From scattered prose

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What’s In a Name

I did this exercise for the Gotham Writing Workshop and I wanted to share this draft because it was fun.  Here goes: Amy. Such a short name–a simple name. A name reserved for a sun-bleached blond girl who fishes with the boys and wants to hook the worms, curious about the guts of dirt. Amy,…

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Free Write Friday with Kellie Elmore

Join in the fun at Kellie Elmore‘s Free Write Friday!  It’s fun and great brain exercise for all you writers out there looking for inspiration.  This week the inspiration for the Free Write is a beautiful summer picture with this quote from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Then followed that beautiful season…Summer. Filled was the air with…

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Found Myself Today Singing

Well it’s been awhile since I’ve written just a post on what’s up with me lately.  Maybe because what’s up is confusing and yet somehow dull to me.  A couple of great things are happening–I’m seeing a new psychologist who leaves around the bend across the lake and I think she’s…brilliant.  Fucking brilliant.  The first time in fifteen years I felt like, in therapy, “this is the one.  She can help me help myself.”  It’s good dammit.  Good.  I quit smoking.  It’s day four.  My singing voice is already almost fully back!! I’m drinking tea instead of coffee to cut…

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I’m About to Get Personal Whoa Shit

Getting Intimate with You Guys.  Thanks for listening/reading: Tonight I’m wondering about what love really is.  Did I have it?  Are there different kinds of love?  I’ve always avoided writing about love, because I have this outer shell that believes it’s ridiculous.  Hmmm.  I had someone.  A keeper.  I grew into loving him.  Is that…

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Gratitude

Well up until today I was having a hard time seeing what I was thankful for.  And then, in a rare and favorite moment, I felt compassion.  Compassion for, well, myself I guess.  My sister told me I’m her hero.  That’s hard to swallow but I believe her I have to because she’s never lied to me.  How someone can say something that fits right into that hole you have, that place where you kick yourself for not being stronger, for not being farther, for not accepting your illness but fighting against it only to worsen the symptoms–that sick cycle…

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Carry Me Like Water

(in response to the question “Do You Believe In God?” over at Storylane) I was brought up strictly Catholic. In college I dabbled in Buddhism and Hinduism, studied the Qaran (Koran?) and Judaism. But I never understood what faith was, or God, or Love, until after I hit rock bottom. When I was 28 my childhood years of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse all came to a head and I had Complex, chronic Post-Traumatic-stress Disorder. I began having psychotic break-throughs daily, along with auditory hallucinations from my Bipolar Disorder. I was chronically dissociating and hearing voices and existing as if…

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amysprague1184 sent you a note: Me: I want my story to be written for one reason: I want to know who I was and that Wha t I’d experienced, all the good and the bad, was real. That I was real. To this day that is the only reason I write: to know I am of some kind of substance.

Me: I want my story to be written for one reason: I want to know who I was and that Wha t I’d experienced, all the good and the bad, was real. That I was real. To this day that is the only reason I write: to know I am of some kind of substance. Sent from Catch Notes for Android https://catch.com

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howl

…to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love

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breaking hallways

They used to call it some kind of crazy–breaking those hallways like that, mercilessly testing your wits for some kind of recommendation on how to live a better time.  It grew into a sad art–breaking everything down to see what it’s made of; breaking the walls because you couldn’t fit through the arches–you with your crates from the last place, busy with your beepers when you wanted earlier to hide beneath the subway and collect change beneath skirts so you could fly fly. It’s become about losing the moments–or desperately believing in great ones, treading across days and months to…

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The Nothing Caper

It came in the night. We were all sleeping in the house and I woke to it lifting my sheets; it made my nightgown bleed. My doll saw it all so I ripped out her eyes the next morning before breakfast. Then it started coming in my dreams, and I thought there was a monster beneath my bed gathering my dolls and things. On the scratchy carpet where the sun comes in, it branded my skin with its tongue, so I gave it my voice. Mother and father swallowed it up. They found me in corners and closets and they…

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