R.C. Johansen's Blog, page 3

Six-Year-Old Me was Right

So, here's the thing that's been bothering me the most, the thing that I can't get out of my head: that dream I had when I was six-years-old? It's actually come true. My very first "when-I-grow-up" dream I had as a little girl writing little short stories in my first grade class, is happening. Twenty-two years later, and that very first thing I ever want to be, I am. I can't get over it.When I was six, I wanted my name on a book. I wanted to write a novel and publish it in hardback and see my name across the front and know I made this. This last year, I wrote that book. Finally, after a decade of debating whether I even had the merit to be a true writer, I wrote that book. Something Carrie Bradshaw said in an episode of Sex and the City--that I can't at this time properly reference for you, because it's been half a decade since I watched the show last--has stuck with me all of these years, has gnawed at the back of my mind, a reminder that maybe this is possible. She said--and I am probably very much paraphrasing, so forgive--she said: I wanted to become a writer, so I made it happen.I didn't understand, I think, for years, that "making it happen" was something that could actually be done. In fact, if you had asked me this time last year, I would have said, "yeah, I have some ideas, but they probably aren't going to come to fruition." Last year, I would have been wrong. I wrote a book. A legitimate novel. A 75-thousand-word book I'm calling The Skeleton Friend, for obvious reasons--or maybe not so obvious, but if you know me it is. I sat down over the summer and fall and I hashed out a book. And not only did I finish it, but I'm going to publish it. Yes, I'm going to be doing the work of the agent and publisher on my own. Yes, it's going to be available through Amazon Kindle as an e-book, so maybe that makes it less legitimate. But, I am going to be publishing it in hardback, too, because that was the dream, wasn't it? And, I feel like, I need to take control of my career. I need to work harder for myself than I ever have or anyone ever would. I can make it happen. I'm a writer. Finally, officially, truly. I am a writer.And, I can't get over it. Which is both bothersome and elating. The high I am feeling right now after finishing something that seems so daunting all these years, I don't have the vocabulary to describe it--and I have a good vocabulary. I know the word abattoir. I think that, maybe, the most unbelievable thing to me is that people are incredibly supportive and actually seem to really like the book! I have gotten a lot of wonderful feedback from everyone between my test readers that haven't read a book in a while to my BETA reader than reads for a living. And, I'm astonished. All this time, truly, I didn't think I had a voice for this. Maybe all of this time, I was just lying to myself. And, now, all these years later, I am going to make it happen.Now that I have book one under my belt--though, I am still nervous about book two--I feel like I have a formula down enough to start on a second book. I feel like I made it over the hill and now it's going to be that much easier. Still difficult at times, yes, but I know I can do it now. That feeling alone...I am fucking thrilled.So, I wrote a book. The Skeleton Friend is going to be out on February 2, 2016. You can get it on Kindle, and hopefully I will have the hardback available on that day as well--don't hold me to anything! This is my first time!In the meantime, I wrote a short story called Unidentified that you can download right now at Amazon.com.I had no idea I was going to do this--any of this. I promise as it goes on, I will get better at comprehensive blog posts and speaking my mind in this public forum. I hope that this is the start of something very big for me--I truly feel like it is. It may take a lot of work and a lot of time and a lot of soul to do it, but I am going to make it happen. That dream I had when I was six--just six--I am going to make it happen.

Uncertain

Not sure about this one. I called it "Evolution" on the post to the poetry community I am part of, but I don't know how well that fits. Also, italics? But, I think it has some good lines. 



Oh, runaway…
oh, run away!

Bags always nestled
somewhere in that limbo land
between packed ’n un-
packed; between coming, 
but we’re always going.

Oh, run away
at four am, when highways
are at their most romantic.
To keep heading west—
what a novelty it’d be 
to die old
in the Good Ol’ West.
A life, lived as 
a Josie, or a Fern.

Someone else
who never had nightmares
about the open highway.

Yet longed to make those nightmares
dreams come true.

Oh, runaway, 
with your second hand auto—
third hand, or fourth, really—
and your hair in braids.
There’s no fear of desert’s dust 
on your flannel, 
nor of northwest’s rains
on your shoes.
The envy of the masses, 
you are, yes—we can
admit that much.

How apes longed 
for the opportunity to run.
Our legs straightening slowly, 

Our spines taking much longer.

Oh, Runaway, 
oh, run away!
and be whatever it is
you thought you’d be—
a waitress or a writer, 
a copper; a robber.

A person who stole hearts
And minds
And all the future

laid out for themselves.

Oh, Runaway!…oh, run away.


05/28/2014

Introspection in the Shower

SLAM

I can’t decide if this is an apology.
You were ambitious, I give you credit for that.So much more ambitious than I ever thought, but you lackedconfidence, in yourself.There was never the belief in your heart that you could ever be more than a barista—a struggling artistliving in the coffee shop on words you never could get right.You thought it was romantic, that the lifestyle suited you, but I don’t think you knew much about yourself.
If I could sit down with you in those cafes you always inhabited,where you wrote in angst, anger forming your words for no reasonif only that it was an emotionyou knew how to express.If I could say to you, I would, that we are different.I am not who you were;most of you died in the formation of me.
I do, I want to be sorry, but I don’t think that I am.Because, I didn’t like you, and I grew up believing I never could.
I don’t know who I am now, Or where in this life I am going.I have some ideas, but ideas aren’t concrete answers to soothethe anxious questions I haveabout What I Am.What I know is that, I like myself, much more than I like you.For that, I guess, I am sorry.
You deserved love.
Least of all from yourself.

05/23/2014

Diving In

The Words That Throw Me

“Come now,
come and mourn me. 
It’s so easynow I’m gone.”
The rain has made the lawns like swaps
and has left my heart hoping for more.
Walking through the yard has become
like trudging through mud,
grass is  ankle deep and growing
with the increase of precipitation.The only things I want are
to feel more at home in this suburban wilderness
and to not have to shake mudded water from my feet.
I miss the smell of concrete and steam,
the sound of sirens past midnight,
the jolt of trains stopping and going,
moving across the tracks with rough sparks
and no         hesitation.
I miss the people who made that city my home.
I miss their energy, their honesty,
the feeling that we were true friends—
despite all the [fake ones] we encountered.
And I miss being able to laugh without needing to,
without having to smile to keep my spirits lifted.
The coffee, the cold air, the coats, the strolls,
the train rides from no reason, the adventures
that were ours.People think I am strong, because it’s raining
and I smile.

What they can’t see are my hollowed-out insides,
and that I am happy just to not be sad.

06/28/2007

I Got that Summertime Sadness

I have decided that I am going to try to write every day this summer. In fact, I am challenging myself to a few things this summer. But, the one that applies here is the writing. Specifically, the writing of poetry.While I want to get back into prose and fiction, poetry has always been a stable way for me to express myself while I have struggled with pain or with joy. Poetry became my way of communicating when communication was the hardest, and it is still the easiest way for me to say what I feel, whether through original work or through the words of others.So, this summer, I want to try to do two things:I want to commit to a haiku a day on twitter, just to get the creative energy going.Then, I want to write one poem (outside of the haiku) every day.Because I will be striving to meet a goal every day, each and every poem is not going to be genius--if any of them can be said to in the first place. So, there will be some weirdos and some downers and some straight up baddies. (same with the haikus, I promise) But I believe one out of every few will at least be something to be proud of.Also, usually when I write one, I write another, because I get the rhythm in my head and can't get it out until I make something new with it. So, it may be more like two or three or twenty. There is, as there always has been, absolutely no obligation to read even one. Although, sometimes the only way I can say something about how I am truly feeling and express it well enough that others might understand is through this medium. So, if you are interested, please pay attention.Otherwise, this whole thing is for me. My brain isn't as creative or imaginative or curious as it was when I wrote most of my poetry. I need to whip it back into shape. I hope my whipping is a topping you can enjoy. ;)

In the Band Room

Notice the dates on these...eh, eh?


Band Room I
You can find me
in the band room,
where trumpets play
blue songs
and sunlight sneaks in
as streams
from opening doors
and catches the gold shine
of instrumental genius.
02/01/2005


Band Room II
Trumpets
and bass drums.
Things we learned in High School
to play, to manipulate,
to master.
But, I turned my back
on the syncopated melody
of my childhood in the Band Room
and left those people
behind.

I sought adventures of my own.

What I didn’t realize,
what I couldn’t hear 

above the sound of my own beating heart—

the music never stopped
and I was the one 
they all
left behind.
05/20/2014

My old bones are growing new bones.

Ah

My heart is bursting with affection
for this tiny, fury thing.
My little gruff companion,
all toes and tail,
all tongue and teeth.

It seems silly to compare
the love I have for this thing
to the love of a mother, cradling
her child. For surely this love pales
in comparison to the intensity
felt by a woman
having given birth.

But, compare I do, for she is
my newborn, my sweet baby girl.
Since I saw her face and rushed
to the shelter to take her home.
Since I first held her against me
and couldn’t think of letting go.
She is always a step behind
(or a step ahead, depending),
and I promised her it would always be 
“just you and me.”

Sometimes I wonder if a heart like mine
could ever feel this for a human child.
Could ever want to.

In the Backs of Other Women

My first official poem since my few-year hiatus. It's fair to say, then, that it isn't great. So, enjoy, and feel free to comment and tell me what you think. :)




I fell back into my childhood.Sticky fingers, and sugar-
coated lips.Hot dogs with chili,
sprinkled cupcakes, ice cream
melting, dripping down chins
and staining grubby tees.
Picnics and baseball—
Summertime in this City.But, I’m crying,
stinging,
lonely.Because summer in this city
was never my time of year.
I like the cold,
the rain,
and, when the sun rises early
bringing me into this Brand-New Day
I get a little bitter
at all things bright and warm.
But summer, it comes, invariably,
unstoppable,
suffocating heat and sun-up
’til way past bedtime.And I don’t sleep easier,
or more comfortably,
in the summer. I toss,
and I turn, counting down days
’til fall.
Ninety degrees and rising.The world changes around me—
I’m afraid and a little angry.So, I curl up in my corner,
with a book and with some coffee
and pretend it was never summer
that the seasons don’t change at all.
All the happy people,
tanned and bleached and sun-dyed,
can keep their distance from a cold
heart like mine.Enjoy the sun, Summer-timers,
because fall is coming,
as impossible to evade as the weather
is to predict.
And while you complain
I’ll be dancing in the rain
trying to channel something
that Summertime took away.

Glasses of Water

Easily one of my favorite pieces, resurfaced:



I had a dream about the earth last night,
held out on a string and spinning
in the palm of my cupped hand.
I was surprised at the size
of the North American Coast,
so small next to the ocean, blue and pretty,
nearly clear in the sunlight, hot
and full of toxic air;
And of the greenness of the grasslands,
envious, and warm
with the billowing winds from deserts
and the body heat of beasts.

And I dropped it, the little thing,
a marble of an Earth,
into a half-full/half-empty glass of water,
and watched the ripples break the tension
on the surface of the question
and answer it, an affirmation
of a lack of knowledge of the world.

So I tipped the glass
and watched the flood of water crash
over the edge of the granite countertop
and cascade onto the floor;
splashes of blue, of green, and of gold;
of melted earth, and boiling magma;
of eight ounces
of tainted kitchen tap.

The End of the Earth never looked
so lovely, a stained glass puddle
on heaven’s ethereal floor.
I mopped it up in quite a hurry,
afraid of what punishment lay in store
for me, the one who held the earth
for answers and for nothing more;
for me, the one left waiting there
to answer when God came to my door.

I had a dream about the earth last night;
I watched it spinning in my hand.
I was surprised at how at home I felt
looking down on the little planet;
The mountains like rooftops from such a view,
the clouds just puffs of milky water;
and me, somewhere, on the surface,
too small. Even for God to see.

A Poet, I Know It

This, my friends, is the first poem I ever wrote. It was a homework assignment for pre-AP English in eighth grade; Mrs. Bundy's class. It was meant to be a poem written from words (I think we had to select ten or so) found in Elie Wiesel's Night. This evening, I had dinner with my mother, and she spoke to me about my writing over the years and how she always felt I was a natural poet. Well, it got me thinking, and I ended up spending the last few hours honing my sleuthing skills to find the back-ups sent to me years ago from my forum and pathetic.org. Only problem, I couldn't remember the name of the website, nor which email address I used all those years ago to set it up (I started writing poetry in 2001 and started broadcasting my work around 2003-2004, so basically, my 25-year-old mind had to reach back to my 13-year-old mind and figure out who the hell I was again). But, I came up with all of the answers I sought and more. I haven't been happier in weeks!--except, possibly, when spending any amount of time whatsoever with my puppy. Anyway, I found the backup with a good chunk of the old stuff, and this poem was in there, waiting to be remembered. 
Into the ghetto,Settled for keeping,Kept so “safe” from the foe.Settlement?No!Expulsion!Expulsion to hell!Hell, there is no mercy.No mercy for His children.No mercy there.Hell, where suffocation begins.At the gates of hell.Hell on Earth…Auschwitz.A mere furnace.Burning hysterically.The abominable stench settles on a haggard soul.Where humanity slips from existence.Slips away in vain.Never before a faint so silent.Screaming the name on liberty.For revenge.Cursing the bell.The order of life.Crying for orders to be lost.For a world free of such agony.For a world without.Bitter.So silent.Hanged with the gallows.Never.Never such a fate so numbered!Numbered to become ash!To be the smoke in the air.Haggard faces of anguish.What’s left on the bone.Unseen souls falling away.Away into the bitter sweet night.Silence.Morphine.Liberating the pain.


And, this, my friends, is the last poem I ever wrote (officially), but I am wondering if that will soon change.

Will you bethe Body, warm in my bed:my Somebodyto come home to?Will you bethe quiet Sunday mornings:my Saturday cartoons?
You can pick me up--anytimeyou want to.

The only problem I foresee, is that I was never a planner, never a strict editor or a long-ponderer of what felt right or what message I was creating. I always just wrote when I needed to write. And sometimes I resented it, thinking it kind of cliche and childish. I always thought poetry was second-best to prose, and fancied myself a novelist over a poet any day. But, these days, I kind of miss it. And I see where I was wrong. I don't know, maybe it is still childish of me, but maybe that is why it is so important. So, maybe soon the inspiration will hit me, and I'll be a poet once more.
(also, I reapplied with pathetic.org--incidentally, if you are inactive for something like seven years, they tend to forget you like you forgot them and delete your profile and all your poems, luckily I found the back-ups--so if they once again accept me, you will be able to go there and read whatever I write when I write it, and whatever I wrote before that I feel like claiming as my own again)