writing in little notebooks

The Skin I Wear

michelegutz — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 03:28:07 +0000

My first skin
is golden brown
and the color of my kin.
It reminds me of my mother’s mother
shining through me.
It is my armor made of flesh.
When I am brave, I stand on the edge of it
and pretend I can fly.

My second skin
smells like sweat and perfume.
It is made of my favorite red dress,
the warmth of my winter sweater.
and the gold that dangles from my ears.
It is the mask I wear
when I am pretending I am me.

My third skin
is the room in which I now sit
and the walls of my childhood home.
I line its shelves with Bulosan, hooks and Cisneros
and hang photos of Lolo and Lola smiling back at me.
This skin assures me that wherever I am
I am there, I am home.

My fourth skin
is made of the factories I work in
and the playgrounds in which my children play.
It is the rivers that flow like arteries
and the forests that breathe like lungs.
This skin is the part of me
that is that part of all of us.
It is the part of us that goes on.

Filed under: Observations on Life and Other Things, On Culture and Being, poetry, Spaces and Places

I, write

michelegutz — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 04:05:24 +0000

I learned how to write
the way I learned how to cry
from the gut
and in between sobs
under the covers
finding the quiet places
because I was hurt
soiled and hungry
looking for arms to hold me
needing words to soothe me
for refuge
for release
surviving the sadness
making peace with the rage
building rooftops with memory
watering roots with the words
not because I was good at it
but because I had to

Filed under: Memories, On Writing and Other Creative Endeavors, poetry

roots, wings, flow

michelegutz — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 02:22:58 +0000

You name me Culture
And say I have roots
Buried deep within you
As if digging
Into the flesh
Of your memory
Clawing
At the idea of it
Picking
Away at the fossils
Of history
Will yield you something
Real
Tangible
Something you can smell
In the scent
Of your Lola’s perfume
Taste on the tip
Of your new tongue
Feel in the folds
Of your skin
See in the beads of sweat
On your father’s temple
Or Hear in your mother’s voice
Calling you home
But, you cannot weave your limbs
Around me
Nor climb my branches
Instead, I give you wings
So you can touch the sky
I am in the air
Breathe me in
When you are ready
Bathe in me
And call me a river
Swim in me
And call me the Ocean
I am in the flow of your currents
I am the source you trace yourself back to
And I am the destination
You are moving forever towards
***
Note: This is a revision of an earlier piece titled “cutlure”

Filed under: Observations on Life and Other Things, On Culture and Being, Spaces and Places

my wish for you

michelegutz — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 10:21:44 +0000

one day you will be you
without having to explain
who, what, when, where and why
you’ve become all that which
you are now

one day you will possess
both the fear and fearlessness
needed to walk on water
and an ocean of tears
to find home

one day you will see
that the reflection
in the mirror
and within you
are one and the same

and one day soon
the scars will heal
the bones will mend
and the once broken places
are the strongest parts of you

Filed under: poetry

memory

michelegutz — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 04:31:28 +0000

She seems prettier than she really is
Because you see her through rose colored lenses.
A lover who gives you gifts wrapped in hope
With nothing inside but longing.
Why do you trust her when she never keeps her promises?
She’s a needy friend with too much baggage.
You’ll blame her, then forgiver her.
Then, you’ll just blame yourself.
She’ll convince you that you were never good enough.
And punish you for things that never happened the way she says they did.
She’ll leave when you call to her to stay.
And then linger when she’s no longer wanted.

Filed under: Observations on Life and Other Things, poetry, Schmoth (It's a weekly Undeniable thing.)

the shape of things

michelegutz — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 09:47:46 +0000

i love it
when the words
come together

like hands
molding
a block of clay
into the shape it has always meant to take,
writers do the same for memory

like fingertips
finding
the curve of a lover’s hips

crayons
coloring
the smell of mama’s adobo

tools
chiseling away
at broken promises
and lingering pains

pens
painting
memories
into words
into stories
and back again
into memory

Filed under: Observations on Life and Other Things, On Writing and Other Creative Endeavors, poetry

hello, heartache

michelegutz — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 07:56:19 +0000

hello, heartache
take a seat
you must be tired
i know i’m beat

how can you, heartache
still be so strong?
it’s been years
it’s been so long

you’re still here, heartache
you need to go
no more reminding me
of what i already know

goodbye, heartache
i’ve learned from you
when to love
and when to say it’s through

Filed under: Memories, On love, poetry

investments

michelegutz — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 03:16:21 +0000

Depending on who you ask, $25,000 can either buy you a lot, or not much. An ok new car perhaps, or the down payment for a condo. About 25 MacBooks. A decent education at a state college. For me, $25,000 is about how much I’ve spent in my life, either through insurance or out of pocket, on therapy.

I was nineteen years old until I finally got some sort of therapy. Nineteen may seem young now, looking back, but that’s a long time to go without talking, to go without speaking and I mean really speak, like from your gut and your heart. Nineteen years is a long time to go without having someone to really listen to you.

I pushed it all down into me, but it was all still there all those years, waiting to surface, erupt like a volcano, my tongue molten lava, and my voice buried under several layers of emotional sediment. I went at first because I took a razor blade and slit my wrists. It was my way of telling the world, and I suppose, my own self, that I was hurting on the inside.

Hurting myself was my way of communicating when I didn’t have the words or language to understand and express what was going on within, without, around and to me. I could go because I was finally away and at college, somewhere with the resources to help me or at least refer me, to point me in the some sort of direction, which just so happened to be the right one. And when I found the right therapist, the work of speaking and healing got easier.

Thinking of the girl I was at nineteen, I wonder about the countless others aren’t so lucky. Who go years or an entire lifetime without any sort of help, with nothing but the reflection in your mirror and the words in your diary to keep you company.

[...]

50 minutes/week.
$75 to $125/hr.
52 weeks/year. Give or take a few weeks to account for Holidays.
About 6 years.

That money was the best investment I’ve ever made and it was in myself.

Filed under: Creative Non-Fiction

a very corny love poem

michelegutz — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 02:59:10 +0000

If it didn’t rhyme
Would we still think that Love
Comes from up above?

And that when I say I love you
My words are true

That you ease the pain
And bring sunshine in the rain

Could you still turn the darkness into light?
Make my whole world bright

If it didn’t rhyme
Would I still dream of you at night?
And you’d make everything all right?

Would my heart still sing?
With the memories that you bring

Would my heart still skip a beat
Knowing each moment with you is a treat

Through thin or thick
When we’re healthy or when we’re sick

In good times and in bad
When we’re happy and when we’re sad

Could I love you at all times?
Even without the rhymes?

Filed under: Humorous, On love, poetry

culture

michelegutz — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 07:47:59 +0000

Some liken culture to roots
Buried deep within

As if digging into the flesh of memory
Clawing at the idea of it
Picking away
At the fossils
Of history
Will yield you something
Real
Tangible

Something you can feel
In the folds of your skin

Taste
On the tip of your tongue

See
In the beads of sweat
On your father’s temple

Hear
In your mother’s voice
Calling you home

Hold

But,
you are not a tree
Standing
Still

You are a river
Flowing
Strong
And swift

You are not wood
Breakable

You are water
Fluid

You are both
Flow and source

My, Dear
Don’t you know?

You
are
part
of
the
ocean

Filed under: poetry