Aimee Herman's Blog, page 33

what do you live for?

(Inspired by my students. Inspired by the writers who don’t even know they are writers, until they write.)

*

I live for that line. The combination of words that, when placed together, shake and stir minds. Knowing words are already there, waiting and breathing. Bones breaking and forming until. Until I pluck them from books or mouths and create a combination that unlocks everything.

I live for the moment all my veins and twists make sense to me. The moment my body speaks back in a dialect I can finally understand.

I live for my father, who never closed his door to me, even when I was at my worst.

I live for the book I haven’t read yet.

I live for the books I haven’t written yet.

I live for the moments I have yet to experience. And the art I’ve yet to see. And the border crossings I’ve yet to cross.

I live for my passport, which one day I will fill up.

I live to free the parts of me I have put on hold. To give them time and space to speak up. To give my body and mind a chance to re-introduce itself.

Yeah. I live for that.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", boy, gratitude, life, meant to wake up feeling, poetry, queer body, travel, what to live for

what fruit are you?

On the��4��train headed toward Utica, Brooklyn, I look up and notice an ad.

How to describe what should��never be described? How to describe an advertisement that shames bodies and attempts to capitalize on a woman’s parts? How to imprint media’s peer pressure module to coax a woman to…..

OK.

For the low, low, CRAZY price of $3,900.

White woman in white tank top holds two clementines between white fingers against chest.

MADE IN NEW YORK, it says.

Same white woman in white tank top holds two grapefruit, one in each white hand, against chest.

“For other body modification, we also do liposuction, tummy tucks and Brazilian buttock lifts,” reads small print.

In the first photo with the clementines, the white woman is frowning. Her mouth is turned toward the floor as though an invisible wire had been threaded into each lip, causing it to droop.

In the second photograph with the grapefruit, the white woman is proudly showing off her white teeth. Her smile is large. Large like her breasts. After calling the phone number.

After emailing for more information.

After making an appointment and heading into the clinic to be cut into and accentuated.

I stare at this ad and then look around me to see if anyone��else is noticing what I am noticing. How is��this an emblem of��NEW YORK, where we are a “melting pot” of so many types of bodies and minds and backgrounds and emotions.

Why would any of us want to pay the low, low CRAZY price of $3,900 to have a floatation device on our chests?

(That said, for anyone reading this, my intention is not to shame or dig at those who have��chosen a breast enlargement. That is your right and your body and your money. I just think about how advertisements are crafted and the thoughts these images can leave us with.)

*

When I was in seventh and eighth grade, I stuffed my bra.

That’s not one-hundred percent accurate. I stuffed my��undershirt, because I didn’t wear a bra until I was in high school.

My chest was flat like Delaware. Like North Dakota. Like the table I eat my breakfast, lunch, dinner on. My best friends called��me:��Mosquito Bites because…..(well, I think you get it).

I wanted a chest because��they had a chest and so did Janet Jackson, who I had a deep crush on (a crush that extended to her brother, Michael as well).

I wanted a chest because I thought if I didn’t have one, something was wrong with me.

Because of Media. MTV. Billboards. Basically everyone around me telling me what a “woman” should like like.

This is what I was thinking about, upon seeing this advert on the subway.

I was also thinking that I certainly have altered my appearance to look/feel a certain way.

Would I pay the low, low, CRAZY price of $3,900 for any of these changes?

Every month, I dye my hair from what used to be titled dirty blond, to RED. I pay anywhere from $6-$12 for various tubes and developers.

That’s……..it.

When I first noticed this ad, I thought:��What fruit would��I want against my chest?

Kiwi? Lychee?��Grape?

There is no hidden meaning to this ad and perhaps that is why I feel so impelled to write on it. Small breasts make you sad; big tits will make you happy.

How many other people have looked at this ad and wondered about their inadequacies? How many people eyeing this suddenly wondered if the fruit beneath their shirts were no longer��good enough?

How many people?

How many other ads are just like this on other trains, over highways, interrupting television shows and in magazines?

How many?

What fruit are you?

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, body image, breast implant, breasts, Brooklyn poet, gender, meant to wake up feeling, media pressure

what it is to lose

When I was thirty-four, I lost my mind. It had been ten years since the last time, and I found myself ransacking my bedroom for the map���torn up and burnt���which would guide me toward my bearings.

Outside, the air was gathering up its new identity. Its nametag of Winter had been removed and thrown away; it was now calling itself Spring. The yellow daffodils, though beautiful, were just confusing to me. All I could see and feel was emptiness.

The last time, which was not the first time, I was twenty-four.

The first time, which may have��not��been the first, was when I was newly sixteen.

I have lost my wallet once, dropped during a bike ride in Boulder, Colorado. But a considerate Samaritan returned it to me, several hours later. They knocked on my front door and handed it to me.

I lost my favorite red scarf somewhere in the Museum of Natural History during the first week of January. Then, I found it near the photo booth by the bathrooms. A few months later, I lost it for good somewhere in the halls of a community college.

Losing a mind is tricky. You can���t exactly retrace your steps or ask a friend to ask��their��friends to keep an eye out for it. You certainly can���t put up fliers or ask the subway conductor to make an announcement:

���EXCUSE ME, PASSENGERS, A LOST MIND, WEIGHING IN AT ABOUT THREE POUNDS WAS LAST SEEN IN CROWN HEIGHTS, BROOKLYN WEARING A NAVY BLUE SHIRT. PLEASE CONTACT LOCAL AUTHORITIES IF YOU LOCATE THIS MIND.���

When I lost my mind at sixteen, my mother found me. I was sliced up and unconscious. My mind slowly crawled its way out of my body. I was gathered up and sent to stay in a hospital for twenty-one days.

I was confused how I would retrieve my mind in a place that caused me to lose it even further. It grew blurry and the signal was weakening. I was around others that encouraged me to remain lost. I was given tiny capsules to swallow that slurred my mind into curious shapes. My appetite, that I coveted, was lost as well. It simply vanished, leaving me bony, translucent and weak.

Six years ago, I lost a brown, corduroy cap, which I had borrowed from my then-girlfriend. I left it somewhere between a thrift store dressing room and a bike ride throughout downtown Denver. That night, when I told her of this loss, she cried. It had been in her life for a long time, with memories stitched into the fabric, visible only to her. She asked me to go and look for it. By then, it was nighttime and all the lights had been turned off, but I jumped on my bike and began retracing my steps. I begged the moon to point me toward the direction of this hat, but it was barely a sliver of light that night. When I got home, we mourned the loss of her hat and slept in silence.

When I lost my mind at thirty-four, it was due to various factors colliding. It felt like a gang-bang of bad news. I had lost my partner, then my therapist, and the dark in me was growing like persistent ivy all throughout my body. I could feel my sense of direction weakening. Food, which once gave me such pleasure, was making me sick. I couldn���t chew. My skin was beginning to show imprints of my wandering mind. My white skin with old scars was turning red with new scars. My tongue was no longer being utilized and my spit dried up. I may have stopped swallowing; what��was��there to swallow?

One day, on my thirty-fourth year, I awoke deciding to no longer search for it. My mind was gone and I could feel myself slowly slink away, like a snake slithering out of its skin. But I was not looking to regrow anything. Instead, I was ready to disintegrate.

When I was somewhere between eight and ten, I lost a moccasin in a brook behind my best friend���s house that we weren���t allowed to wander in, so I couldn���t tell anyone of my loss. I can���t remember how I explained my arrival that night with one bare foot. I can���t recall if anyone even noticed.

When I lost my mind, no one asked me if I wanted help looking for it. People don���t tend to talk about this kind of loss.

I got it back. My mind. My skin of scars. No more new ones though. I���ve given up on the pills, so I���m free from the side effects. I���ve got my appetite and my voice back. I wouldn���t say I feel complete ease that I���ll never lose track of my mind, but I���ve hoarded enough maps to make sure I���ll at least find my way back to it sooner, if it tries to bail again.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, cutting, depression, meant to wake up feeling, mental illness, NYC poet, poetry, surviving body, surviving mental illness

you are (here)

It is pronounced:��map.��One syllable with proper push of “pppp” at the end.��

Or��atlas, if you’re lucky to have a gathering of many.

They��can be found in glove compartments in automobiles and in backpacks, folded neatly like an intricate fan of coordinates.

Lately, it can also be found with a mouthpiece, titled GPS. A rotation of satellites orbiting in the sky– when positioned correctly– can let you know whether you need to make a left or right or….

RECALCULATING….

On a road trip many years ago, in a subaru hatchback with enough room in the back for a foam mattress, there was no voice letting us know how to get to where we needed to go. We dug out a rand mcnally and leafed through pages that could have been called art. When we got lost, we stopped somewhere and asked for directions. Conversed with locals and breathed in the air of new (to us) land.

Then, we weren’t reliant on fancy phones guiding our��every move.

Then, there was no contraption plugged into car to dictate our route.

Then, adventures felt more FREE form.

We have forgotten how to get lost. We dig out our lovers from left or right pocket, swipe in several directions to get us where we need to go.

We don’t wander as much.

Some don’t wander at all.

I am detached from a GPS. I carry around tiny pieces of paper with tiny shards of ink curled in, with��my directions, that I carefully looked up. But if I get lost, I ask those around me who��are attached.��Or…I allow myself to wander until I really need to be where I need to be.

You are ****here******.

But maybe you can get there a little slower. Leave earlier next time and give yourself extra room for wandering. Slice in a little escapade into your day.

You may be surprised by your ability to go a few more minutes, even��hours without the help of your��palm pilot.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Brooklyn writer, fancy phone woes, GPS, how to get lost, how to wander, map, meant to wake up feeling, poem, road trip, writing

Today: A performance of music and poetry

Come to the Parkside Lounge today located at 317 E. Houston in NYC from 4-6 pm for some poetic experiments and an OPEN MIC!

I will be performing with my trusted sidekick, Pancetta Bruscetta III, ukelele.

Support this excellent weekly open mic put on by NYC press,��great weather for MEDIA!

21 and over.��

2 drink minimum (they do have coffee and sodas)

$2 suggested donation��

Hosted by Thomas Fucaloro����

Features:

Aimee Herman��

John Paul Davis��

Todd Anderson

Spotlight feature: Elizabeth Rosner����

Filed under: SHOWS | video, WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Elizabeth Rosner, great weather for media, John Paul Davis, meant to wake up feeling, NYC open mic, Parkside Lounge, poetry and music, Thomas Fucaloro, Todd Anderson, ukelele, ukelele and poetry

from The Tattooed Poets Project

I am proud to have my skin featured on The Tattooed Poets Project, which features flesh speaking out various poetics and prophecies.

This reads “when silence creates pattern/remove the middle/and engrave/the opposite.”

When asked to clarify these words, I explained:

“Out of the nine tattoos on my body, this is the only one whose words are mine. It comes from a poem in my second book of poetry, meant to wake up feeling��(great weather for MEDIA).

I���ve had many people see this and ask what it means. I never grow tired of the question, because I find my answer always changes. For the most part it means to carve out the quiet in silence, which tends to become a pattern in existence.��Wanting��to speak OUT our silence(s) until the fear stops us. So, this is a reminder to untwist the repetition of silence and by engraving the opposite, one is encouraged to speak out and up.

I do this everyday with my poetry. I speak out of silence and away from its cage(s). I like this inked reminder on my body because I���ve existed inside so many variations of myself that felt haunted by silence. Fear of being shamed. Fear of breathing life into my scars. But this tattoo empowers me. It reminds me why I write.”

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", Aimee Herman quote, breaking out of silence, great weather for media, ink on skin, meant to wake up feeling, poem, poetry, poetry tattoo, silence, Tattooed Poets Project

“the book is a literal body” –joy harjo

Inside this body, I have two. No, three. I’m still counting.

Inside this body, I have alphabetized two hundred and fourteen (plus or minus) bodies, birthed out of books out of words multiplying into��more words, crafting enough bones to hold me up for days at a time.

Inside this body, I speech about pronouns and water. I remove every vein from beneath skin��to sew into a tightrope for others to reach me.

Inside this body, splinters from the trees I’ve made love to. I’ve got shagbark and shellbark pulling at my shape with stretched branches.

Inside this body, a dialogue with freedom.

Inside this body, screams to wake the dead.

Inside this body, several long stories and a personal essay with fifteen pages of footnotes.

Inside this body, a love triangle featuring poetry, prose and musical notes.

Inside this body, an understanding of light fixtures and renewal.

Inside this body, a��literal interpretation of every crack I’ve jumped over or squashed. Here, is where I focus my map. The map of behind me and what is yet to be trekked.

 

 

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", body, gender, joy harjo, meant to wake up feeling, poetic body, poetry, the book is a literal body, trees, writing

TODAY: a celebration of a new book by my dad.

Many years ago, while I was still living in Boulder, CO, I was published in an erotica anthology. I came back east to visit and made my way to Connecticut to see my dad. We were both very excited of my publication and even though the content was a bit racy, my dad and I headed to the nearby Barnes & Noble, so he could buy a copy.

Yes, I went with my dad to buy a book of erotica.

I have a fond memory of heading to the “Romance” section, where it was housed and eagerly finding it in its alphabetical place. If my memory is correct, we took photos.��My dad holding erotica book, then I.

He has supported me through all my rejection letters and the unexpected acceptances. He has come to my readings and performances, even the ones which had content most fathers would find uncomfortable. He always called himself,��a fan.

Now, I get to be��his fan, as I help him celebrate his new book, “The Jefferson Files.” Tonight, at��61 Local��in Brooklyn, NY at 61 Bergen Street. 7pm.

Being a writer has freed me from so much. I revel in watching his freedom let loose on the page as well.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", 61 Local, Brooklyn readings, celebration of a new book, CT authors, Martin Herman, The Jefferson Files, writer's life

in search of a superhero on the 4 train

dear black boy on green line, manhattan bound from the bronx,

I can still hear the music of your voice in my ears, but what to call a melody of screams. I have housed that fear, but never in that pitch and never out loud.

I did nothing.

I gave you my eyes, hoping they would stop your father, the long monster. I called him this,��monster, because he��is one.

I did nothing.

You dropped every spoonful of salt from your body through your eyes, begging to stand. You just wanted to stand.��Why can’t I stand, you screamed. But the monster wouldn’t let you. Your father.��I did nothing.

He called you son, while hitting your head as you screamed: “You said you were going to punch me in my neck.”��I did nothing.

He said, “You are the reason everyone is staring.” And you continued to drop cups full of salt from your body as we all lifted our feet not to get wet from the drown of your fear. Your father, the monster, said he was going to punch one of us and called it��your fault.

I/we did nothing.

I waited. I waited for someone else to do something because how long can one watch someone else’s trauma without reacting. Without doing something. We were all just bystanders waiting for another to step up.

I/we did nothing.

I kept waiting for someone to strap on a cape and save the day.��I wanted to strap on a cape and save the day.

But I did nothing.

*

I think back to Kitty Genovese, a Queens woman who was stabbed to death just outside her home in 1964. Her neighbors watched during this attack. They watched the person leave, then come back and rape her. They watched and��they did nothing.

*

Who or what are we waiting for?

When I finally got to Brooklyn, I walked off the train, headed above ground and cried. I cried for the boy and I cried for��his��cries. On that��4 train at 6pm, everyone on that train let him down. His calls for help were ignored.

I immediately reached out to my friend–a poet and teacher and the one who holds me accountable every single day for the tasks I hope to get through each day. I told him of this event. My hands shook and chest echoed.

I did nothing, I told him.

What can be learned from silence? At some point it must be cut into and turned up.

 

“When silence creates pattern remove the middle and engrave the opposite.”

 

I’ve been carving up all the silences in me since I was a kid. Trying to tell on the fright inside me. Speaking up is a way of moving through.

dear black boy on green line, manhattan bound from the bronx,

I want you to know that there are many monsters out there and some even reside in our homes. But there are also superheroes, humans who smile without a need for anything back. Humans who do not punch or abuse with words. Humans who heal.

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", abuse on the subway, Brooklyn poet, bystander effect, kitty genovese, meant to wake up feeling, NYC observations, public transportation stories, subway observation

a delicious read

(based on a true story)
Woman of twenty-something reads
paper menu on 4 train as though
it is a novel: page-turner with
characterized ingredients
she--
chooses her adventure of
heartburn.

 

Filed under: WRITING | rambles Tagged: "aimee herman", 30/30, food, NYC observations, poem, reading, seen on subway