad at games because I never play them, and I have never practiced.
I never play games because I don't like them.
Vicious cycle? 

I think it all started when, as a child, I decided to hate sports and math.
This rules out almost every game imaginable. My disliking of games mostly includes organized sports, (which i made a conscious effort to steer away from, resulting in a general lack understanding of the rules, skill, or team spirit), but extends to most card games (too many rules or math), beer pong, and monopoly or risk (too much math, too much competition),  but especially those things people pretend are fun for parties: lawn games.

The number of  (to me) stupid games people dream up to play when they're supposed to be having fun is astonishing. There's ladderball, horseshoes, croquet, mini golf, bocce, skee ball, carpet ball, tetherball, cornhole, badminton, volleyball, dodgeball and frisbee golf.

I was at a party and one of the hosts ran over to me, all excited, and said, "Hey, we're going to play DODGEBALL!" like it would be the most fun ever.  I vaguely remember playing dodgeball in gym, and of course there's that movie of the same name. At that point I shook my head and ran away, overcome by a sense of horror. So while everyone else got to get hit in the face, I sat on the grass and watched. Maybe I could see why it was fun? First the players choose their teams. Then they place the balls in the middle of the field, yell "one, two, three, Dodgeball!" and everyone runs forward, with the people in the front tackling each other or diving for possession of the balls. Once the balls are in hand, they take turns trying to hurl the balls at each other to get the other team out, with the downside that the ball can be caught and thrown back.
No, I still don't understand. Games like that are one thing guaranteed to make me feel completely alien, like another species, or perhaps I have a different kind of rewards system.

There are some games that I like. I like a few board games, if I am playing with people who don't tend to blow up in each others' faces, or spend hours at it. Select videogames can qualify, like Soul Calibur or Left for Dead, and Goldeneye (but I generally prefer games that are played alone). Bowling, because sometimes I find it fun and I am great at wii bowling, and Pool is an exception to the rule because, while I am terrible at it, I think it's cool. Two games I do think are fun, although I have only played each once, are: Man Hunt and Capture the Flag. From what I remember, these seem to be the perfect game.

Feral

If ever I doubted the veracity of evolution, Children confirm it for me.
The nature versus nurture debate becomes even more vague as I watch them tumble, hordes of horrifying energy --
clawing clutching shrieking spitting falling pouncing choking rolling stomping pouting telling lies and spouting secrets.

THEY are not meant to exist in groups. There they become pure animal instinct, grouping, segregating, leading, ostracizing, punishing. They'd stone each other for sure if it weren't for us telling them to PLAY NICE BE GENTLE BE KIND DON'T HIT DON'T BITE STOP KICKING HIM THAT HURTS HIM DON'T PUSH DON'T RUN PLEASE STOP SCREAMING DON'T GRAB THAT FOOD OUT OF HER HAND COVER YOUR COUGH GET A TISSUE WIPE YOUR BOTTOM, WASH YOUR HANDS AND USE SOAP--FORTHELOVEOFGOD USE SOAP

And then they cry, or laugh, and the similarity to a pack of wild baboons is broken -- you see a three year old child of your own species and suddenly it's all right and you scoop them up and hold them tight, laughing, tickling, ready to bite their chubby cheeks and daring to let those tiny, sharp-nailed hands wrap around yours.