Writing Life

This week’s piece was inspired by a photo taken during a recent trip to Five Below. I knew this poem was going to be hard when the suggestions started rolling in. Most people provided light-hearted ideas, but I got stuck on the fact that this Wonder Woman mask has no mouth. I mean, how can a person speak his/her truth without a mouth?! In the end, I used 4 lines from followers, but mostly I went my own way. 

Thanks to everyone who participated.

NOTE: If you’d like to get in on the fun, all you have to do is follow me on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page. On Wednesday mornings, I share a random photo and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to cobble together a cohesive piece of writing. 

At the Intersection of Snickers, Double Bubble & Halloween Blowups

Her task was to be good

To put on a happy face 

The mask kept her performing 

And at a breakneck pace, the mask

was there to keep people at bay, 

it reassured everyone 

she was OK, the mask she wore 

since she was a child 

reminded her to be nice,

agreeable, not to be wild.

To keep her legs closed, 

put a smile on her face, 

don’t slow down, 

don’t be a disgrace, but

it’s hard mask up every day 

& I’ve always been suspicious 

of Wonder Woman, anyway 

With her fancy silver bracelets 

Her lasso of truth 

she had stamina & speed 

& the empathy of Ruth.

Armed with serum from

the Get-You-Drunk-Tree, 

she had flight, healing powers 

& telepathy. 

A woman, they say, 

is not as strong as a man.

A woman, they say,

Can’t do what he can.

But wearing a mask

is exhausting, indeed

It takes courage to remove it

And she took the lead.

Shoulder to shoulder with a marshmallow man, 

She challenged him 

to leave his mask at the door,

Asked him to open 

a little bit more, but

he was an immovable object,

not up to the task 

no flawless perfection

just struggles retold

for heroes are human

with shadows & fears

and even a plain girl

can be a Wonder Woman

after a few beers.

They said it wouldn’t last 

And they were right 

Women are built different

This is their plight.

And man, according to another,

named Freud, seemingly hardwired

to ignore & avoid,

her heart & her alter ego 

on display, she softened 

for a moment, then

was heard to say,

“Only love can save the world.

This is why I stay.”

So she went on pretending

Every damn day. 

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to create a cohesive piece of writing.

This week’s piece was inspired by a photograph taken of yours truly, prior to The Purple Painted Lady Festival. Frankly, it’s a miracle I was able to participate this year, given the nature of my back & hip injuries — and I think this photo conveys a lot of joy, even though I know I was in a fair amount of pain when it was taken.

Today’s piece attempts to convey the dichotomy between appearance & reality & it represents the combined efforts of 21 people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

OUTSIDE THE DAY, THE DRESS, THE DANCE

Summer ended with a thud,

Two bulging disks, and

A pile of mud, a strange dance

we don’t understand

Until we have to do it,

To carry on. September brought

A crushing weight, the scent

Of grapes, and ice pressed

Against her hip, as she crawled

From room to room, holding onto

The wall and affirmations

from people who told her

She would sing again.

“Anything is possible,” they said.

But no one promised she would dance,

Her spine, a brittle stick

In the forest, the center of

her bruised universe

Forcing her to grow

a new backbone

And just keep going.

On dark days, she put on the sun

bent over with laughter

her imagination endless

eyes wide shut, heart wide open.

A stranger in her own life,

She notices new things: the cemetery

Adjacent to her purple irises.

The metal chair

for her to sit on.

A cane in the closet.

Unattractive flat shoes

to hold her feet.

Strutting around

In a wrinkled thrift store gown

she wears Converse high tops

& an invisible crown.

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on my Rasjacobson Art Facebook Page and ask people to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to create a cohesive piece of writing. This week’s collective poem came quickly. Inspired by fall produce & “cuffing season,” this piece represents the combined efforts of ten people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

The day we met, we were damaged.

Bruised fruit, I heard someone say —

but I could see

how delicious we could be

if we focused on our sweet parts.

And so we did, that morning

over coffee and peaches. I watched

your eyes scan the newspaper,

the sunlit glow of illumination.

Afterwards, we paced the perimeter

of the market, with each step

learning more about each other

Like how you left my list

on the table at home, preferring

to touch each melon,

each eggplant, in the moment

your fingers, running up ringed cones of carrots,

I fell in love with you that moment

there, in the produce section

and I would hold your dusty hand,

forever, happily research recipes

to make a perfect vegetable soup,

perhaps someday

I’ll convince you it’s better to have

one bruised piece of fruit than

no sweetness at all.

 

On Wednesdays, I post a photograph on my Facebook Page and ask my followers to add a single line of poetry in the comments from which I attempt to create a cohesive piece of writing. This week’s poem represents the combined efforts of seven people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

FORTY DAYS

The semi gods had been 

mischievous, sending 

a snake disguised as a man,

& everyone wanted to see the spectacle.

Housewives in curlers came running 

And men came, too 

carrying pitchforks & buckets 

preparing to put out the fires, to

wash her bloodstained skirts.

There, bathed in light, we

gathered around her 

stone cold beauty, 

resolute in her quest, 

but the tide was turning. It was 

almost out & we could do nothing

but Ring around the Rosie

We tried to dance around it, our

pockets filled with posies, our

Democracy toppling deeper 

into the shoal, crushed by the

weight of its own promise, the

laurel wreaths of victory, collapsing

into the ashes ashes of her eyes.

Under a moonlit sky, she stood 

a fierce beacon, still 

lighting the way

“Do you still believe

in the dream?” she asked. “Or 

do we all fall down?”

Every Wednesday at 8am, I post a photograph with a few evocative words on my Rasjacobson Art Page, asking my followers to add a single line of poetry in the comments so I can try to create a cohesive piece of writing from all the bits & pieces.

This poem represents the combined efforts of eleven people. Many thanks to everyone who participated.

THE DAY I DIDN’T DROWN

One day, the world tipped sideways, the talk was

too loud & heavy

with guns & fists & politics.

On that day, I drove

a hundred miles

to where azure skies

touch cerulean blue seas.

On that day, the icy white sun

set in a sapphire sky, the moon

at noon was a tiny wafer, splintering

the sunshine at the earth’s edge.

Soft textured sand, a canvas

for the glistening tide, spilling

a lush coolness over my

exhausted feet. Sweet water

knocks me back to balance.

Yesterday, I paired the image below with a few evocative words & invited people on my Rasjacobson Art Page to add an additional line of poetry in the comments. I then promised to transform our collective effort into a poem within 24 hours.

HERE’S WHAT WHAT I DID

1. At 9pm, I sat down to see what I had to work with.
2. Eleven people participated.
3. I eliminated extraneous words & redundancies to create a unified flow.
4. I changed the order in which the entries were received.

THE MOTH

instead of joining the cicadas

& screaming for six weeks straight,

she spent the summer slogging

her way across root & leaf & sod

resting during summer storms 

until one cool morning

she decided

it was time

to open, her wings

like a dusty old sweater

wrapped in tissue from

the cedar chest

exposed & fluttering with anticipation, resting with scintillating vision, filtering out 

the ego’s mission, drying

atop Joe Pye weed, her eyes

the vibrant hues of autumn’s emerging tapestry, she opened 

to a September sunrise.

Yesterday, I paired the image below with a few evocative words & invited people on my Rasjacobson Art Page to add an additional line of poetry or prose in the comments. I then promised to transform our collective effort into a poem within 24 hours.

HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED & WHAT I DID

1. At 9pm, I sat down to see what I had to work with.
2. Nine people participated.
3. If someone added more than one comment or multiple lines of poetry, I selected a single line I liked best.
4. I eliminated extraneous words & redundancies & changed verb endings to create a unified flow.
5. I changed the order in which the entries were received.
6. I transformed the last entry into the title.

NEUTRAL CANVAS FOR INFINITE INSPIRATION

Stacked high upon a table

Dozens of volumes

Foretelling the awakening,

Stories waiting patiently to be discovered.

In the corner chair, I sit and stare

Invisibly awaiting there.

Summer sun glistens through tall windows.

In the gray room, I wait alone.

Just posted chapter 2 of my memoir on Patreon.com!

Here’s a teaser:

Be neat. Those are my father’s famous words. A child of Depression-era parents, my dad learned not to waste anything. Messes were not well tolerated in our house. Spilled milk? That was a serious offense, absolutely a reason for buckets and sponges and dirty looks and blame.

For $1 each month, you can subscribe to read my continuing story of what brought me to benzodiazepines, including how I felt while I was on them, information about my horrendous 30 month withdrawal, what helped me heal (and what didn’t), and how I’m doing now.

There is other content there, too, that can only be accessed on Patreon!

Readers can ask questions which I’ll try to answer in future chapters. Feel free to offer feedback about the content, and if you notice a grammar error, tell me to fix it! You’ll be doing me a favor. Less to edit later!

 

Check it out!

I just posted my first chapter, BAGGAGE, on Patreon.

In this piece, I write about early childhood trauma that confused me and made me feel home was not a safe place. I couldn’t have been more than 8 years old, and was already inadvertently set on the path toward putting other people’s feelings/needs before my own.

For $1 a month, you will have access to all the chapters that I post.

I’ve posted a PREVIEW chapter for free.

My art is there, too ~ and people who subscribe to different level will receive some cool perks, including recognition on Facebook, coloring book pages, original art, framed prints as well as the opportunity to win prize packs up to $25 in fun WHIMSIGIRL stuff.

Check it out.

 

 

 

 

This photo was taken on July 30, 2013.

I was in Florida with my (then) husband.

We were out to dinner with his cousin when the world tipped sideways.

This is not an exaggeration.

The world suddenly shifted, and it would not be right again for 36 months….

• • •

So many people have been reaching out to me, asking for help. They want to know what my life was like before benzos, how much I was taking, for how long, how I weaned, how fast, what my withdrawal was like, how long the symptoms lasted, and what my life is like now.

I can only speak to so many people a day, and it’s never enough.

And that is why I decided do something completely different.

I’m sharing the full story of my battle with benzodiazepines at Patreon.

And you get to read the story as I’m writing it.

It’s taken me nearly 4 years to kick benzos’ ass!

You will too!

• • •

If you’d like to read more, contribute to MY PATREON PAGE at https://www.patreon.com/rasjacobson. For $1 per month, you can read all about my story. I will post relevant art, writing & videos at least 4 times a month.

Please help me share my story!

XOXO