Sometimes I pretend that we're dead. Mostly I pretend that you're dead. It's not in vengeance or anger, no violence, you've just passed on. In this afterlife, I understand you're gone, and that it's beyond our control. I nurse the loss, and imagine good things for you. I imagine that finally you can admire women's bodies in public without guilt, without wondering if it's disrespectful to them or if it's betraying me. If it's Sunday, because in the afterlife we are allowed to preserve the most cherished rituals of the living, some of us will still have days of the week and routines. I see you there, reading the Sunday New York Times and sipping strong coffee at the perfect temperature.
In the afterlife, we have those conversations that we never could before because now we have nothing to lose, nothing to cling to. Sometimes these conversations bring a sense of calm and acceptance to our tired spirits.
In the afterlife, we have those conversations that we never could before because now we have nothing to lose, nothing to cling to. Sometimes these conversations bring a sense of calm and acceptance to our tired spirits.
Writings from Summer Institute 2015 Lucia Black
23 is the year
23 is the year
When freedom came
With its empty metallic taste
The rising nausea that cut the appetite
23 is the year
When all the voices you fought so valiantly
to keep at bay
became your own-
your mother’s voice ,
your therapist’s voice,
the voice of your older self,
my voice as imagined by you.
23 is the year
That they all came out of your mouth in turn
With resounding contempt, prickling rejection, annoyance
Damning us as I struggled to discern which voice spoke, which screen to look at, which tact to take.
And now that you are away,
This freedom is not a bitter fruit.
It’s a forced weening,
Withdrawls from my favorite habits of love
Leaving me sweaty and curled up in the sheets that were ours
6/29/15?
Code-switching When you said that you know you broke something really specially, I thought it really was special, not just the intensity of the emotion, but the freedom to express all (or at least many) of our selves. We are many selves and it is so rare that we find a friend with whom those selves are welcome or celebrated even.
The promising professional,
The young romantic,
The 3 year old playing,
The 8 year old wrestling,
The nesting woodland creature,
The sweltering hot young dyke,
The old woman tittering over tea and reading the Sunday Times,
The insolent teenager,
The depressive hiding out,
The anxious and self-doubting,
The poetic soul,
The lover of small gestures and small spoons,
The athlete,
The kitchen dancer,
The only child.
You are ashamed of some of these selves and are ashamed that I was witness?
Maybe some of these selves are exacerbated by being with me, and you wish to be rid of them.
Even louder are the selves that call out to be expressed
that don’t feel comfortable here with me
That send you texts and make you dream of days uninterrupted by gaze
The girl who owns her own life
Answers to no one
Makes out at parties with almost impunity
That rides a cute fixed gear
And fits in with cute dykes her own age
In this arena, I am a relic, a pair of defunct training wheels, an albatross.
With those new eyes scanning me up and down wondering what’s so good about me
And I feel it and you feel it and even as you apologize for it,
More of your selves long to join the group of disbelievers.
I have selves that you have not seen often, if at all. If you are unlucky, you will see the plain and righteous rage of which I am capable.
If I am lucky, I will meet new selves in me that will help me navigate the shaky angry passages of months to come, to give me peace and continue to be willing to have moments of peace and happiness.
7/3/15 (Writing Marathon Day- Final Day of the Summer Institute)
Near the pond at the Arboretum
Letter Addressed to Friends in a Time of Need
Friends,
Now is the time
to pull me along,
to lift me up and carry me across this deserted stretch.
So, ring my phone insistently,
knock loudly at my door,
drive by my house and demand that I get in,
play heartbroken love songs on the radio, look at the stars from the roof,
soak me in the chilly pool to float .
It’s time to invite me and understand when I have to leave abruptly.
Remind me to eat food, tell me a story to take my mind off things
To coax me from a curled up ball with coffee strong and black.
Help me reclaim some of the little pleasures that the world allows, make them mine again.
Help me remember what it’s like to be one of you with hours and days to fill.
7/3/15 Written at the arboretum pond
Requiem
And do you remember the song I made for you?
Puh-cahn, Pee-kaen
Pee-kaen, Puh-cahn
As we skipped through the grass,
spying on squirrels and fondling the bark of a tree.
Then it was enough,
It was enough then
Because I was with you and you were with me.
And do you remember the blooms and the bracken,
the fragrant bush, the creaking song of the lovelorn toads?
Then it was enough,
It was enough then
Because I was with you and you were with me.
And do you remember the dying light,
The untassled corn, the inkling of the moments that we stole?
Then it was enough,
It was enough then
Because I was with you and you were with me.
But now’s no time for nostalgic sighs, for these maudlin memories.
Now is time for anger that propels me away from you, for cauterizing the wound, for a stiff upper lip.
Stop thinking it came too soon.
6/27/15 at Krannert Museum poem inspired by a beautiful woman I know and the statue in the museum, La Venus d’Alexandrie, by Yves Klein which was in turn inspired by a famous classical statue of a woman’s torso.
You, Velvet you
Skin of so many hues
Drawing me in deeper and closer
Obliterating all peripheral vision.
You, Velvet you
Powerful and lusty animal that you are
Carefully controlled most of the day,
But now and then turning in instinct, drawing blood
Only to apologize immediately.
You, Velvet you
Your languid length,
The crease of your eyelid,
Prehensile toes,
Lips so full they must be made for eating berries-
Or is it meat?
7/1/15 From Autumn West’s teaching Demo on using “bad writing” in teaching writing
Written in classroom 42 A of the Education Bldg.
Part I: Compose a 5 line poem using clichés.
Soup Warmed Over
Robbing Peter to pay Paul,
Depleting the stores,
Shit or get off the pot.
Part II: Compose a 5 line bio using clichés.
Personal Bio
My mission in life is to follow my passion for education and make sure to pass on the joy of reading to future generations. I aspire to be a daily writer. I can think outside the box and I’m a free spirit.
6/30/15 written in Krannert Cafe
SCOTUS Right to Marry
I feel like I should be celebrating with my people
even though marriage is not that important to me.
I’m not celebrating.
This makes me sad, I don’t know why.
Me too, she said.
I’m not celebrating.
Where are you now?
I’m at Fiesta Café (the lesbian café) watching women’s soccer.
Oh, so you’re celebrating with the ladies?
Nobody’s celebrating.
I need to be with my people right now. You’re my people.
I’m here with people you know, mostly straight. You can come, if you want.
If I want?
And when I open Facebook, mostly straight people have painted their faces rainbow-colored. THEY are celebrating. They have an app for it.
I’m not celebrating.
I need my people, I need to be with my people. You’re my people.
I’m not celebrating, but you can come if you want.
If I want?
And later: I stayed away in order to spare your feelings, our feelings. She thought at one point that we would stay together forever, that maybe we would marry one day. It seemed too sad and cruel to celebrate.
But what of other’s joy, can we not share? What of the general principle of advancing our personhood? Can we at least not toast to that?
Not now. I cannot celebrate.
I cannot celebrate.
6/26/15 Krannert Café? After going to Meadowbrook to see the fireflies at Meadowbrook park with J.
Twinkle Twinkle
Twinkle twinkle little star,
How I wonder what we are.
Lightning bugs and fireflies,
Blinking in the dark night skies.
Engulfed in nature’s circuitry,
I bring your body close to me
Twinkle twinkle little sky,
I brought you here and you asked why
Beautiful blanket of rolling winks,
You asked, “why invite me”
To witness this electric majesty?
My response is quick for who else would I bring
To this magical summoning?
Twinkle twinkle little tree
How I wonder what we’ll be.
Baby Tavsan
Baby tavsan, foot from my foot,
I let the dog chase you away.
I didn’t yell out, I didn’t even rise to see
If you lay maimed or dead.
I let the dog enjoy the hunt scott free.
23 is the year
23 is the year
When freedom came
With its empty metallic taste
The rising nausea that cut the appetite
23 is the year
When all the voices you fought so valiantly
to keep at bay
became your own-
your mother’s voice ,
your therapist’s voice,
the voice of your older self,
my voice as imagined by you.
23 is the year
That they all came out of your mouth in turn
With resounding contempt, prickling rejection, annoyance
Damning us as I struggled to discern which voice spoke, which screen to look at, which tact to take.
And now that you are away,
This freedom is not a bitter fruit.
It’s a forced weening,
Withdrawls from my favorite habits of love
Leaving me sweaty and curled up in the sheets that were ours
6/29/15?
Code-switching When you said that you know you broke something really specially, I thought it really was special, not just the intensity of the emotion, but the freedom to express all (or at least many) of our selves. We are many selves and it is so rare that we find a friend with whom those selves are welcome or celebrated even.
The promising professional,
The young romantic,
The 3 year old playing,
The 8 year old wrestling,
The nesting woodland creature,
The sweltering hot young dyke,
The old woman tittering over tea and reading the Sunday Times,
The insolent teenager,
The depressive hiding out,
The anxious and self-doubting,
The poetic soul,
The lover of small gestures and small spoons,
The athlete,
The kitchen dancer,
The only child.
You are ashamed of some of these selves and are ashamed that I was witness?
Maybe some of these selves are exacerbated by being with me, and you wish to be rid of them.
Even louder are the selves that call out to be expressed
that don’t feel comfortable here with me
That send you texts and make you dream of days uninterrupted by gaze
The girl who owns her own life
Answers to no one
Makes out at parties with almost impunity
That rides a cute fixed gear
And fits in with cute dykes her own age
In this arena, I am a relic, a pair of defunct training wheels, an albatross.
With those new eyes scanning me up and down wondering what’s so good about me
And I feel it and you feel it and even as you apologize for it,
More of your selves long to join the group of disbelievers.
I have selves that you have not seen often, if at all. If you are unlucky, you will see the plain and righteous rage of which I am capable.
If I am lucky, I will meet new selves in me that will help me navigate the shaky angry passages of months to come, to give me peace and continue to be willing to have moments of peace and happiness.
7/3/15 (Writing Marathon Day- Final Day of the Summer Institute)
Near the pond at the Arboretum
Letter Addressed to Friends in a Time of Need
Friends,
Now is the time
to pull me along,
to lift me up and carry me across this deserted stretch.
So, ring my phone insistently,
knock loudly at my door,
drive by my house and demand that I get in,
play heartbroken love songs on the radio, look at the stars from the roof,
soak me in the chilly pool to float .
It’s time to invite me and understand when I have to leave abruptly.
Remind me to eat food, tell me a story to take my mind off things
To coax me from a curled up ball with coffee strong and black.
Help me reclaim some of the little pleasures that the world allows, make them mine again.
Help me remember what it’s like to be one of you with hours and days to fill.
7/3/15 Written at the arboretum pond
Requiem
And do you remember the song I made for you?
Puh-cahn, Pee-kaen
Pee-kaen, Puh-cahn
As we skipped through the grass,
spying on squirrels and fondling the bark of a tree.
Then it was enough,
It was enough then
Because I was with you and you were with me.
And do you remember the blooms and the bracken,
the fragrant bush, the creaking song of the lovelorn toads?
Then it was enough,
It was enough then
Because I was with you and you were with me.
And do you remember the dying light,
The untassled corn, the inkling of the moments that we stole?
Then it was enough,
It was enough then
Because I was with you and you were with me.
But now’s no time for nostalgic sighs, for these maudlin memories.
Now is time for anger that propels me away from you, for cauterizing the wound, for a stiff upper lip.
Stop thinking it came too soon.
6/27/15 at Krannert Museum poem inspired by a beautiful woman I know and the statue in the museum, La Venus d’Alexandrie, by Yves Klein which was in turn inspired by a famous classical statue of a woman’s torso.
You, Velvet you
Skin of so many hues
Drawing me in deeper and closer
Obliterating all peripheral vision.
You, Velvet you
Powerful and lusty animal that you are
Carefully controlled most of the day,
But now and then turning in instinct, drawing blood
Only to apologize immediately.
You, Velvet you
Your languid length,
The crease of your eyelid,
Prehensile toes,
Lips so full they must be made for eating berries-
Or is it meat?
7/1/15 From Autumn West’s teaching Demo on using “bad writing” in teaching writing
Written in classroom 42 A of the Education Bldg.
Part I: Compose a 5 line poem using clichés.
Soup Warmed Over
Robbing Peter to pay Paul,
Depleting the stores,
Shit or get off the pot.
Part II: Compose a 5 line bio using clichés.
Personal Bio
My mission in life is to follow my passion for education and make sure to pass on the joy of reading to future generations. I aspire to be a daily writer. I can think outside the box and I’m a free spirit.
6/30/15 written in Krannert Cafe
SCOTUS Right to Marry
I feel like I should be celebrating with my people
even though marriage is not that important to me.
I’m not celebrating.
This makes me sad, I don’t know why.
Me too, she said.
I’m not celebrating.
Where are you now?
I’m at Fiesta Café (the lesbian café) watching women’s soccer.
Oh, so you’re celebrating with the ladies?
Nobody’s celebrating.
I need to be with my people right now. You’re my people.
I’m here with people you know, mostly straight. You can come, if you want.
If I want?
And when I open Facebook, mostly straight people have painted their faces rainbow-colored. THEY are celebrating. They have an app for it.
I’m not celebrating.
I need my people, I need to be with my people. You’re my people.
I’m not celebrating, but you can come if you want.
If I want?
And later: I stayed away in order to spare your feelings, our feelings. She thought at one point that we would stay together forever, that maybe we would marry one day. It seemed too sad and cruel to celebrate.
But what of other’s joy, can we not share? What of the general principle of advancing our personhood? Can we at least not toast to that?
Not now. I cannot celebrate.
I cannot celebrate.
6/26/15 Krannert Café? After going to Meadowbrook to see the fireflies at Meadowbrook park with J.
Twinkle Twinkle
Twinkle twinkle little star,
How I wonder what we are.
Lightning bugs and fireflies,
Blinking in the dark night skies.
Engulfed in nature’s circuitry,
I bring your body close to me
Twinkle twinkle little sky,
I brought you here and you asked why
Beautiful blanket of rolling winks,
You asked, “why invite me”
To witness this electric majesty?
My response is quick for who else would I bring
To this magical summoning?
Twinkle twinkle little tree
How I wonder what we’ll be.
Baby Tavsan
Baby tavsan, foot from my foot,
I let the dog chase you away.
I didn’t yell out, I didn’t even rise to see
If you lay maimed or dead.
I let the dog enjoy the hunt scott free.