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from thegiftsoflife.tumblr.com

I am a Wisconsin-based writer/poet living on the shores of Lake Superior.   Too disabled to work, (and I started lots of college) and too full of ideas to sit still.  A memoir is in the making as I continue writing poetry and essays for literary and medical journals.  I would have married Henry Miller.

Or Anais Nin.

–amy

“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.” ― Alan Wilson Watts

My Creative Nonfiction Writing blog — A collection of poetry, memoir,

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from ghostreunion.tumblr.com

essays, music, music & writing, and thoughts, many to do somewhat with centering and expanding from living with PTSD and Bipolar Disorder and a curious life so far.  Each poem, essay, clip, piece is another degree that makes up the matter of where I am going.  I am training to become a peer specialist for the mentally ill in my area and i plan to continue college, double majoring in psychology and writing all in hopes of what i want to do more than anything–to help trauma victims/survivors heal through learning how to write their narrative and express their experience.

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”

–The Bell Jar

“One doesn’t become an artist overnight. First you have to be crushed, to have your conflicting points wpid-0ce1b3ae9bbdbee83e9dee5756afb36e.jpgof view annihilated. You have to be wiped out as a human being in order to be born again as an individual. You have to be carbonized and mineralized in order to work upwards from the last common denominator of the soul. You have to go beyond it in order to feel from the very roots of your being.”

–Henry Miller, The Tropic of Capricorn

“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 on Suffering

000000000000000000000000000000000000zzzz“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

(photo at etsy)

The space between
faith and failing—as fragile
as my grandmother’s slip–
I see
those two don’t exist
as I had thought they did.
After waking–
as if from a cave and floating out
into an inlet in an ocean,
left for dead–
your eyes need months to adjust, your breathing
needs to steady, you can’t speak
or understand the horizon
and then
there
blinding linens, her knotted hands
on the clothespins, pulling down
the white cord beneath white clouds
by the Birch tree;
whites
color around my thoughts
as if surviving meant
that the only truth
was there.
–amy

They took me to the hospital and some small part of my mind wanted to go. Some small part of me. Small parts—that’s all we really are, aren’t we? And in the grand scheme of things this is all insignificant. We’re just statistics. Facts. Bodies filing into clinics for revival and pills and assessment. A small part of me wants to lay in a hospital bed for the rest of my life, watching tubes feed into and out of me; white coats, white blankets, white. Fix me, medical people. --excerpt from Small Parts

They took me to the hospital and some small part of my mind wanted to go. Some small part of me. Small parts—that’s all we really are, aren’t we? And in the grand scheme of things this is all insignificant. We’re just statistics. Facts. Bodies filing into clinics for revival and pills and assessment. A small part of me wants to lay in a hospital bed for the rest of my life, watching tubes feed into and out of me; white coats, white blankets, white. Fix me, medical people. –excerpt from Small Parts

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