Saturday, April 23, 2011

learning to talk again

I forget that I have a story. All the pieces of my life are so fragmented, detached, as if they happened to someone else. I wish I could put them together, and really feel them, make sense of them, and know that they matter. Even if just to me.


a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine,
suddenly two years old sucking her thumb,
as inward as a snail,
learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back"

~Anne Sexton

Monday, April 11, 2011

Secret Weapon

"...just as long as nothing was more important than food. This is how anorexia can save you. This is also how it can kill you. This is where living and dying become the same thing."

Loud in the House of Myself, Stacy Pershall

photos by: Francesca Woodman

Monday, April 4, 2011

"you cry your needs, bold as a six-week-old kitten"

I collect fathers like fallen change scooped desperately into hollow pockets, abandoned by adult daughters or disappointed sons. It’s ironic, myself a deserted daughter. But these fathers try to redeem themselves and I want their care, any care. I want to be contained and cared for in the purest form. I listen to stories retold over and over, absorb scolding and advice, bask in the glow of the smallest praise and recognition. It’s pathetic, this 20 something grown-up 6-year-old adopting dads who are an imperfect illusion, dying to be the perfect child for the reformed bank robber, the lonely liquor store manager, any older man who will see the fragile broken girl and not cross a line. I wear the pink plastic watch he picked out, ask the right questions, accept rides home, a ragdoll child dying of thirst, whoever you want me to be.

“…pretend I am a person

and love me back into my flesh”~marge piercy