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!

Sunday, February 12, 2012

..my ma..

they say my ma was ten feet tall the day that she died
i dunno i wasnt there
withered and weary and frightened
she stood ten feet tall

she was ten feet tall
when they sent her out to field
unwanted
riding her cow, Buttercup

she was ten feet tall
the day my daddy married her
the picture says it all
i never saw her smile like That

she was ten feet tall
when my brother and i were born
and they wouldnt let her see him
and they took away his Leg

she was ten feet tall
the day i found her in the closet crying
the day she read the newspaper..
and saw her daddy was Dead

she was ten feet tall
when daddy had his stroke
tenderly rubbing lotion on his feet
while he lay thinking he was a POW..

she was ten feet tall
the day my brother walked
when my daddy walked my sister down the aisle.. just 6 months after his stroke
and the day i sang at Carnegie Hall

sometimes i feel i am ten feet tall, like my ma...
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