Aimee Herman's Blog, page 29

to the one with the red hair behind bars

Dear Jennifer,

I dug feathers from my pillow, sewed them to a piece of paper full of my words and lent it to the sky to fly toward you.

Two months have passed and I wonder if my language has reached you. I think about your red strands falling from imprisoned scalp, like breadcrumbs alerting the hours of your whereabouts.

Last night, you visited me while I slept. Perhaps this was your letter back to me. You were looking for something, which I tried to help you find. But. You never told me. What. You were looking for.

Somehow I understood because. I am so often in search of things that I’ve yet to fully name or even understand.

Without you asking, I lifted my shirt so you could see the ink on my back from when we traveled together at eighteen to tattoo shop.

“I had to change it,” I said.

And without having to explain, you understood my need to wipe away the femme-inity from skin to replace it with more of a hybrid.

I asked to see your angel [tattoo], but you had carved it away years ago.

Sometimes it is difficult to be good in a world of so much bad.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, dear jennifer, gender, incarceration, letter, meant to wake up feeling, tattoos

the cardboard cut-outs

Here in Chinatown, at 7:36am, the cardboard cutouts still sleep with the rest of their lives scattered beside them. When they sleep, they are still awake, with fingers webbed around their belongings.

I lock up my bike and wish I had something to offer them. More than just a handful of nuts and dried cranberries or one-fourth of a granola bar, from yesterday. More than just a look of acknowledgment (which so often translates as pity). More than just a pile of pennies or coins not quite enough to make a difference.

Later, a cardboard cutout smiles at me and I give him one back. He counts my teeth and notices my scratched body. I notice the bruises staining his face.

He calls this, “A good day.” And I replay his voice in my mind because suddenly I am unsure if he asked, “A good day?” or was telling me, “A good day!”

I want to tell him that it’s good because we are in it. Or it’s good because we are halfway done with it. Or it’s good because we both seem to be breathing and sometimes that is the biggest accomplishment of a day.

 

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Chinatown, homeless, humanity, meant to wake up feeling, NYC observation

Dear Rebel…

I encountered a disemboweled ice cube between china town and the east village, but it was too expensive to bring home to brooklyn. I can no longer afford old things, because aged goods have increased in price and the new stuff is too much too. So I search for the discards….the free……the treasures in the trash….since that’s all I can achieve with what little I’ve got.

Often, when I find money on the street, I leave it there, knowing even though my wallet is mostly full of love notes and directions, there are others without even that.

An almost-lover I once had mailed me a book without her name attached. I couldn’t figure out who had sent it to me. By the time I realized who it was from, she was no longer accepting my phone calls.

An occasional lover sent me a different book, which I had a difficult time reading, but maybe I’m just not smart enough for Proust; what do you think?

The one I now love collects keys and coins; I collect guilt and memories, bruised like pocketed fruit.

Who should we put on that $10 bill, Rebel? I vote for Lidia Yuknavitch. Or Kathy Acker. Or Audre Lorde. And why stop at the ten dollar bill?

Rebel, I’m thinking about putting my words into melted copper and nickel; then, I can pay with my collection of syllables. As long as I read and collect more words, I will never be poor again. I will horde dictionaries and thesauruses. I will play Scrabble every night to encourage the long and obscurely short words. Then, we can collide again and finally find that yurt and live off the earnings of our speech.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", book love, currency, Dear Rebel, letter writing, Lidia Yuknavitch, love, meant to wake up feeling, Proust, woman on currency

TONIGHT! Performing with Bone Bouquet Contributors!

Take a ride beside the Brooklyn Bridge and head to New York’s greatest poetry bookshop (that’s right…..ALL POETRY!) for a grand reading featuring poets/writers from the recent Bone Bouquet journal.

I’m excited to be in this beautiful book and read/celebrate this new issue, 6.1:

JOIN ME!

17 July, 2015……Berl’s Bookshop……126A Front Street/ Brooklyn…….7pm……

WITH:

Chia-Lun Chang

Cheryl Clarke

Martha King

Corinne Schneider

C.F. Sibley

Anastacia Tolbert

Filed under: SHOWS | video, WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Berl's Bookshop, Bone Bouquet, Brooklyn poetry readings, free poetry reading, meant to wake up feeling, NYC Poetry

SEVEN QUESTIONS for THE “WORKING” WRITER……..

Thank you to Jenna Leigh Evans for asking such excellent questions. She also has a fantastic novel that came out last year, “Prosperity“, which I highly recommend.

SEVEN QUESTIONS FOR THE WORKING WRITER: AIMEE HERMAN

Aimee Herman! Do you ever publish your work without compensation or for a nominal fee? If so, why, and how do you feel about doing it?

I’m a poet, so most of my work is published without compensation. I chose poetry (or poetry chose me) and I know it’s not a moneymaking genre. But it keeps me alive. I want to be read. At the end of the day, that is what is most important. However, there are some journals who apply for grants and graciously pay their writers, so there have been times I’ve been compensated with money. Otherwise, it’s usually contributor copies, which is more than enough. There are often small teams of hardworking people working to keep these journals alive, so I don’t expect to be paid; they aren’t even being paid.

Does your craft alone provide you with a livelihood? 

Livelihood tends to be equated with income, but for me, it’s about nourishment. I feel nourished and filled-in when I write. I feel like I’m traveling, like I’m having a conversation even though I’m all alone; like every scar on my body is being properly translated. I will write regardless of how it affects my bank account. Luckily, I also really love how I spend my days making money, which is through teaching. I always struggled as a student, from day one even through graduate school. I have a difficult time with authority, and I’ve always been restless sitting in those tiny desks. But being a teacher extends the conversation of words and thought.

If you have to hold a day job to supplement your income, or just make a living at all, do you feel you have as much time as you need to write?

A writer writes. I don’t want to oversimplify it because it can be extremely difficult to find the time, but it is there to be found. I wake early, or I say no to invitations, or I set up extremely hearty writing dates. When I teach creative writing, I often do the assignment I give my students, so there is further encouragement.

How do you know for sure when something in your work still needs another revision?

I read it out loud. To myself or to an audience. I perform a lot and that really helps me to gauge what works and what doesn’t. I search for the rhythm. I watch/listen for responses. For me, nothing is ever done, even when it’s published. I rework old poems all the time. Rebirth them into different forms and extract lines to create new ones.

When revising something in your work, how do you know for sure when it’s truly time to stop?

See above. But also, there are times that — especially when workshopping — one could easily cut too much out. It’s like when I cut my hair.  When I was nineteen, I had a bad day, went home, and decided to give myself bangs. This is often not a good idea when one’s hair is curly like mine (though I’ve seen some curly-haired folks really pull it off. See: Kim Addonizio). Then I started fumbling with the rest of my hair. Chopping away strands. I grabbed my then-girlfriend’s clippers and began shaving away my hair. I was left with nothing. Really. I over-revised and ended up with quite a mess. Sometimes it’s necessary to leave parts alone.

Do you feel that being a writer was a choice or a calling for you?

I have no choice. It arrives in me like breaths or hunger. I cannot control it. And I am grateful for this calling every day.

BONUS ROUND FOR PURE PLEASURE: What book did you probably read too young and it therefore haunted you forever after?

Hmm…..not sure I read any book too young, but I did get my hands on a really old copy of Naked Came the Stranger written by Penelope Ashe (rather, many writers calling themselves that) at a garage sale when I was in high school. I don’t think I was too young for it, but I didn’t “get it” in the way I did a few years later. It didn’t exactly haunt me, instead, it inspired me to haunt. The Bell Jar will forever haunt me. Same with Catcher in the Rye because although so many characters have been compared to Holden, none will ever match his unique voice.

 

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Jenna Leigh Evans, meant to wake up feeling, poet, working writer, writer interview

notes from a commuter

(bike edition)

I write a poem out loud and think it might be the best but forget it the moment I get off my bike and reach my destination.

Sounds of traffic below and around, lulls me like my lover’s voice when reading stories to me at night.

There are moments I beg my legs to remain strong enough to push through steepness; they always come back with a counter-offer.

Though her voice haunts the emotions out of me, Sinead O’Connor may not be the best choice for a bike riding mix tape.

Where does all the sweat go? Does it just eek out and dry on my skin?

I want to end this summer with legs like bleached tree trunks.

I want to be a graffiti artist.

When I think I can no longer ride, I turn a slight corner on the Williamsburg Bride and see Lindsay. Then, I realize it is only a stranger impersonating her blond. Alas, I take this as a sign to keep going.

Sometimes I fear that bridges are going to force me off of them, then realize they have no hands.

I have replaced coffee with coconut milk and carrot juice.

I have replaced booze with coffee.

Sometimes I fondle my upper thighs with my hands, while I wait for a traffic light to turn green. I like feeling their stick, their firm, their shake.

What shade of red is my face in this moment and how do the other bike riders make it to work in their work clothes without looking like drowning victims.

I have begun to scout places to quick change from torn jean shorts and tank top to “work attire”; Starbucks is far roomier than the stall at my school.

I worry about the suffocation of my back, pressed firmly to book bag.

I worry that I will never be strong enough to bike the entire way across the Williamsburg Bridge.

This is so exhausting and yet, there is nothing better than driving over the city you are so frequently riding under.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", bike love, bike riding, body, meant to wake up feeling, NYC commuting, Williamsburg bridge

that time you took your shirt off

It was a Thursday and the sky was a shade darker than your silverware. You took your shoes off and slung your fingers inside each one as you let your toes feast on the sand, full of cracked shells, twigs and occasional cigarette butts and remainders of glass.

You were with the one you love. The one who searched for the perfect spot to rest blue bed sheet and stack of sandwiches to house your testosterone-fueled appetites.

You placed your sneakers on the corners to hold the sheet down, took a deep breath and inhaled the Atlantic. You kept it in your lungs until you had to let go. All that salt. Waft of seagull wings swirling down your throat.

You look around and see bare breasts and strings of fabric covering up the other parts. You love seeing bodies being celebrated, uncovered and unapologetic.

You look at your lover, who is blinking in the ocean.

And then. You remove your Batman black t-shirt. You remove your binder. You are bare chest and excited nipples.

Your lover removes his t-shirt. Then, binder. He is bare chest and hairy nipples.

You leave your green bandana on, which hugs your neck.

You leave your gender behind for an afternoon at this beach, which is far more gay friendly than the one you usually go to. Several hours later, when you both decide to ride bikes for awhile and explore the nooks, you shake off the sand on your skin, flatten breasts back beneath binder, with Batman t-shirt back on.

You think about Nebraska. Skinny dipping beneath that dark sky. Allowing yourself to be self-conscious for only fifteen seconds. Then, recognizing that these humans– these poets, these artists, these magic makers– see past what your parts look like and recognize you simply as human.

Nudity can be like a shout-out: Hey, look at me! Look what I got. This is what I am!

Nudity can also remind us and others that we are not what we think/feel we are: Hey, forget all this. It’s just the scaffolding protecting the best parts, the parts you cannot see.

On a Friday evening, one day later, you walk on stage and tell a story that is yours, but in someone else’s voice. The audience does not know that it is another human speaking on behalf of your memories. Sometimes it is easier to relay the messages of your mind through a different medium: oil painting, collage, choreography, sculpture, song, poem.

Even all those times you were in various stages of nude, the audience never really saw you.

Then on Saturday, several hours later, you wonder when you might finally take that scaffolding down.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, body as transportation, gender, genderqueer, meant to wake up feeling, NYC beach, pen pal, queer body, Riis Beach, trans, transgender

pennyroyal

She came back with too much life in her.

She came back and when I felt her ribs, there appeared to be another set of breaths hanging out behind her cage.

“When I was fifteen,” she told me, “I danced to Kurt Cobain in my bedroom. Draped a flannel across my neck like a rocker’s cape. I screamed in harmony to him. It felt like we were making love.”

When I kissed her for the first time, she could no longer see.

The pennyroyal tea had steeped too long or she had sucked up too much; when we kiss, I’m the only one whose eyes are closed.

We visited the old lady again, who gave her the leaves.

“She wasn’t supposed to take all of it. Makes sense she cannot see,” the lady scowled.

When we make love, I ask her what she remembers. I ask her if she can see memories inside her darkness.

She tells me she sees doors and shaded windows. She tells me she masturbates to the ghost of the sun sticking its flirt to her skin. She tells me, she should have just kept it.

“I stopped going to school in grade eight,” she says one night, after the moon had snuck behind a wave of clouds, making the sky dark for everyone. “And I just memorized Nirvana lyrics. He was an owl,” she said. “Kurt was born into the wrong form; that’s why he had to leave. I learned everything I needed to know from the screech of his tongue.”

Afterwards, she fell asleep and I remained unblinking, soaking up enough sight for both of us.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", abortion, body, Kurt Cobain, love, meant to wake up feeling, Nirvana, pennyroyal tea

something found, something borrowed

He shows me a piece of glass, shaped like the moon landing, found while biking home from work.

“I was stopped at that intersection where we we were stopped by police that time we tried to break the rules. I looked down and there it was. Hopped off my bike, leaned it against my hips and picked it up. All its edges had been dulled; who knows how long it had been resting against Brooklyn pavement. But…”

I waited as his voice trailed off.

“But even as I put it in my pocket, I felt like I was borrowing it. Maybe that’s always how it is. We borrow the things we take from the earth and then when the earth is ready, it takes it all back.”

I tasted many words on the tip of my tongue, but I wanted him to continue. I wanted him to never stop talking.

“And look right here,” he points to several arches in the center of the glass. “Don’t you feel like it is an imprint of the moon landing? Minus the proud flag waving. But if I hold it a certain way…” He tilts the glass sideways. “…you can almost see the flag and feel the wind from its fabric swooshing against the air.”

“Something found, something borrowed,” I finally uttered.

“Exactly,” he said.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", bike ride, finding earth, found, meant to wake up feeling, moon, pros(e)

an excerpt from “meant to wake up feeling”

Currently, I am reading “A Long Walk to Water” by Linda Sue Park, which is based on a true story from Sudan. A story in two parts: 2008, where we follow a young girl who spends day after day walking back and forth to get water for her family. 1995, where we become part of the frightening adventure of a “lost boy of Sudan”.

What are you reading? Need a recommendation?

Here’s a poem from my recent book of poems, “meant to wake up feeling” published last year by great weather for MEDIA

yurt

 synonymous with homeland         opposition of ribs made from concrete         soil and lattice wall       tension earth     animal insulates weather   dismantle for camel transport     there is no need to commit to this     sacred     circular     jurta     ornamental strength from cosmos or fire   kherga     expansion of tree shave     wool insulation         gifts from sheep     ropes     Russian or German or Turkic     xayma     compression of heavy     you     only two hours to make this home     pattern dragon metal   collapsible   stain heritage into alphabetized books     lyrical station of angular

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", A Long Walk to Water, book of poetry, great weather for media, homeland, Linda Sue Park, meant to wake up feeling, poem, yurt