a poem for Frances Farmer
Claire Keane
we're not kids anymore.
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@earnestfeeling
a poem for Frances Farmer
I walked through my great grandparent's barn. The light came through square windows. Gleam of blackberries, dust of apples. A cement floor to milk the cows and then the rest dirt. The boards would be called slats. I felt as thin as paper, thin as glass. The whisper from an empty space, the one I must carry, had stilled to peer through. And with those eyes I saw. And within that silence: paper over a window creases to a bend, bending in a leaning barn.
That this was the first time I had seen it, too, Angeline.
from Canby to Salem
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Published some personal writing about returning to Oregon, the legacy of eugenics on my family, how that all moves through me, why I am determined to hold and speak the grief and resilience it brings.
Love like a nectarine!
I spent a year making this, I bought a real canvas. I've been thinking about safety and want, my particular experiences of terror. Love and what it asks of me is hard-won. My partner hung this on our wall because it matters and he likes it. Collect enough small glows and you'll have a future, on purpose.
Little true stories :-). Click to read Dogs In The Golden Hour, by Megan, a Substack publication. Launched 5 days ago.
Going to send out something later today, feeling very serious and self indulgent. Long form personal writing here for when I have something to say.Â
Moments of complex and unimaginable good!
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Text reads: âYou will change, and survive. Over and over. Life, dense, the gravity of past to lay a hand on the loom of future. Harsh breaks, soft sighs, I know how much you want to understand. On the train, on your way to pick up the keys, I can tell them you saw clearly their young, real faces. You were going home. They examined you without understanding and that is why you cried. Your desperate heart. You know you will never know. With this past we stay hungry. It does remain, everything you have ever been. Imagine yourself alive where love can be safe. We know, and we weep, that this was not always there for you. I express with pain that there we were companions. Your survival today, if it allows you, if you are here, I am here, please, this is the way it can be now.â
Madness is so precious to me, so painful, and deeply deeply DEEPLY entwined with love :(
quick & grateful & strange work
I wrote this poem the summer of 2019, on the cusp. There are real pains that are not recognized as pain. One of those can be experiences labeled as psychosis. Another is moving through the world as someone assigned a related label. Clozapine devastated me, carrying its own pain, leaving me a complicated grief. Fuck shame & fuck eugenics: Mad people, I love you, I want us to have a good, good life.
Text under the cut:
âIn terrible strength I sometimes believe I could forgive the worldâ
Love is safe & real & a good field to stand in. Here is another collage, pieced together warm and patient as a quilt, that I made in determination to live there. When you are weary from pain, may this be your careful place to rest.Â
Image description: Two photographs of a paper collage that resembles a quilt with two nestling birds in the center surrounded by green fields and brush and colorful lines and rectangles on a cream background. The first photo is the collage against steps outdoors with angled sunlight and the shadows of leaves. The second photo is the collage resting flat on dry, golden grass.
i have been on this website since I was twelve. Iâll be twenty two this year. I remember when the nosebleed club first came out. I was running an open mic in the drama room black out theatre during high school. I remember wanting to create some kind of space like that, somewhere I could write and share and others could share. I never read My Girl Romy until today and it rocked my world. All day Iâve kind of been sitting with the words letting them sink in the brain wrinkles. Going back and rereading again and I just couldnât help but reach out and tell you how much it stirred me. After feeling like a dormant volcano for two years of not being able to write anything, suddenly I want to share. Thank you for writing. Thank you for putting it out there and Iâm just so happy I logged in at the right time. Itâs like swimming and glimpsing a sparkle in the sand. Thank you for the treasure. I am going to find my favorite pen and write again.
Thank you so, so much for sending me this, it really means the world! I definitely have those dormant volcano periods (love that image) and I understand how powerful the right words at the right time can be. I feel so lucky to be able to be a small part of that shift for you, but remember to give yourself credit for picking up that favorite pen again, it is YOU who are doing the real work here!! I am on the sidelines cheering you on with a stupid grin! I hope you are finding that vital creative community where you are now, and if you ever want to chat about writing I am here too. Thank you again <3
MY GIRL ROMY
(Originally appeared in Nosebleed Club's Short Story Collection [2019].)
In the mad-dog heat of the summer, possibility opens like a window to let the breeze of time pass through. When autumn comes the window slides decisively shut, encasing behind it the surreal world of August light, sweat on skin, the long walk home. The summer was Romy, and the summer will be eternally hers. The August light was her tripped-up halo, the August sunsets from the river park the only real thing in the universe. We were girls once, and the only real thing in the universe to ourselves. I learned about the way a river can open and close and about time doing the same motion. After you see it once, you can never forget. No way will it let you go.Â
Lesion
[Paper collage consisting of images of: a person sat in a pew bent in prayer, a forest fire, a handwritten notecard that reads âtissue destructionâ with two illustrations of a brain labeled ânormalâ and âbadâ, and intersecting white, red, and yellow lines.]
Threshold
[Paper collage consisting of images of: a field of blue flowers, a team of explorers crossing a golden field of grass, a foggy mountain reflected in water, a happy dog in a field of multicolored flowers with the caption âSwimming in flowersâ, and a notecard handwritten with the word âThresholdâ. Red, black, pink lines and yellow shapes. The collage is resting on moss sprinkled with cedar tree droppings.]Â
Hi this is Megan / formerly anexitlike / I have some art!