Tiffany Promise blogs about life, literature, and hairless cats.

celebrations of celebration

8/22/2014

of the moment when
my two front teeth
catch your dewey bottom lip
clamp a bit too tightly
and forget to let go.

of the times when i see you after hours
of not seeing you
and you loom unearthly, fawn-like,
in front of the blood moon.

of the way your hands touch
tomatoes at the farmers market
pick persimmons for the pie
gauging ripeness
with thumbprints with teeth.

pumpkin/lobe
nog/cell
cheese/plasma
sprout/tongue

you feed me
full of intrigue, not worms.

i feed you,
mammal-cozy, no fleas.

and we are swollen with celebration.

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charlotte

8/21/2014

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it is a woman of murderous weapon
by which language commits suicide.
full of spongy yellow funeral cake,
mourning blankets and mattresses--
not quite comfortable, but something else altogether.

without use, we become frail;
withering on stems: little flakes of our past selves
crunching underfoot,
grinding into almost-nothing

but a squishy smooch.

(this poem was inspired by "The Yellow Wallpaper." Click here to read my post about it.)

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Currents: gutter punx, feminism, and axes

8/21/2014

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writing:
I am doing some tweaking and re-working of an old favorite, "Johnny, Hit and Run." It’s time for this story to see the light of the moon. It's been sitting on my shelf for about seven years now, which actually makes it much easier to perform surgery on: stripping its layers, removing malignants, deleting what it may have thought was its reason for existence but has given up believing in. I am killing my darlings.

(In Stephen King's memoir, On Writing, he says “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.” But, this sentiment has been ascribed to many of his predecessors. Who said it first?)

Meet Pinky and Johnny, two little, gutter punx in what-they-think-is-love:

When my feet started to rot inside my boots, you scrubbed my toes in a truck-stop bathroom while I smeared our names in bubbles across the warped mirrors. When scabies scaled my skin, you rubbed me down with Lidane lotion and mummified me in toilet paper--the scratchy public-bathroom kind, so rough it almost leaves splinters. I hobbled through the parking lot, naked save for paper. The truckers whistled, you bristled. There was nothing you couldn’t handle.

reading:
"The Yellow Wallpaper" (short story) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. You may recognize her name because she authored a very highly-regarded, early, feminist text: Women and Economics. This book is a staple in any Intro to Women's Studies class, and deftly describes women's predicament in the late 1800's, calling for women to transform their cultural identities.

"The Yellow Wallpaper" is a vivid portrayal of a woman falling into madness. Not only does it critique women's social and familial roles, but also exemplifies the concept of the "identified patient." The narrator's husband is a doctor; when he tells her that she is sick, she believes him (even if she doesn't actually feel sick herself). She is even thankful that he is taking such good care of her (even if that means locking her up in a room, and depriving her of all social/physical/mental stimulation). She doesn't know any better, she is only doing what she is supposed to do. This story is heartbreaking, but also reminds us to be firm in the face of annihilation. It is about housewifery, hysteria, and what happens when we don't have creative outlets in which to sink ourselves into.

(To read the poem that was inspired by this story, click here. It's called "charlotte.")

Click below to hear this empowering Bikini Kill song about what it means to be a woman and a poet in a society that says those two things cannot coexist in one person.

coveting:

Rima Hyena is a master jewelry-maker. I particularly love this axe pendant because it reminds me of Lizzie Borden--who even though she was a murderer, was standing up for some kind of freedom that she believed that she deserved. Her ghost often visits me when I am writing late at night.

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...from the vault

8/19/2014

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Once upon a time, Courtney Johnson and Tiffany Promise read some stories to a room full of their classmates & teachers at CalArts. 2010 feels so long ago. In some respects, I guess it was. Stay tuned for more fun writing artifacts from my life.

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Dear you,

8/17/2014

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Dear Hunger,
Nothing left in here but
peanut butter,
bread,
and pillows.

Dear Passion,
Sorry I forgot that you existed.
I think I re-found you
when reading Emily Dickinson.

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Submissions

8/17/2014

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I just submitted one story to Apparent Magnitude. They asked for weird, and they got it. And, another story to One Teen Story. Both are fantastic lit mags, and even if they don't publish my work, I feel honored that the editors are reading me. Fingers crossed.

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75 days until Hallowe'en

8/17/2014

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Currents: 14 y.o. girls, memories, satanic kitties

8/16/2014

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writing:
A story about a 14-year-old girl and her experience with identity, fitting in, self-actualization, and self-mutilation. She has a very vivid imagination that flummoxes the adults in her life. She’s a sensitive soul, a witty banterer, and a lover of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Meet Lizzie:
My favorite thing about being in the hospital is that I get to wear pajamas all day. My second favorite thing is that they can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with me. I’m much more mysterious in here than I ever was in my former, clothes-wearing, high-school-student life. Back there, in the Hell-Mouth, cool kids ignoring un-cool kids is de rigueur. I was unfortunately even less cool than un-cool. I got lucky if someone called me a “witch,” the more subversive and slightly more compelling version of “weird-o.” It was nice to be marked as un-invisible every now and then.

reading:
The Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr.

These stories are delightful and sad and human. I saw him read a few years ago at the Tin House Writer’s Workshop in Portland, Oregon. His words are luminous. This particular collection has a lot to do memory (as the title suggests). Are our memories what make us human? Are they more? Are they less?

Here is the NY Times review of this lovely book.

coveting: