Jen Kohan

Swim for your Life

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 16:38:00 -0500

There’s a scene in Wes Craven’s “Last House on the Left” in which a teenage girl, only just victimized in the worst imaginable ways, runs barefoot and half-naked through a thicket of woods. We run along with her and our hearts leap with hope as she launches herself off the rocky shore, head first, into a calm, denim-blue lake. We know she is a competitive swimmer, so we are sure she will outmaneuver the bullets that pursue her, and we watch confidently, holding our own breath in solidarity.

Her powerful strokes reassure me of the quiet reservoir of strength we possess, even post-trauma. Especially post-trauma. When there doesn’t seem to be anything left of us, there is. When we feel empty and hollow inside our skin, we are not.

Self-preservation is one part of it, the adrenaline that takes over when just remaining alive is the singular goal of each ten-second interval. But after the immediate threat has passed and the exhaustion of reflection sets in, there is something inside us that says “get out of bed”, or even “don’t get out of bed … you need to rest.” This intuitive voice can be misleading and lull us into complacency — sometimes it convinces us that we have earned a third Manhattan in our struggle. That we deserve it. There’s another strength that helps us discern the message behind the message.

On some level, I think most survivors know that you can’t just hold your breath and hope for the best, for the bullets to whiz past in slow motion. You have to keep swimming, kicking hard, lungs screaming for air. Eyes straight ahead to probe the murky depth.

Foregone Under Honey

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 22:53:00 -0500

That woman opened

Her mouth,

Foregone under honey,

and the rough Trading began.

Domiciling spelled permissible

grasped at felicity

Recast the girl and

Sated all the zone.

Until

An alliterative gradualism

Uncollected, shook water from ears

blistered with enterprise.

Dwight Okita's poem, to honor "Remembrance Day"

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 15:54:00 -0500

In Response to Executive Order 9066:

All Americans of Japanese Descent

Must Report to Relocation Centers

Dear Sirs:

Of course I’ll come. I’ve packed my galoshes

and three packets of tomato seeds. Denise calls them

love apples. My father says where we’re going

they won’t grow.

I am a fourteen-year-old girl with bad spelling

and a messy room. If it helps any, I will tell you

I have always felt funny using chopsticks

and my favorite food is hot dogs.

My best friend is a white girl named Denise-

we look at boys together. She sat in front of me

all through grade school because of our names:

O’Connor, Ozawa. I know the back of Denise’s head very well.

I tell her she’s going bald. She tells me I copy on tests.

We’re best friends.

I saw Denise today in Geography class.

She was sitting on the other side of the room.

“You’re trying to start a war,” she said, “giving secrets

away to the Enemy. Why can’t you keep your big

mouth shut?”

I didn’t know what to say.

I gave her a packet of tomato seeds

and asked her to plant them for me, told her

when the first tomato ripened

she’d miss me.

Dwight Okita

"Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even..."

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 23:56:27 -0500

“Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means… What is going on in these pictures in my mind?”

- Joan Didion, in her 1976 New York Times article, “Why I Write,” (full PDF), which begins: “Of course I stole the title from this talk, from George Orwell. One reason I stole it was that I like the sound of the words: Why I Write… I stole the title not only because the words sounded right but because they seemed to sum up, in a no-nonsense way, all I have to tell you.” (thx, @ambercadabra)

Best Case

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 23:08:00 -0500

It was always the waking up that surprised her. Not because she didn’t claim ownership over her own reckless behavior, but because she found that a little sleep, even forty minutes or so, produced just enough conscious distance that she was startled by the evidence around her. That evidence, usually in the form of vomit (or worse) on her clothes, or receipts, or other sundry items that made it home with her somehow, served to confirm events from the previous night that those few moments of sleep attempted to wash away. But the evidence was clear and couldn’t be disputed.

As long as she was alone, she could imagine a “best case” scenario. And she was almost always alone. She made it home most nights – clutched that tiny victory of self-control fiercely, like a baby with a soggy cheerio in her closed fist. Waking up anywhere other than home seemed a double defeat.

I made NPR! (sort of)

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 20:34:26 -0500

I made NPR! (sort of):

The Loft Literary Center is holding a 6 word memoir contest on Twitter to give away a free admission to my online writing course “Going in Sideways: Practical Strategies for Writing Memoirs” … and I get to be the judge! So fun! Check out my website to sign up for the course, too — It starts February 6th.

The next time I appear on NPR or the State of the Arts blog, it will be by name. Got that, Universe?

"Life’s absurd. Live authentically. Stop whining."

Wed, 18 Jan 2012 22:23:51 -0500

““Life’s absurd. Live authentically. Stop whining.””

- Wally Lamb

On Sleeping and Stravinsky's Wife

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 02:18:51 -0500

Stravinsky’s wife got the shaft. She tirelessly championed her husband and musical pioneer, watched as he spent almost twenty years living a double life with his mistress and eventual second wife, passed along her own tuberculosis to her daughter Ludmila, then witnessed said daughter die before she croaked herself. What a raw deal.

Up until now, I pitied myself a lot. Felt bad that I’d been through my own gamut of unfortunate events. But really, it was nothing like Katerina Stravinsky.

I feel a bit guilty, too, for using a work like “croaked” to describe her death. I’m certain the onomatopoeia is right on, but sadly, I also have no doubt that her demise was prolonged, painful, and very messy. As she lay in her bed, likely confined to bed for most of her final days, she must have soaked countless rags with spit and coughed-up blood. Necessarily isolated, and yet still responsible for the death of her daughter, she must have lingered that final year in mental agony matching her physical pain.

I’m struck by the cavalier nature of my initial reflection. Is this because I can’t seem to wrap my head around the tragedy of her life? Certainly, she’s not alone in this standing; every day, thousands of men, women, and children must suffer unimaginable horrors. But that’s just it - they aren’t really unimaginable. These horrors are fully real and present, imaginable by those of us who allow ourselves to go down that dark path of the mind’s eye. No need for visual evidence even, just a quiet union of emotion. It’s easy enough to come back, to open our eyes to the drawn curtains of morning, with the January sun peeking through. A sigh of relief might escape between sticky lips and a quick rub to the forearms will liven up frightened and heavy limbs.

Because then it’s morning. All the beasts of the past are sleeping again and there’s nothing to fear but fear itself. All that panic may rush in again without warning and flash flood the chest, like consumption, until it can’t draw breath. But panic won’t kill you, at least, it won’t stop your heart. My doctor told me so.

Your heart keeps right on beating, right through the fear. All the way to the last day. As long as those beasts stay asleep (tiptoes and whispers, but look back, and yes, they’re there), I’ll smile a little because they’re not so frightening, really, purring and cuddled up against each other to stay warm.

But I’ll kill them yet.

"I wonder which is preferable, to walk around all your life swollen up with your own secrets until..."

Fri, 30 Dec 2011 11:06:25 -0500

“I wonder which is preferable, to walk around all your life swollen up with your own secrets until you burst from the pressure of them, or to have them sucked out of you, every paragraph, every sentence, every word of them, so at the end you’re depleted of all that was once as precious to you as hoarded gold, as close to you as your skin — everything that was of the deepest importance to you, everything that made you cringe and wish to conceal, everything that belonged to you alone — and must spend the rest of your days like an empty sack flapping in the wind, an empty sack branded with a bright fluorescent label so that everyone will know what sort of secrets used to be inside you?”

- Margaret Atwood (via pavorst)

Back to Bed

Fri, 30 Dec 2011 01:07:00 -0500

I didn’t taste the fruit cup on Christmas morning because I was too busy screwing up the rest of the meal. Turns out the oranges were piercingly tart.

I had it all planned the week before: caramel rolls and eggs benedict for Christmas morning. Then SOMEONE mentioned that caramel rolls were an X-mas tradition in another, previously married life. I, of course, instantly vowed never make another caramel roll as long as I live. So began the hunt for an alternate breakfast pastry that was gooey enough to match the indulgence of the caramel rolls, because my trusty blueberry muffin-making abilities were just too … everyday.

Nineteen hours and eighty-two crumbcake recipes later, I decided to hell with it: I was making caramel rolls. So there I was at midnight on Christmas eve, rolling out dough and trying to remember where I hid the stocking stuffers.

They rose too much and escaped from the pan in the oven, oozing butterscotch drippings that made for a sweetly smoky house.

The handy microwave egg poacher I picked up to make the benedict a snap? No good. After the third egg exploded and I was sure everyone would be cursing me in their beds, I abandoned the plan. I was really looking forward to making blender hollandaise, too.

I tiptoed back into the bedroom and stood beside the Count of caramel. Tears filled my eyes as his fluttered open.

He cleared his throat a little and squinted at me. “What’s wrong, Smoochie?”

I sniffled, “I wrecked breakfast.”

He reached an arm out to take my hand. “Oh Smoochie, I’ll make the Kernil’s special omelettes.” Omelettes made to order, for six.

I sighed and sat on the edge of bed. My Christmas miracle-man. Every single day.

Writing for Your Life

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 02:14:27 -0500

I am working like a madwoman. My day job has become a night-and-day job, and though I love it, I’m exhausted. I told myself this would be temporary, this crazy schedule — that it was necessary to build my business and cast my net wide to connect with innovative people, but I am running out of juice.

My biggest problem isn’t the fatigue, though. The biggest problem is that I’m not writing. The effects of this lifestyle are varied and painful. I need to get back into therapy soon, if I don’t start integrating regular writing practice into my day. No time to process, no time to transcribe the voices and conversations in my head. I’m losing observed moments to time and yesterday. The cat places her paw gently on my wrist and I feel the pressure of her concern. Thankfully, that’s recorded now. Countless other moments have slipped away.

It’s a bit of a fib to say I’m not writing, though. I’m writing lots of emails, wiki entries, project management guides, and curriculum materials. I’m also writing loads of cryptic little notes to myself which remind me of the notes I wrote on cocktail napkins back when I was drinking. Notes that say things like “multiple measures” instead of “raven’s wing” and mean as much the next day.

Speaking of sobriety, my productivity is through the roof right now — I only wish it was peaking in terms of a different kind of creativity. I have a story that’s on my brain though, which is promising, especially as I do not typically write fiction. I need to read a little Calvino, perhaps. Maybe visit Kundera again, as the Velvet Revolution is also on my brain since Havel’s recent death. I can’t seem to shake it.

This could be a start, this ten minutes here. Reminiscent of Natalie Goldberg’s advice about taking “X” topic/subject/image and then “ten minutes — GO.” This could be a good way to end the work day, even if the work day ends after one a.m. and begins again only a few hours from now. I’ll let myself think about tomorrow’s topic during a snack or shower tomorrow. If I can manage to squeeze in a shower.

"What I don’t write is as important as what I write."

Sun, 18 Dec 2011 01:01:27 -0500

“What I don’t write is as important as what I write.”

- Jamaica Kincaid (via pavorst)

"Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion."

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 19:37:30 -0500

“Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.”

- Jack Kerouac (via pavorst)

"Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted."

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 17:16:46 -0500

“Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.”

- Jules Renard (via pavorst)

How To Be a Published Writer

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 20:51:18 -0500

How To Be a Published Writer:

I love the clarity of this piece. It relaxes me, somehow, and helps me to feel content with my personal “diligence”.

"Poverty’s child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon."

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 02:34:46 -0500

“Poverty’s child -
he starts to grind the rice,
and gazes at the moon.”

- Matsuo Basho (via moderateclimates)

Upon Hearing Footsteps

Mon, 21 Nov 2011 22:58:00 -0500

The neighbors said he was crazy.

When I moved into this house, I knew that the previous owner lived out of state, and bought it for his father. He was selling it because the old man had gone into an assisted living facility. That’s what the realtor said, anyway. I also knew that he struggled to take care of the house, leaving it grimy and in certain disrepair.

And then I found the pillow. It was in the basement, in a cement corner, tucked behind the furnace. At first, I worried about squatters, wondering if my new home was vulnerable to intruders. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a curtain around the area, and multiple extension cords leading into the tiny space. It was like a child’s hideout.

The next weekend, as I raked leaves in the front yard, Jeff from across the street ambled over and asked, “You find any loose dirt in the basement yet?” He told me that Gunnar, the previous resident, had two lodgers … but only one was seen moving out.

“The guy, he didn’t stay long,” Jeff shook his head, “but the lady, she just disappeared.” He smirked, “When Gunnar said she skipped out on the rent, but left all her stuff behind, we wondered.” I did too, and took a closer look around.

The couple next door told me how relieved they were that I had moved in. Apparently, the old guy had called the cops because their front light was too bright. On the other side of the house, they said he complained about their dog barking, even when the old spaniel was inside.

Each time I talk with the neighbors, any of them, I hear a new story. Shots fired into the air in the backyard, his crazy attempt to lay a path using firewood, and that he crashed into the fence, stumbling from the car steaming drunk.

The more I heard, the sadder I became. More than one person had mentioned that he was a vet, and they speculated that he might be in the protective care of the Veteran’s hospital nearby. I wondered what combat he’d faced, what terror he’d seen. The strangeness of the house transformed from creepy to heartbreaking. I imagined him in the basement, behind the curtain, perhaps with a radio, feeling safe. I imagined him scared in the nighttime, the blinding porch light peeking through closed curtains.

Poet-Bashing Police

Sun, 20 Nov 2011 00:04:25 -0500

Poet-Bashing Police:

As reported by professor and former poet laureate Robert Hass: Police officers face off with students and poets in Berkeley in the very spot where the Free Speech Movement started.

"Bigger Than They Appear" . . .Tiny Poems. Massive Anthology.

Mon, 14 Nov 2011 17:51:00 -0500

"Bigger Than They Appear" . . .Tiny Poems. Massive Anthology.:

Here’s how to get your hands on it …

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple."

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 23:33:01 -0500

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums (via aepocrypha)