Blog Manifesto

Blog Manifesto


This blog is dedicated, as the title would suggest, to the qualities of being young. We are young writers. We are playful and sensitive, fluid and changing. We are unashamed with our art. We wonder at the world, puzzle over the meanings of things and twirl in delight at images and ideas that float by, grabbing at them as they pass. We are curious and constantly inquiring and prying concepts open and taking assumptions apart. We are on the ground, close to the earth. We have bare feet and wiggle our toes into nature. We carry our blankies still and wrap up cozy and comfy with each other and tell ghost stories and shiver at creepy things. We laugh and we cry and we take a lot of naps, drained from our outings and exertions.

We write as gifts to each other, tying them up in ribbon and leaving them around for each other to find, hiding and waiting for the person to wake up and read. Surprise! We weave our stories together to create a bond. One writes, then the other. then another again. We have a shared reality that we have crafted, bit by piece by patch, by string. We write simple, honest authentic things, with our unique voices. You can tell each one of us from the other, without knowing who wrote what. Our voices are clear and gentle and original. We whisper and our personalities roar! Like children, our feelings are strong, our passion for what we write shakes us. We are moved and sometimes left breathless, by our own words or the words of each other. We cannonball into each others spaces. We fall backward into each others writing, like into a pile of leaves or a soft bed. We gobble and grin and ask for more. (footnote kudos to JC)

Then we go to bed, wake up to a new day and do it all over again!

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Rescue me.


Oh shit this is supposed to be a poem  LMAO




Rescue me,  please.
Whisk me away.
take me as your own.
Fold me in your arms.


Mmm, I feel safe and secure next to your heart.

 ==============================================================

When I was little, I got to go to the store 'in town' with my mom.   That meant seeing people and toys and fancy magic doors that opened when you walked up to them.  It also made me nervous, so I would twist the hem of my dress and generally act like I had never seen anything in my life, which was usually true.

One day this nice lady walked by me in a store and I left my mom's side and followed her.  I stood behind her in line and tried to get up the courage to take her gloved white hand in mine.  I was hoping that she would take me home and let me be her little girl.  I tried to go out the front door with her but was stopped at the threshold and scolded.   I dreamt about her that night.  She had put me in a quilted bed all my own, and fed me little sandwiches and tiny finger cakes in the morning and brushed my hair and told me I was pretty..

Reality was different.  In third grade, my teacher asked me to ask my mom if she would allow me to stay over night at her house.  If things went well, she would ask my mother and I to come live with them, to give my mother 'opportunities' and perhaps to 'rescue me' though it wasn't said like that.  It was said tactful and carefully so my grandfather would not be angered.

It was a pretty big deal to stay with teacher.  I had to lug a suitcase to school, with night gown in it and what nots that my family deemed necessary for this unheard of new fangled thing of sleeping at someone elses house.

 I didn't have the heart to tell her that my mom was the one I needed rescuing from.   Any way that plan floundered; a story for another time.  But the seed was planted at an early age.  I did not have to live this way, someone thought I was in danger.  I was not doomed  forever.

I got up the gumption when I was fifteen and rescued myself.  I maneuvered into a foster home by simply not taking no for an answer.

It was a start.




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