Small Parts (2)(excerpts from a work-in-progress)

a possible insert to “Small Parts”  

            To a little girl, his face was the moon.  He had a big chin like that, and a heavy forehead that shadowed his large, lashless eyes.  In later years, the years where he sat around a lot and stared from his recliner into the wall, or into corners, or out the window, his eyes developed this film over them that made it look like he was crying all the time.  I pretended he was, to find significance.  I imagined those red-rimmed, swimming eyes shrunk in on themselves because he saw me—damaged—before I even knew it.  He saw my future breakdown in the very manner I fought against him and my mother.  I was stubborn.  I was a burier.  I’d dig forever to retrieve my parts, because they were mine.  But those eyes, in the early years, shone clear with one of three states: personal satisfaction, witty sarcasm, or white anger—when all’s you could make out when you turned your head to see how far back he was from you were his pupils inside wide, white circles.  When you’re a child, you’re a fool to run, but it’s instinct.  And when you can’t run anymore, you run inside, stride for stride, etching scars across your psyche like ice-skating. 

            To a little girl, his very presence was an odd curiosity.  No hands-down, palms-up.  Hands belonged in pockets or around newspapers or cigarettes.  He had a strut that made his stiff blue jeans make a “whisk” sound.  He wore shiny, black boots.  I never saw black so shiny.  I loved to watch him polish them.  I’d sit closer than my sisters dared so I could breathe in that polish smell.    

—stuck here, come back to it


            It was just after the climax of the spoken (and lied about) betrayal.  The cover-up.  The thing I-must-not-tell-anyone.  And I knew better, and they knew I knew, so their patience took a seat to their anxiety as they tiptoed around me, waiting for the dreaded phone call or the cops to arrive.  Time, even at those moments, can have a way of halting everything in a moment and making it stand-still, as if it had its own life.  My dad came outside to the deck which I was standing on.  Now this was out-of-custom because one of my given demands was that he “stay the hell away from me.”  Part of the bargain.  This time, judging by his eyes, he had been crying.  He cried a lot in those days, but I steeled myseblf to it.  I had no room for pity for molesters and pedophiles. And I was his captive.   I glanced at him as if there was nothing there, and stared straight out into the willows.  His slippers scraped across the boards and he settled at a good distance.  ‘Come on Lori, come on come and get me’ I was thinking.  What he said must’ve killed him.

            “Amy, I want you to know something…I want you to do something with your life.  You have the most talent and the most potential than in anyone I’ve ever seen.  And I mean that.  Don’t waste your life.”  I stopped breathing, speechless.  My chest hurt.  He turned and walked inside.  That was the first time in my life that someone believed in me—someone I had once looked up to and begged for attention.  For one second, I was his daughter and he was my father.  For one moment I meant enough to be told that.  For one moment, I ached for that dad I always wanted.  And then it was gone.  I had an alcoholic biological father who was too drunk to recognize me, and a step-dad who watched me shower, and a mother who hated me.  But that moment wasn’t diminished, because he meant it.  I know he did.  For some reason, no one else could have said it that I would’ve believed.

…excerpt/CLIP/the Present…

     I never quite know who I am.  When I have a long enough stretch of time where I’m in my own skin (my own mind), I feel like I have more room inside to breathe.  I think ‘So this is me.  This is who I am.  Ok, then, let’s go.’  And then, some Tuesday,  DPD (Depersonalization Disorder) opens its mouth and I fall silent in the chaos of that vacuum.  I’ve lost me again.  No reasoning or science or soul-searching or writing.  I am disabled from the pen and so I know it must be real.  Just my physical stillness and internal cavity that is crying–the cry that offers no relief, but more panic.  I see all my thoughts in a speeding parade of sentences that pour from the mouth.  Mine doesn’t move or quiver.  I can’t feel anything but this aching tiredness and piercing terror.  All thoughts without emotions, all memories without any attachment–my skin is loose and thin.  I don’t speak at these times because I don’t know the girl that will form the words.  She’ll talk in short replies in a voice I don’t know.  This isn’t me.  And I’m slipping.  Everything is false–the world around me–merely particles of matter that aren’t there–they’re mirages.  They’ll dissolve away, and leave me here, alone, to madness.  I may not return.  …Three days later, or sometimes just three hours later, it’s over.  I made it.  I’m tight in my flesh and the bedsheets are cool beneath my fingers.  Okay.   Round 967 over.  Get up.

(excerpt) Broken Sidewalks

The basement is everywhere.   A corner houses shelves of limping cardboard, labeled by some thin marker zigzag that can’t be read because there’s no light bulb over there.  We call this the dungeon and sometimes it’s where Barbie goes when she’s mad.  I give the pink corvette a push and she sails into the scary shadows.  In the corner by the steps, old sheets and sleeping bags are weighted down on ledges and chairs, some twisted and knotted around the metal poles to make forts and rooms.  I see all the lace and concrete finery in the Snoopy sheets; in little padded nooks, my lipsticks and mirrors shine.  Pink high heels swallow my feet to the ankles and jewels hang heavy in my hair.  The space where we couldn’t get the sheets to reach is the gap between worlds.  Above the webbed ceiling sits dad in his rocker, chain-smoking to Deep Purple.  But down here anything could come at us–monsters, princes, Johnny Castle from Dirty Dancing.  The trees from where the wild things live loom over us in colored pencil scratches.

Thoughts on what I’m doing here…

…when the hand races across the page, you don’t know what, and then there it is.  That’s what it’s about.

Creative Nonfiction, Poetry, Essays, Scattered Prose, and the Literary Lyrical–no rules.  No stuffy attitudes.  No fluffy prose.  No lies and no puffy truths.  Just simple writing–uncensored, detailed…a documented love affair, if you will, with the issues and moments at hand.  Scattered, random wit and a touch of the heart if I can’t help myself.  I write.  It is all I do.  I hardly know what the hell I’m thinking or feeling until I see it in font.  And music–music and the words from the greats of an older time that I wish to have been a part of.


  • Howl…there are no poets here gathering in the streets, humming Zen.  Small towns don’t do that./We hide our bodies in fictions and hide our minds in music and fixes/we either dream endlessly and deny reality or squeeze out reality’s final breath in a desperate attmept for   its       devotion…
  • …if you are with your estee lauder, on the cul-de-sac listening to your beeper/when you wanted earlier to hide beneath the subway and collect change beneath skirts so you could fly fly/…the gentlemen watch with their scotch and the new age changes art into new forms, traveling in to seek an out but there is no out,/to any of it/ a march presumes but there is only space and the of-the-moment deals and eclipses of the heart that you will save…
  • I’m a five-year-old in heels, smashing my makeup on the ground, crying into the locked yellow door (of “the bin”).  (PTSD creative writing “Panic of Peace”)
  • …and my memoir has no page numbers…