Shed

I remember when I was eighteen and at a crux in my life; exploding with something I couldn't quite speak; slipping into humanity and about to drop dreams like pebbles—I did a U-turn and died my hair black (long hair too, took a lot of dye), and let it all go. People started to see me as a sort of exposition, "Here comes that girl." I was goth before goth was really cool. The reason I tell you this is that as writers and artists, we go through different molting stages, and this was one of my first. I've had others, and am going through one now. It's messy, it hurts, but a person cannot stay in one state forever and to grow you must shed the excess and go for the raw. When you feel you are on your knees, and it's so uncomfortable you want to die, click it in your brain that it is all happening for a reason. Stay on your knees. Let the skin of society shed; all its expectations; its judgement; its phrases and phases; its food; its greed—let it all go. Hold on to the important things but let the rest go.

You Need Some Sugar in That Coffee

Good Morning beautiful people. Did you have a good weekend? Did you eat pancakes . . . see a movie . . . read a good book? Did anyone make sweet love? Okay, okay, that was a bit much, I know. I'll probably erase it later.

I planted some seedlings in the garden, made toffee, listened to music, it was Record Store Day after all! Yesterday I wrote some long overdue emails in a last ditch effort to not lose any more friends. I think it worked!

The lovely, lovely Jennifer Daiker at Unedited has given me a blog and I'd like to pass it on. It's a little bit sugary sweet, I have to say. I think this picture needs some roughing up. Like bullet holes and scorpions.

Formerly known as the blog award killer, I've decided to actually pass it on to a few of the many sweet people who visit pretty much every day. Thank you!

1. Holly Rugerriero at Scribbles & Splashes

2. Tess Hilmo

3. Erica Chapman at laugh.write.play

4. Kimberly Franklin at Confessions: The Secret Life of a Writer

5. Bonnie at The Muse 30

There, I've done it. Enjoy and thank you again for being such great people.

I'm still feeling a little sick from cute bear. Here's some Queen.

Art Class

I always loved art class. In junior high, it was Jeff Riley and I sitting together all semester exchanging jokes and talking about life while executing each project. We were the best in the class and we knew it, and so took our time, living in our own alternate universe of Garbage Pail Kids and Monty Python skits. We never dated, though he did ask me one time and I—thinking he had finally succumbed to all the other boys' taunts and was just making a joke—refused. Our art relationship was ruined after that. And then, in a nice twist of evil fate, Mom sent my sister and I to a high school in the next town my Freshman year. It was the year I like to refer to as "Hell".

I had no friends, couldn't speak—had no reason to speak—I was too tender for the shift. Huge upperclass boys rammed me into my locker, "F-ing Freshman!" I was growing. My jeans were too tight, and all of a sudden, I felt strange. I hadn't gotten a visit from Aunt Flo yet, but weird things were happening to me, and it wouldn't be long. With no one to talk to, and nothing to hold on to, I drifted miserably to the freak crowd; the gay boy, the fat girl, the mute in thick glasses, the angst-filled young man who stared at me with angry eyes every day at lunch. And then me, lonely silent me.

Every morning Cathy had me start up her huge Pontiac. By the time were headed off down the country roads, the whole neighborhood was filled with a thick layer of smoke from the exhaust. We'd ramble off, praying for the car not to die on the railroad tracks again as it had a few times before. Antifreeze dripped down onto my right foot, leaving a little red mark for the whole year.

Art class was my first foray in the school every morning. Plop down my things. Grab my drawing. Hunch. Then The Doors would start to play—our teacher's favorite band. He was a left-over hippie and I hated how he just left us to work with no direction. But then something happened to me, the music seeped in, the alienation caused something to click in my brain and bred an artist's independence necessary for viewpoint. I began to blossom right there in hell, despite all the shoves and taunts and the freak crowd's strange pull. I had something to carry me through.

Aunt Flo came. Cathy's car died. The next year we went back to our old school where Jeff Riley had already made his way through half the stock of female students. I never did find a place to fit in again, like a ghost wandering in someone else's world. But I had art. And The Doors.

Saturday Faves

The weather has turned cold again, and the skies are tinged with gray. It's one of those days where a person wants to start running, just like Forrest Gump, and keep running until all the frustration of life is gone. Then, after all the miles have passed, you turn around and say, "What was I trying to escape and why am I here?"

Speaking of Forrest Gump, here's a funny video someone made, summersing the movie. Good stuff.

If you don't like Neil Young, then don't watch this. If you do, then do. Oh God, I love Neil Young so much. I know he looks like an old hawk sometimes, but it's all good, baby. I so hope I can see him play in Louisville this summer. Please, please, universe let me go!

And this is like the coolest thing I have ever seen. I love the whole design here. It gets really trippy at the end, but you gotta love that. It's The Beatles!



I crazy love David Hockney. Here he is with a wall of dachshund paintings. If you have a dachshund, you know the love . . .



Have a great Saturday, beautiful people!

Get Out Yer Vinyl!

I'm double posting, but it's okay. Why? Because tomorrow is Record Store Day! If you have a turntable then go visit your local vinyl slinger and pick up the latest tunes. I have so many records it's not even funny, but even so, I think I'll go have a visit in Lawrence, Ks tomorrow to pre-ruse all that oh so wonderful vinyl. I soooo want my next album to come out in record form! This is the cover (unless I change my mind).

If you don't have a an old record player, don't sweat it. YouTube is the god of people with too much time on their hands, and you, my dear friends, shall benefit from their wasted lives. I give to you, a video of a record being played. Grab that latte and pretend you love me.

The Statue of Me

Here's a self portrait, with a slight ego boost. I love the Statue of Liberty and used to have vivid dreams of her when I was in my early teens. I could never figure it out, but now realize it must have been my subconscious laying out the plans for my life ahead, "It's gonna be tough girl, you'd better stand tall." Tall, no problem, but it's this damn standing for all these years that has gotten me weary. The men who say cruel things, tell you to come hither, then trap you with their hate. Other women who bring you down, because they still haven't figured out yet that the world is big enough for all of us and there is no you, me or they. We can all have a piece of cake. And frosting too. Miss Liberte' reminds me that I can love despite all of the cruelty abound. The world will never make me hate. If I never sell a book, or a song or anything, I don't care. What does it matter? It doesn't. Only love matters.

Peace, amy

Boys and Girls

Beautiful boys with their beautiful dreams running all over the earth like streams

Sweet little girls with their magical tales flying across through the sky like sails

Sure there's enough life boats on here . . . and let's go really fast!

It seemed like a great idea, right? Build a gigantic ship with enough watertight compartments to keep any pesky water out and voila! You have a virtually unsinkable vessel. Hey, that's a great selling point: You won't die on our ship. We promise.

But . . . what if it hits an iceberg? No problem. It would have to pierce through more than four compartments to cause any real damage. And that ain't gonna happen.

What if an iceberg does rip through more than five? Pffft. We have wireless operators. If anything bad happens to this glorious ship, they'll call for help. That is, if they're awake and at their stations. Have some wine or something. Geez.

How many lifeboats are there? A lot.

I'm an immigrant. Will I be allowed on the upper decks in the event of—Yeah, yeah. Look, I gotta talk to the chef. It's barley soup and wardolf salad night. See ya when we reach New York!

If I had a time machine, I'd go for a few hours, and roam the ship. I'd stay just long enough to see the ghostly faces lit up by moonlight and buzzing electric lanterns. Men with slicked back hair and haughty expressions, women in corsets and fine delicate skin. I'd go and breathe their last remnants of air before it all happened. I've dreamed it many times. The smell of the saltwater and the expectance in the air. The thick whisky of Fate. And then I'd slip away, quiet, back home to now.

The First-Class Menu As served in the first-class dining saloon of the R.M.S. Titanic on April 14, 1912: First Course: Hors D'Oeuvres or Oysters

Second Course: Consomme Olga or Cream of Barley Soup

Third Course: Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce and Cucumbers

Fourth Course: Filet Mignons Lilli, Saute of Chicken Lyonnaise, or Vegetable Marrow Farci

Fifth Course: Lamb with mint sauce, Roast Duckling with apple sauce, or Sirloin of Beef; green peas, creamed carrots, boiled rice and Parementier & boiled new potatoes.

Sixth Course: Punch Romaine

Seventh Course: Roast squab and cress.

Eighth Course: Cold Asparagus Vinaigrette

Ninth Course: Pate de Foie Gras, celery.

Tenth Course: Waldorf pudding, Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly, Chocolate and Vanilla Eclairs and French ice cream.

And here's a story of a recent ocean rescue. I guess the moral of the story is, not to name your ship TITANIC. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/8606854.stm

The Beatles Have Been Forgiven

The Catholic church has forgiven The Beatles for their drug use and rock star life-style. A little too late perhaps as a couple members are already in the great beyond; forgiveness long granted I'm sure. People always bring up the Lennon quote, "We're bigger than Jesus now," forgetting that it was taken completely out of context. He never said it as a truth, but as an observation to the chaos he was caught in the middle of.

Now Lennon was no saint, and he admitted for himself as well as the rest of the band many indiscrepancies, but he, as I've said before, put himself on the mend throughout his entire life—always trying to change, to be a better man.

I think the church is trying to miserably change the subject from their own, cough, issues. Their PR person needs some serious spanking.

I ♥ Cars

Do you remember your first? Mine lived almost half an hour. The thing was huge, it had a sunroof and dark red velour for God's sake. It was a piece of junk meant to get me far enough away from the seller's property, but not quite make it home. My second first car was a Chevy Cavalier. I still remember the thrill of driving it alone for the first time. My friends wanted to go to the beach, so I put on my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, took a deep breath and drove to pick everyone up. That first ride down the highway was surreal. Freedom.

It really changed my life, having a car. I needed to have something of my own so bad.

My third car was a Ford. Won't be buying any of those again, even if the Mustang looks sweeet. It used to rattle like an old locomotive coming across a makeshift bridge. Then something weird happened to the accelerator and every time I tried to pull out of a stop it was like I was in the Flintstone's. I swear, I had nightmares forever about that damn thing.

Someone bashed into me at a stoplight and killed the Ford. Mercy killing I guess.

Now, as many of you know, I want a 1972 SS Camaro. When I say want, I mean, oh lord . . . WANT. Last week I saw a new Dodge Challenger though. Oh yeah. No one better drive up to my house in that car if they ain't serious.

Cherry Blossom Girl

She walked often, away from the house, down the sidewalk to the park hushed with early evening. Not many people were out then. Weaving in and out of the tree limbs that hung down, laden with fresh leaves, she found a place to sit away from the path. The concrete of the bench was cold.

Here, she could think. Not with the smell of overcooked meat, and greasy potatoes lying stale on a plate chipped with years. Here the air was fresh. Clean.

She thought again of how she could make it another day, just like she had for many days and years. If she could erase each one as it passed, the next one would not seem to suffocate her with its silent coming. She could be ready.

Looking around, she saw the trees had all begun to bloom in the mid-days of spring. The lilacs, the magnolias, the dogwoods, the redbuds, the apples, the cherry trees. They had all moved from dark skeleton, to mother nature's mistress in chiffon. She reached up to touch a delicate blossom. Instantly it began to wilt, its pink tinged petal turning translucent under the heat of her sensitive touch.

Some things were too delicate.

Doomed to live only for a few seconds in the expanse of eternity, unnoticed, prone to death, only for that one moment of exquisite gilded time. She knew what it was to be delicate and unprotected. She too felt the wilting of sensitivity and softness. She knew what it was to bloom and then be touched and die. It happened over and over and yet . . . she still lived; she still loved.

Her fingers traced the stem of the flower. It was tender, green inside, yet strong. It, joined with the trunk, moved all the way down, in rings of age, and layers of bark, through the hard clay into darkness and rock and the upper mantle of the earth. Fearlessly down. So that no matter what—the smell of someone getting high, the pain of another empty bottle hanging from his hands, the curse words, the loneliness, the hunger, the swallowing of everything including the overcooked meat and cold greasy potatoes—all of it cleared away. And even if the blossom seemed weak, it was connected, oh so betrayingly, by a system so strong and vast that the blossom, even when damaged, still survived.

In the harsh cold of winter, and the damaging frost, the sweltering heat, course hands, and a child's curiosity, it still survived. And today, NOW, much like the blossom, didn't have to be so painful. If you saw now as tomorrow or next week or next year, then it would be maybe or I hope or someday. It didn't have to be now.

She let the blossom slide from her palm. A soft fragrance still clung. It stayed, stained on her skin all the way home, through the trees, and along the path, and in through the front door.