I am a Wisconsin-based writer/poet living on the shores of Lake Superior. Essays and poems have appeared in numerous literary magazines and a couple medical journals (well–numerous to me) like Frigg Magazine a few times, Mad Hatter’s Review’s Mad Hat Lit, Third Wednesday, The Writing Disorder, Haggard & Halloo, The Longridge Review, Aqueous Magazine, and more. A memoir is in the making as I prepare myself to go back to college this winter (if all goes well) after being out for six years due to illness. But I know now what I didn’t then–and that’s what I want to do with my time. I am finishing as a Junior at SNHU, majoring in Writing and going after my Masters. I will also be finishing my Occupational Therapy Assistant license, hoping that’ll open doors to how I can implement those into an art therapy program (trauma narrative writing) for people with PTSD and/or have suffered trauma.
(from my PTSD Narratives blog…I vaguely vaguely remember writing it–I surprise myself like that): “…because I want to know that when I looked into the mirror in room six, that that wasn’t god reflecting back at me, but some kind of madness. There is something pitiless and evasive and utterly terrifying out there, and when you lose touch with reality and your emotions are as dead as you are, it gets darker and darker, until you’re in that bin looking into your black pupils, wishing you would end. There is no room for love in the sick. I need to know I saw a godless world with you, and you hurt with me, in your own hollowed out heart. We are all so alone out here in our heads…forgetting to check our blind-spots, that beaten and beating heart…” -Amy
“Take all my secrets, I have no use for them now, no skeletons left.”
On this blog, each poem, each essay, clip and piece is another difficult degree that makes up the matter of where I am going.
To those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities—I wish that they should not remain unfamiliar with profound self-contempt, the torture of self-mistrust, the wretchedness of the vanquished: I have no pity for them, because I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not–that one endures. -Nietzsche
“all at once the ghost has come back
reeling in you know, oh but the difficult is coming
it used to be that you and me played for all of the loneliness
that nobody notices now…I’m coming
I wanted to stay, I wanted to play, I wanted to love you…
I’m coming waltzing in back and pushing into your head please
I wouldn’t pass this by, oh no, and I wouldn’t take more than I need
What sort of man goes by, well I will bring you water
why won’t you ever be glad, it melts into wonder!
I came in prayin for you
why won’t you run into rain and play
let all the tears splash all over you….
the way it falls the way it falls
the way it falls down on you the way it does…”
HOWL by Allen Ginsberg
“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”…HOWL, Allen Ginsberg