from the story within by laura oliver

 

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“Write because you are a witness, not just to events, but to what mattered about those events. Not just to relationships, but to how those relationships exposed or celebrated a truth. Write because you are an explorer of yourself and of the human condition. Write to cherish what will otherwise be lost and to understand what has never made sense. The more personal your discovery, the more universal it is.” – Laura Oliver

along with heart, a compass for writers

the story within / new insights and inspiration for writers / laura oliver

 

from the near transformation of claire

 

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Language is a skin. I rub my language against the other.  It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words.  My language trembles with desire. – Roland Barthes

I am addicted to you.  You arouse me higher than I can remember.  I will have you, and have you, and chafe myself raw in you. My ear is already tuned to your cries and whispers as I mount you.  You are my virgin. – David Ambrose

The near Transformation of Claire will be available as an e reader, summer 2015.

 

photo credit:  imgkid.com

in flight

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“What do you do?” he asked her.

What do I do, she thought. Geez, I don’t know, I don’t know what I do. Stupid stuff, I play online card games, I watch bad tv, I check my emails a hundred times a day and I don’t know why, it’s not like anything important is going to show up.  I go to meetings.  I miss my children, but they’re older now and not so much fun.  They just like to tell me how to do things.  Hah, as if!  I miss my dog, I clean house a lot, I smoke too much, I read poetry, I really love poetry.  I garden but it hurts my back.  I spend way too much time in front of the mirror.  I fantasize, I think about him.

She assumed he meant, “What do you do for a living?”

“I work the customer service desk in a print shop,” she replied.

He chuckled a bit. “That sounds like a big headache.”

“Oh, it can be,” she replied and turned away ever so slightly and opened her second bag of pretzels.

 

angel by dyane fancey

 

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ANGEL

for bill wernick

 

Every woman wants her own, you know,

and every king, god, and pasha

too gouty, sweaty, or lecherous

makes the same mistake courting.

Sending the favorite boy as envoy

and the maiden sees the smooth, the sleek,

the beautiful young body and the gentle mouth

and at first sight seizes that as her bargain.

Sometimes her heart and loins lock absolutely

like Isolde’s

and the old king’s key can never open

the knot of flesh

and the eyes never close that follow

the handsome nephew.

Every woman wants her heart’s own,

even Mary of Nazareth, that pious child

consumed under the wind and thunder

listened for the rustle of wings

crying like a prayer,

“Gabriel, Gabriel!” – Dyane Fancey, A Religion of Skin

 

From the back cover of A Religion of Skin:

“I was a poet for lust.

I write because I don’t do anything else as well, except lie, booze, etc…

I need some justification for my otherwise lascivious and licentious life, and the world always forgives if one makes art.”

Thank you for this, Dyane, and for more than you know.

 

photo credit: tattoo4me.com

 

himalaya – seaside heights, nj, 1965

 

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Their provisions included seagrams and coke and lip gloss,

Their clothing not at all appropriate for the trek across stone

And sand and glass and beach litter,

The road to the mountain full of teenage anticipation and expectation

The promise of nothing and everything.

 

They could see it from miles away,

Magnificent metal rising from surf

Chaotic colors screaming sex and summer,

Look at me, Look at me, I could be your girl!

They stood at the base and watched the machine,

Sweat and cigarettes and a little more seagrams

Then bravely into the belly, secured by all means of hooks and bars

And men with muscles, forward, reverse, faster, faster,

Do you want to go faster?

Yessssssssss, fasterrrrrrrr.

 

They danced in the neon sea, starlets on the boardwalk stage

Playing the part they rehearsed every day.

Drunk and daring, moonstruck and oh so terribly hopeful,

Everyone drawn to that magic mountain,

The Himalay-ya-ya-ya-ya.

 

A nod to my birthplace and the most iconic teenage classroom and playground of all time,  the Jersey shore.

 

photo credit: mlive.com

pink cadillac

 

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Well, they tempt you, man, with silver

And they tempt you, sir, with gold

And they tempt you with the pleasures

The flesh does surely hold

They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple

Man, I ain’t goin’ for that

I know it was her pink Cadillac.

Crushed velvet seats

Ridin’ in the back, cruising down the street

Waving to the girls, peelin’ out of sight

Spending all my money on a Saturday night

Honey, I just wonder what you’re doin’

In the back of your pink Cadillac,

Pink Cadillac, pink Cadillac. – Bruce Springsteen, with a few changes ‘casue that’s how I like to sing it.

 

photo credit:  fineartamerica.com

from vox by nicholson baker

 

nightusa

 

“Sometimes I think of myself up in a satellite, and I’m looking down at America, or anywhere, really, but I usually imagine America, and all these little lights are blinking on and off, and each one represents a woman’s orgasm. That’s what ‘simultaneous orgasm’ really should mean – the awareness of of all those women’s orgasms simultaneously going on. Maybe the women who are reading while they come create a sightly different flare of  infrared color than the ones who are imagining something or coming in their sleep. I see them all.” – Nicholson Baker

 

photo credit: lovethesepics.com

 

 

the peace of wild things by wendell berry

 

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When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief.  I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light.  For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.  – Wendell Berry

 

I stopped trying to write nature poetry after receiving this poem as a gift.  What was left to say, how could it be said any better?

 

photo credit: seagrant.wisc.edu

tuesday the 7th

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I worked ten years designing a small magazine and never considered myself an artist.  And I suspect it will take me as long, if not longer, to consider myself a writer.  But here I am, peddling my wares, my stories, a virgin blogger, curious and compelled to add my voice to a world that can’t stop talking.  I’m not at all sure what I will blog about (and I really hate the word blog – too much like blah, blah – probably for a reason), but please come back for poetry, a short story perhaps, musings, memoir.  I encourage you to write, to put your thoughts to paper, real thoughts, no hash tag snippets or insta-anything, but real words in complete sentences, for that is what led me, at least, to clarity and understanding.

Please take a look at a new, erotic fiction anthology, put together by New Urge, which includes an excerpt from my upcoming novella, The near Transformation of Claire. It is an exceptional cast of women writers and I am honored to be a part of this mix.

 

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