Enga mellom fjella

A bit about me and why Susan Boyle inspires.

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¨°º¤ø„¸ GO Susan !! ¸„ø¤º°¨
¸„ø¤º°¨ Ur Awesome!!!`°º¤ø„¸
¸„ø¤º°¨ ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø„¸ ¨°º¤ø„¸

I thought Susan Boyle would hit 20 million hits by Sunday. She'll be over that number by the end of today! The above was in one of the comments with a note to paste and share (I edited a tad). I think it applies to all the Susans here at WDC as well.

I have given some thought about Susan Boyle's success. She has been a singer for over 35 years (why a singer? because she sings!). In spite of her own personal issues she has kept on being who she is and contributing to her community in West Lothian, one of the poorest in Scotland. Years of working on her craft with just the support of common folks while she tended to her parents brought her to this point in her life. She only sang on BGT to keep a promise to her mother, Brigid, who died in 2007 at age 91 "that she would do something with her life".

For me ... I didn't start writing till I was 47 (May 1999 ~ Michigan; thank you Keith Hays and Bill Baker ; my father had died February 1999 at age 82).

Mirrored in your eyes,
I see a me that cannot be.
For love surrounds that form
that is not me, and yet must be.

from "Mirrored in your eyes" .

When I was about 49-50 I increasing felt the need to write. I was overwhelmed by a micro-manager, snippy co-workers and friends, two houses, people who brought drama into my life; I was supported by members of a writing group out of the local mental health organization (Thank-you Susan, Marge, Fay) even though I had no diagnosis (even then I had depression and a certain amount of anxiety). I could've taken early retirement when I was 50, but couldn't live on the monthly dole. When I lost control over my circumstances I also lost my job (just as I printed out my first chapbook) before turning 51, I could no longer cope. The pain was too overwhelming.

Perhaps people thought I had a better life, a better house, a better something than they did ... whatever ... once down, I was kicked like a cur or sobbed over like a wounded puppy. The sobs felt better than the kicks but I left. Landed in Oklahoma! Where I was treated kindly (thanks to Donna, Mitchell, Alan, the Andersons, Murv Jacobs, Debbie Duvall and many many others. Tahlequah was a healing place.).

I wrote a lot in Oklahoma. Started my Journal (handwritten, now on page 2,024) I read my poetry in Tulsa and joined a writing group there.

I hated pictures in my childhood, avoided camera flash, the clash of outer truth, an inner reality it could not reveal. My feelings did not haunt the film, thy hid behind my mother’s skirts. The dirt beneath my nails knew more of me than what a picture told. In bold rejection of these cold intrusions, I protested. Now, what few photos I once had are gone by water, fire or sad neglect.

from "'photographs'" .

When it was time to leave (my new friends in OK were moving and a friend in Colorado offered) I had a wonderful trip through Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico,

I could've touched Texas with a gentle kiss,
spanned the handle of Oklahoma,
sucked the moisture out of Kansas ...
and died of thirst.
New Mexico beckoned from its table tops.
Colorado lay flat, exhausted, silent, close.

(from "Boise City" ) landing in Aurora (next to Denver). Alas, things did not work out, as the hounds that had bit me found me again.

At age 52 I was penniless in Kansas. In a country that worships money, in a metro area (Kansas City) were Money = God and wealth = godliness, I was totally broken. Totally broken before my 53rd birthday ...

I kept writing. In four hours at the Oread Bookstore on May 13th I wrote:

18.
Catlike, I slink behind your trophies,
hide beyond your clutches,
wait for my bowl to be filled.

23.
How can I abort this love
that never had a chance
to be conceived?

30.
How did both of us ever agree
to never say nothing
about the nothingness
that died between us?

84.
First time ever I saw his face?
His golden barbwire
cut my tapestry
and I unraveled.

93.
What shall I share with you?
The kiss of peach, the squirt of lime,
all life's messiness. In time,
my death, your death,
and our eternity.

from: "May Thirteenth"  [18+]

The hurt continued though ages 53 and 54 and was only marginally better by 55 as I still was penniless. But I had WDC by then and folks like Sheila who showed how deeply some folks care.

Of course, I kept writing. By now I could say I was a writer. Why? Because I wrote!

Kansas was tough as the writers form closed cliques: town cliques, gown cliques. And without money I didn't have the resource that they-all valued most and I sure wasn't famous! I was shit-on-the-bottom-of-their-shoes and quickly wiped off.

Although life improved when I was 55 (I now had income) it was a time to heal deep wounds and like an antsy pet I no longer wanted to stay at home; I wanted to run; I wanted to fly; I was tired of being treated like a pariah. I got on the bus and visited family and spent my first time in Montana.

By age 56 I was frustrated enough that I put most of my stuff in storage, packed a few things, went off to my sister's in Washington, considered living in Seattle (still would) but needed to revisit Missoula. And here I am in Montana, a child of a blue-collar wasteland who once felt nurtured on the grassy flatlands where the biggest mountain may be the garbage dump, living next to a river that unnerves me, huddled in the shadow of mountains that overwhelm me. I cope. So, why do I stay here? It's the people



and the sense of a community of writers.



And I still write. But now I tell people I am a writer. What I did for years seems so irrelevant. The things I accomplished (there were a few), the people I knew (there were hundreds) no longer matter except to bring back the pain (something I slowly deal with and may need to write about someday; I've shared only snippets). Here, I'm just a struggling writer who occasionally can make some small difference in someone's life. After 56 years, I'm still ME!

And that brings me back to Susan Boyle, age 47, songbird of West Lothian. She'll always be a singer ... perhaps just on a bigger stage, projected on a bigger screen.

WDC is my West Lothian. It is the village I live in and will continue to live in. But ... like many of us who live here know, there is a world outside that village. Someday, I intend to "take that audience" by storm "and rock it".

So, deferring to Queen Scarlett:

1. Write. Because that's what I do!
2. Work more on craft, trying new things, going to workshops.
3. Develop a web-site and alternative means of sharing my poetry like Twitter.
4. Personally promote myself. Hmmm. I'm not sure what that means. But it sounds to me like smoozing, moving in various groups, meeting other writers as equals (the lesser and the greater) without apology. it demands presence and poise. (Did anyone notice Ms. Boyle's stage presence and poise?)
5. Find a small to medium stage to perform on. Submissions to magazines is part of this, so are conferences, so is putting out chapbooks and books, so that when a larger stage is provided I am ready ... just like Susan Boyle was.

Blodgett Creek is in the Bitterroot Valley. This is photo is by a professional photographer, writer and nature-park-guide who is also my friend here in Missoula. He too is seeking a larger stage (or puddle) as he needs to stay afloat. If you know any way you can help, just leave a note here or on his web-site. And you can even purchase his art on-line.

Hobie Hare's work is found here: http://www.wildharephotos.com

This particular photo is on page: http://www.wildharephotos.com/whp-newcards1.php

Montana: 49º at nOOn

tulip johnny-jump-up forsythia chinodoxia grape hyacinth daffodils hyacinth dandelion bluebird tulip yellowbells primrose pansy buttercup scilla

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