—IF YOU’RE BORED, MAYBE GIVE ME A HEAD START 

  

…24 

hours in a day.

No more. No less. That’s all 

I have to work with. To do my 

best to keep my thinking in 

check. To pray often. To trust 

that God cares about me and 

wants me to succeed. To hold 

on and not give up. To do for 

others what I can. To give God 

my weaknesses and triggers. 

To grow humility and a deeper 

gratitude. To have peace at the 

end of every day.

  --sign in Ocean Park, WA, first thing you see when you walk in to begin your first day of recovery

 

 … “I was voted Ugliest Girl on the school bus in sixth grade. It was painful. I went home sobbing and said to my parents, ‘I’m never going to school again.’ My father sat me on his lap, picked up my chin and said, ‘You’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me.’ It helped—a little.”

     “My father always pushed me to try. When I was 19 and wanted to go to Paris and model, my mother was hesitant. But my father was like, ‘Here’s some money! Here’s your ticket!' There’s no harm in trying, he taught me. So, I did.”

--Lorraine Bracco

 

…What matters? Everything.

 

…The other night I went through nearly all of the photos in my phone, cleaning things up. In almost every one, I look so grabby, as if I’m desperate for affection and can’t let go.

 

…You don’t look the same, but look at you now.

 

…Kids can be cruel, but so can adults. And when either are, it’s always about them, not you. Try to remember that.

 

…Watching someone try to eventually score a goal in soccer is like foreplay that never goes anywhere.

 

…I woke up feeling so grateful this morning—grateful for everything I’ve been given and everything I’ve experienced. That’s a feeling I wish I had more often, and, yeah, I know who’s to blame when it doesn’t happen.

 

…It really is remarkable what taking a minute or two to write a heartfelt note can do.

 

…My favorite people, the ones I want to be around the most, the ones I trust the most, are those who aren’t afraid to be vulnerable, who let you see their ugly parts. Because I have mine, too.

 

…You appeared in 47 searches this week.

 

…You can try, but you can’t forgo everything.

 

…I guess most people have a Shylock in their lives, including me. So, I’m sorry for being such a dick about yours.

 

…Everyone has their own version of a story. And it’s not about getting it right or wrong. It’s about remembering what was so important when you felt it.

 

…The other day I turned on the television and Satan was literally on every station, so I switched it to the Spanish channel and left it there. We’re all trying to figure out our own ways of surviving this insanity.

 

…It can be really hard, I get that, but isn’t it always better if you just come out with it?

 

…When someone says, “Don’t take this the wrong way,” you know what they’re really saying, what they really mean. 

 

…Even a monster, no matter how stupid it is, knows what it’s doing. 

 

…I still don’t understand who decides these things, like why all of Ryan Adams’ music was pulled off of streaming yet you can find Kanye’s or Chris Brown’s entire catalog. 

 

…Even without the horrors of slavery or an acknowledged Caste System, “Know Your Place” is still very much a thing.

 

…I’m not the type to run up to a celebrity and ask for an autograph, yet when I saw Joanna Rakoff just sitting there at the bar, five feet from me, I became one of those assholes; I barged into the conversation she was having with a friend and gushed like a middle-schooler. I hope, in some way, she understood it was really just about how much her words affected me.

 

…A lot of times, I wish I wasn’t an introvert, that I could be Mr. Brightside in a crowd instead of the wallflower I am inside. But then I realize that’s someone else’s movie, that they have the spark and energy to make it happen, and I’m genuinely glad to sidle over to the coffee bar and stand there awkwardly.

 

…When you finally meet someone in person that you’ve known so well online and find out they’re the same person you thought they were, or even better, well, it really doesn’t get much better than that. I mean, how could it? 

 

...It wasn’t in a romantic way, but last week someone told me I was easy to love. I’m not so sure about that.

 

…You have to be something of an artistic savant to make rhyming poetry not suck. 

 

…Also, it’s always challenging to make “heartstrings” happen in a poem. 

 

…A lot of times I think to myself: Get over yourself already.

 

…You can tell how much someone cares about you by how many questions they ask when you’re with them.

 

…I learned so much about ego last week.

 

…There’s a last time for everything, but we won’t ever know.

 

…There’s worry, and then there’s the worry you have for your kids.

 

…Having to edit your thoughts before you share them for fear of how they may, or may not, be received—that’s a kind of hell into itself. 

 

…Sometimes it’s like—Jesus, really?

 

…People always seem shocked when I tell them I’m a Christian. And I, get it, how Christians are portrayed, and that I’m pretty flawed. But if someone put a gun to my head and asked me to denounce my belief or be shot, I’d let them pull the trigger. Go ahead and judge me if you want.

 

…There’s nothing without context.

 

…It’s a long game and they’re gonna tell you it’s not.

 

…You never look good trying to make someone else look bad.

 

…“I went on a date with a guy who spent the entire time psychoanalyzing me. I naively thought he was trying to fix me (not good either) because he liked me. Back then I was still turning to others for acceptance/approval. (I don’t know if that ever entirely goes away but that inclination is far less for me now.) The next day he texted me that I just wasn’t a fit for him, but he wished me luck. This was after he pulled so much information out of me. I felt exposed and like a fool. I’ll always remember that guy. It was a great lesson. People need to earn your stories and vulnerabilities. And one can’t fix you. That’s an inside job, thank God.” Jasmine Love

 

…If you think about it, it’s extraordinarily rare to be able to trust someone. I mean, like trust sharing all of your bad parts and having no fear doing so.

 

…I don’t know why I always think of the right thing to say after it’s too late.

 

…“Never worry about being obsessive. I like obsessive people.

Obsessive people make great art.” Susan Sontag

 

…I’m only good at the games I play alone.

 

…You can’t blame the thunder for sounding like that. It’s got a lot to be angry about.

 

…I’ve realized lately that when I get really upset with someone, I’m actually just angry at myself. 

 

…“For the life of me” is a pretty dramatic (and yes, clichéd) way to start off a sentence, yet how can people do it? Stand him, I mean? 

 

…I always thought blurbs were kind of bullshit, but after a few of the books I read recently, I’m now convinced.

 

…Again, what’s so bad about wanting to be seen?

 

…I think my daughter might be right: my drug is other people’s happiness.

 

…“I do my best because I’m counting on you counting on me.” Maya Angelou 

 

…Whenever I’m criticizing someone in my head now, I try to stop and remember I’ve been that petty before, too.

 

…“The only thing more embarrassing than writing more than one book is writing that first book.” William Minor

 

…Why am I so bad at saying No? I guess it’s just another weakness.

 

…I have to remind myself that not everyone’s going to love the things I love as much as I do, or even at all. And that’s okay.

 

…Even on those mornings I miss him swimming, it’s still a comfort to know the beaver’s out there in the lake. 

 

…“BE BRAVE FRIDAY

Here's a big truth about me (big truths are sometimes brave): Sometimes I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing, but I do it anyway. 

Here's another one: I am okay with just being me. People are constantly trying to toughen me up, telling me to be fiercer, more outspoken, less (cough) milquetoast. 

I am someone who has nightmares about M.T. Anderson telling you that you can't read your passport and you're going to miss your plane or Amy King saying, 'Carrie! HURRY UP!' 

Nightmares aside, I'm okay with just being me. Someone who keeps trying. Someone who is sort of naive about the world sometimes and who keeps consistently forgetting how evil things can be. Someone who still hopes. Someone who uses big colors and big emotions to live. Someone who believes in magic. 

I hope, I really hope, that all of you can be okay with you, too. Sometimes it is an act of bravery to be that way, but the thing is? You get used to it once you do it a lot. 

It's okay to be you. 

Really. 

Even when other people want you to be something else. You can be you.”

--Carrie Jones

 

…“Behind every good drawing are a hundred bad drawings, so get to work.” Lynne Knight

 

…Lucky you. Lucky you.

 

Therapy llama, 27, named world’s oldest llama: ‘Kind of like a dog’

 

By Cathy Free

 

The day Whitetop the llama arrived at a North Carolina camp for kids with medical conditions, he understood his assignment.

“There aren’t many animals that care for the kids like Whitetop does,” said Billie Jo Davis, barn director for Victory Junction camp in Randleman, North Carolina.

The bucktoothed llama was 8 years old when a ranching family donated him to the camp nearly two decades ago. Since then, he’s sat with hundreds of campers and soaked up their affection, calmly offering his shaggy fur for kids who need it most.

“I’d never seen a llama before, and I was surprised when he liked to be petted, kind of like a dog,” said camper Colton Dixon, 14, who started going to the camp after he was diagnosed with an abdominal condition.

“He seems like he’s having fun with it. He’s a pretty cool llama,” he said.

The 27-year-old llama was named last month as the world’s oldest llama by Guinness World Records, beating the previous record holder, Dalai Llama, by 250 days. The average lifespan for a llama is about 20 years.

When Davis heard about Dalai Llama’s death, she thought maybe she could get Whitetop some recognition. It turns out Whitetop was awarded two Guinness titles: the oldest llama in captivity and the oldest llama in captivity ever.

Whitetop enjoyed some extra alfalfa that day in celebration and happily posed for photos, Davis said.

“He loves doing selfies — he’ll usually turn his head like he’s trying to get the perfect pose,” she said. “He’s got the routine down.”

Although Whitetop has arthritis, he is otherwise healthy, she added, noting that he eats a mixture of dry llama feed and senior horse feed, topped with wet alfalfa.

The llama has always been sociable, Davis said.

“When people aren’t around, he likes to hang out with his best friends, a cow named Gus-Gus and two miniature donkeys, Jed and Jethro,” she said. “When it’s nice outside, they all like to hang out together in the pasture.”

The 84-acre camp is home to a menagerie of farm animals, including horses, goats, donkeys and rabbits.

Victory Junction was founded in 2004 by retired stock-car racer Richard Petty in memory of his son Adam Petty, who was killed in a car racing accident in May 2000 when he was 19.

The year-round camp for children with serious medical conditions offers access to rock climbing, swimming, boating, fishing, archery, bowling, arts and crafts and a giant barnyard.

As soon as families show up to see the farm animals, Whitetop will plop down in the middle of the horse arena and wait for them to come to him, Davis said.

“He loves to be petted and groomed, so we’ll give the kids brushes,” she said. “Whitetop supplies a lot of sensory input for our campers with the way he smells, looks and feels. He helps them to open up as they interact with him.”

Whitetop has never spit on anyone, she added, though llamas have been known to do so if they feel threatened.

“Whitetop doesn’t spit, even if he’s getting shots or vet care,” Davis said. “He’s always been very docile, and he loves to snuggle. When kids realize he’s an old llama, they’ll come over to take selfies and they’ll fall in love with him.”

Stephanie Wilkerson, an ambassador volunteer at the camp, said she met Whitetop when he first came to Victory Junction.

“I was a teenager then, and I’d recently been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes,” said Wilkerson, now 33. “I remember sitting down next to this soft white llama and just loving on him. He wasn’t intimidated or afraid and you felt you could say anything to him.”

He never spilled a secret, she said, and deserves all the recognition for his graceful aging and dedication to the campers.

“He’s done so much for this camp — there isn’t a person who doesn’t love and appreciate him,” she said. “He’s the world’s oldest llama, but he’s also the world’s sweetest.”

 

—I DON’T CARE IF MONDAY’S BLUE

 

My Favorite Sweater

 

You are my 

favorite sweater, 

frayed and musky, 

collar sagging 

like a broken jaw, 

lazy threads dangling, 

cat or dog hair pinched 

between the fabric, 

sleeves stretched out, 

cotton faded from years 

spent sun-bleached and 

laying on a mattress, 

praying to be worn again 

and never taken off, 

the first and last 

garment I reach for 

in every dream I’ve ever had, 

the ones where we 

wear nothing at all 

but the skins of gratitude. 

 

--I’M STILL KEEPING ALL MY HOPES UP HIGH 

 

I’m days removed from AWP now. The high has started to fade, though filaments of joy remain, settled somewhere inside my chest cavity like a new organ, pulsing softly.

 

AWP (A Writers Program), or in this case, a juggernaut of some ten thousand scribes, moves from city to city each year like a miraculous carnival bearing gifts for those brave and bold enough to seize them. I say “brave” because most writers are, by nature, introverted, somewhat awkward beings, unused to swimming amongst throngs of humanity—strangers, accomplished artists, emerging writers, students, publishers, teachers, scholars, public speakers, and such.  

 

Most people who attend have a specific mission—find their manuscript a home, connect with people in the writing community, attend panels, fix a plot problem, or simply get unstuck. 

 

I’ve been every one of those examples, this being my 12^th AWP. A person I admire very much wrote me saying, “I guess we’re part of the old guard now.” And maybe she’s right. But the one thing AWP is sure to make happen—if you show up and do your level best to get out of your shell--is rekindle your passion. 

I only remember a single Bible verse: this one—“Lord restoreth unto me the joy of my salvation”—which was written by David when he was in a pretty dark place in his life.

I wouldn’t say I’ve been in a dark place, but it hasn’t exactly been shimmering. Every day I write at least three or four “things,” but for the last several years, unless queried, I’ve sent those nowhere. Hence, they’ve just been dying in my computer.

 

But something happened to me, as it always does when I’m at AWP. Something that’s really difficult to explain to anyone outside of the writing world. For four days, I was dropped into this nether world that is very much like college where you’re surrounded by like-minded people who love, and even crave, the very same things you do—Art. The art of words and language and the distinct beauty they create.  

For instance, I heard Ben Drevlow open up a reading with the booming words, “I am your Trash Daddy,” while proceeding to speak of trash in stunning, metaphorical ways for ten minutes straight while not once glancing at a piece of paper. 

I listened to Tara Campbell read from her phone about a “tired uterus” that made me laugh and swoon and check myself.

Nancy Stohlman’s piece about a lost phone, a lost love, a lost phone number bouncing back and forth in time was riveting, mysterious and mesmerizing. 

And on and on it went. On some scale, everywhere I looked something miraculous was happening, or else someone remarkable was standing mere feet away.

But for me to try to describe this to someone who isn’t a creative junkie? Well, I’m not that talented or articulate. I’d sound like a loon to them, and I get why. Trash Daddy? Tired Uterus? Dude, lay off the psychedelics. 

I can’t expect anyone to understand that one of my favorite parts was being jammed into a single hotel room, reading with thirty jittery, sweaty, awkward writer types. Or the sheer joy of finally meeting Sarah Freligh, who is part gunslinger, part human tornado, and 100 percent brilliance, nearly shouting at me, “Aww, Fuck Len!! It’s you.”

 

To my way of thinking, to my heart, it doesn’t get any better than all that. And so, yes, the euphoria is slipping some now, but where there’s a crack or two, a thick scrim of gratitude fills every vacant space.

 

I loved meeting, hugging or laughing, with every one of these incredibles:

 

Robert Vaughan, Kelli Short Borges, Joani Reese, Katherine DiBella Seluja, Kim Chinquee, Frances Badgett, Jackie Doyle, Lori Sambol Brody, Beth Gilstrap, Elissa Field, J.D. Islip, Luke Rolfes, Kathryn Silver-Hajo, Sarah Freligh, Vallie Lynn Watson, Sara Lippman, Jayne Martin, Brett Pribble, Nina Schyler, Kristen Henderson, Nancy Stohlman, Alina Stefanescu, Jennifer Vulgamore Vanderheyden, Kim Magowan, Michelle Ross, Tom Hedt, Mathieu Cailler, Amy Amarilis, Donna Hilbert, Sarah Chavez, Miette Reader, Sherry Flick, Kona Morris, Tommy Dean, Michael Czyzniejewski, Kai Coggin, Lynn Mundel, Helen Rye, Christopher Allen, Ki Russell, Tara Campbell, Roberto Carlos Garcia, Brenna Kischuk, Josh Gaines, Stephanie Austin, Ben Drevlow, Melissa Flores Anderson, Robert James Russell, Claudia Monpere, Kim Steutermann Rogers, Shaun Anthony McMichael, Joanna Rakoff, Dylan Krieger 

 —WHEN YOU HAVE FOREVER TO THINK, EVERYTHING BECOMES BEAUTIFUL         

 

Trees

 

Sometimes I get jealous 

of the trees 

so stoic and sober 

how nothing rattles them 

but earthquakes

they even dance when its windy 

Tango Cha-Cha The Macarena 

and sure they could be cut down 

but couldn’t we all 

aren’t we all cut down lately

licking our paws obsessively 

like dogs eaten up by parasites  

the trees taller than giraffes 

earth’s loftiest creature 

the trees as patient as sundown

the trees staring blithely below 

at our foibles and predilections 

like ancient owls with too much 

time on their hands 

the trees who know all 

secrets of Mother Earth 

the trees who might save us 

if only we had the balls to beg

—AND YOU, YOU’RE PRETTY AS A PICTURE, YET I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME

  

The Backup Singers

 

Almost 65 now, I’m told, 

too much frosting, 

or not enough, 

who’s the true judge 

of such things? 

But at the family 

gathering,

the Littles flit and 

knock about, 

their parents (my children) 

oblivious but aware 

of everything-- 

my tremors and intake,

the rise and fall of 

days and years

flashing by--

slathering their faces with it,

a beautiful mockery. 

Back when I was 

an uncertain cloud,

there was a party, 

much like this one,

where the Old Littles  

also gathered behind 

the egg-shaped table

like a sinful choir, 

named as such 

by the man blowing 

out candles on

his frosted cake, 

smoke scissoring 

the terse air 

like a final threat 

or promissory note

written in smoke--

we were never sure which

until the last bottle 

bled out, 

when one of us 

would sing again,

a solo, everything

he demanded to hear,

staring at his belt 

and tarnished buckle 

the entire time,

its stem either 

a divining rod or

red hot needle,

depending upon how long 

the note was held.