loose leaf and spiral bound

Well, the next-to-last piece of my cancer treatment puzzle was radiation. I did 33 sessions of this. Radiation took place every day, Monday through Friday. Despite getting zapped 33 times with fancy electrons, x-rays, gamma rays, and whatever -- no super powers. I found this meme on the intertubes. The typos are kind of killing me on the inside, but you get the point.  Really, radiation wasn't all that bad. Especially when I compare it to chemo and surgery. No nausea, no hair loss, no bone aches. The main thing I felt was tired. Not every single day, and not beginning with the first session. It took a little while to build up, but I'd say after the first week and a half I could feel myself starting to drag a little bit. Then about every three or four days, I would just be totally exhausted. So wiped out that I would fall asleep at 7pm and stay asleep until my alarm went off for work the next day. Because of this, I'm so glad that I scheduled my appointments in the a...

That's right, my friends. I definitely put my poetry in another art show. This is the third time I have entered my poetry on canvas into the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Staff Art Show. As you might imagine I was once again nervous about doing it, but did it anyway. Once again, I'm glad I did. I kind of like the pressure to perform, knowing that I am working on a deadline with a very public outcome. It certainly freaks me out and gives me more than a little anxiety - but I do kind of like it. This year, the art show is being held in the University library - - Love Library. I mean, what is better than having your art/poetry hung in a library? It's fantastic! Here's my two pieces.  ...and here is what they look like hanging with other pieces.  You may or may not know that my husband is a bow hunter. So, I took one of the deer skulls from his harvest last year and painted the face black and then put some designs in silver on it. Next, I took it outside ...

If you know me at all, you know that I love music. I will shush you in the truck when a good song comes on. I will dance in any Target or grocery store or waiting room if one of my jams comes over the speakers. I have very specific play-lists for happy days, crappy days, melancholy days, etc. Music matters to me in a way that is hard to express. BUT, I have finally found a way to explain it. Sort of. The look on the guy's face at 4:30 in the video below is everything. It's love, it's hope, it's faith, it's happiness...all of it. That's what music does. Whether you are playing music or listening to music, it can be whatever you need it to be. Music never asks you "why" and it doesn't ask for anything in return. (Well, it might ask for $0.99 if you want to download it...) Also, this is what writing does for me. It lets me feel whatever I need to feel. It lets me get out whatever I've been harboring inside. It doesn't ask me why and ...

(Seriously, I tried to come up with a good name for this post, but they all started to sound like Nicholas Sparks book/movie titles..."a walk in their shoes", "a mile in his shoes", "a walk to remember", etc.) So, there is that famous saying, "until you walk a mile in someone else's shoes," or some variation thereof. I have done that. Literally. Many moons ago, my baby brother outgrew a pair of Chuck Taylors. He outgrew them in less than a year so they were still in pretty good shape. Being the kind and gentle giant he is, he gave them to his big sister. At the time, he was 10 and I was 25. Now, I'm 31 and the shoes have started to quite literally fall apart. The bends around the toe area (you know where they crease when you walk?) have split apart. Threads are coming undone at the seams and are starting to fray. The black trim around the shoes has left for parts unknown. Every time I take them off, I need to dump out the little pie...

Yup. I did it again. I put my poetry in the UNL Staff Art Show. AGAIN. I know that last year I was a nervous wreck at the First Friday reception for the university staff art show, and this year wasn't any easier. It was almost worse because I knew what to expect this time. I knew there would be a guest book where strangers could leave notes about the pieces on display and there was no way I could not look at the book. Like a moth to a flame I started flipping through the pages to see if anyone had anything to say about my stuff. Well, they did. AND IT WAS LOVELY!! I was beyond elated. These two folks took the time to jot down their thoughts and it made me feel so good inside. Totally worth the nausea and sweaty palms. There is no need to reiterate to you all that I am by no means an artist by definition. Sure, I like to make things and try new artsy stuff that I see on DIY blogs - - but I am a writer. That's my sweet spot. Sometimes I like to display my writi...

Well, this is awkward. It's been three (...and a half) months since I've written anything. Not just talking about a blog post, I mean I haven't written ANYTHING. Not even so much as a stanza. It's pretty pathetic. Sorry. No excuses here, just apologies. I've been in a rut/slump/funk and am extremely disappointed in myself. Alas. If you've been a frequent-flyer to this blog, you know how much I love to use pictures as writing prompts. This time I asked my friend Thomas Brown to supply the photo. (Seriously, if you're ever in need of a photographer in Arizona...look him up. I very much enjoy his fine art photos.) I tackled this writing exercise a little differently. I gave myself only 15 minutes and decided that I would post to this blog that piece EXACTLY as it was, with NO EDITS. Gotta be honest here and tell you that it is so damned hard to put this up without any tweaks, changes, edits, or rewrites. But, I know how I sometimes wish I could see other poe...

I STAYED AT THE STANLEY HOTEL!!! (...way back in April. Yeah. Totally slacking on getting this post up. Stop judging me and just start reading. Look at my pictures at a minimum.) Let me start at the beginning. All of these wheels started turning when I sent my mother a link to an article interviewing Stephen King about his sequel to The Shining. It tells the story of an all grown up Danny Torrance. (FYI, The Shining is one of my favorite books AND favorite movies.) She got just as excited as me about this and the next thing I know, we're on a road trip to Colorado for a two night stay at the Stanley Hotel. BOOM! My Mom wins all the awards and gathers all of the cool points because she booked us a room on the 4th floor (haunted floor) and we got a Redrum coffee mug, glow in the dark squeezy ghost and frisbee, AND a night time ghost hunt. GAH! My excitement is still palpable four months later. Side note: for those who don't know, the Stanley is where Stephen King was staying...

Remember how I told you all about my act of subterfuge ? How I weaseled my poetry into an art show? Well, here's how it went... This is me living out my childhood dream of being a brown haired Vanna White.  So, there was a reception during the April First Friday Artwalk. OF COURSE THERE WAS! That didn't make me anxious at all. (It is one thing to send in poems to journals and writing competitions because those people are faceless and if/when they reject me it doesn't feel personal because I am not staring at their faces making small talk while it happens.) I was absolutely terrified of overhearing someone make fun of my stuff or tear it down to tiny little pieces. I am fairly self-aware and know that I am not a traditional "artist". There were things hanging on those gallery walls that just blew my mind and in no way could I even begin to compare my stuff to theirs. Apples to bowling balls. But guys, nothing horrible happened. In fact, people were so nice ...

Have you ever had the opportunity to see your favorite author in person? To listen to them speak for an hour? To meet them and shake their hand? I never thought I would say this - but I have. It was all I could have hoped for, and honestly, it was so much more. To get the full scope of how monumental this night was in my world, I need to back track a little and reveal a few personal details. Nothing juicy, so don't get your hopes up. I was an English major, my emphasis was in the areas of poetry and creative writing, who obtained a minor in Native American Studies. During my four and a half years at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln (Go Big Red!) there was this one particular author who kept showing up on syllabus after syllabus. Whether it was for Poetry 498, Native American Lit 102, Ethnic Studies 201 - - Sherman Alexie was sure to be on  my required reading list. It began to feel like I was spending more of my late nights and early mornings with his books than I did with my b...

If you'll recall, I told you a while back about how my very dear friend was riding his bicycle from California to New York with the purpose of spreading the word about suicide awareness and prevention and the healing power of art. His non-profit organization, RISE , is amazing. You really should check out their site. He and his friend quit their jobs, put all of their worldly possessions in storage and set out to make a difference. ANYWAY, I decided that I was going to do something pretty rad , and I began writing a piece of poetry as they were riding across the United States. It was hard because I couldn't move forward until they did. This was such an important piece for me to write because of the pride I have in those two and what they accomplished and I really don't have a better way to show them other than writing it down. It is sincerely humbling to have friends like these. So here it is. I call this one, "Rising in Three Parts": 1. An Open Letter to a Frie...

Remember how I went off on a rant about how I hate going back to my "Graveyard" folder and looking through shitty old poems? Well, apparently I challenged myself. A double-dog-dare, if you will. Stupid me. I took three of the poems that were in the The Graveyard and resurrected them. Just plunked all of them "as is" into one document and went to work. This is what happened. My own little Frankenpoem...not sure I love it, but I don't think I hate it. I've titled it, " The Graveyard Revisited ": My broken pride drove me home this morning. The radio massaged into my brain endless lines and lyrics of love songs, until my pain puked me into slumber. Cuddled so close to nightmares of things I could have, would have, should have said. But, you do not know how to operate a touch tone phone. So instead, my confused confidence will hide out in what used to be your spot on the couch. I'll keep sleeping on this couch. It'll keep warm from the te...

...unless you are going to say something negative about me. Then you can just keep it to yourself. No, no. Seriously. I need to be honest here. I have not submitted a single piece of writing since June. There, I said it. It seems like I have been writing some new stuff and editing some existing pieces, but I have simply been too lazy to submit. That is all there is to it. I am not nervous about submission and am not anxious about rejection letters - I am just being lazy. This is a seriously sad state of affairs because I will certainly never get published if I don't submit. I recognize this vicious circle and have instead opted to watch episodes of Weeds on Netflix. Well, no time like the present to make some changes. Guess I'll go look at my submission spreadsheet (Yes, spreadsheet. Don't judge me.) and get my ass in gear. Here is my dog Jasper being as lazy as I feel. It is possible that his reluctance to help me fold laundry is due to his lack of opposable th...

Really, all I ask for is an hour to myself (that and a computer, pot of coffee, music, and my notebook. Okay, and maybe some Chic-O-Sticks.). I can get so much done! For real. I promise. All throughout the day/week/month I keep tidbits and snippits of phrases and turns of words that I like in a spiral bound notebook. Then I like to sit down at my computer with really loud music and put them into an electronic word document with no thought process - just plain old transcription.  THEN I go back through and edit the shit out of that hot mess and make some poems. But I just need that one room and that magical hour to myself! For me, this is probably the hardest part of being a poet - finding time for the fine tuning. In the grand scheme of things this seems like such a trite complaint. But dammit, right now I am frustrated and this is what happens: I get to rant about it on my blog. (Isn't that the whole point of the interwebs!?! Well, that and making memes.) In case you are w...

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine the other day and somehow we ended up talking about what makes us happy in life (you know, other than the obvious things like our spouses and children). My friend was so exuberant in their passion for art (a fairly traditional "artist" if you will with the painting and the drawing and whatnot). It was infectious and contagious. So I started talking about my writing and poetry and how it made me feel and my hopes and wants and...then they were just staring at me...and then it happened.  I BLUSHED! If you know me, you know that I cuss like a foul mouthed trucker, have no qualms about a good and perverted joke, and am generally a crass person. But apparently when speaking about my poetry and writing I turn all soft and gooey, and this "softer side" of me is shocking to folks. Seeing this amazement register so plainly on a person's face because they figured out that I have emotions MADE ME BLUSH! Please keep in m...