Jennifer Fendya
Inspiration Piece

Terah Van Dusen
Response

Bird Song

I drove myself far
down the Requa way
I wanted to see myself fly
I shooted right there
from the seat in my car
I was singing Desperado
along the way
I shouted names that
I hadn’t heard in a while
I shouted devil and demon
and such
I whispered out loud
all of the pain and I stood there
and I watched it all flood
Down the hills
down the roads
down the windows of home
came a tumbling a sorrowful song
it sounded much like a thundering roar
it sounded like family, a devil, a whore
it sounded familiar more
it sounded so familiar more
I sat there and watched it all flood
I remembered the card tables the lanterns
and the saltines of home
I remembered the piano that nobody played
I remembered starving and chewing
and bleeding some more
I remembered the blank stares and
the barbed wires of home
I was a child disgusted
with home
so I drove myself far
down the Requa way
I wanted to see myself fly
away.

Brigitte Nowers
Inspiration piece

Invasion
By Terah Van Dusen
Response

There were just
four of us left
shape shifters
children and men
women and children
__

at night we sat watching
the winged-rats take flight
casting the spells upon our enemies
not one soul owned a gun or an arrow
obtuse peace–lovers, they said
there were just four of us
shape shifters
left

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Lisa Kilhefner
Inspiration piece

The Way of a Woman
By Terah Van Dusen
Response

Once, early on in our
relationship I shared a
hotel room with my man
three of his buddies

There were two beds so
Steve and I got one, two
buddies shared one, and
one fellow slept on the floor

Steve didn’t hardly touch
me at all that night
He was like that, respectful
(not of me but of his friends)

In the morning, I tip-toed
out the door into a barely-there Portland
springtime and in my royal purple longcoat
I practically skipped down the
road for coffee and maybe some
roll-your-own cigarettes
I stopped to put a rose in my hair

I found a place for coffee and, with the help
of a cardboard holder, brought cups back
for Steve and each of his friends
Also, I placed a blossom into the
tic-tac sized hole where you
drank from

I offered it to them, feeling a little crazy
and one of Steve’s friends told me:
Oh, you’re that kind of girl,
a compliment no doubt that
made me blush but I couldn’t
make a peep out of shyness
and in my head the words
were screaming:
I’m not a girl, I’m a woman!

but I didn’t say anything
then cause I didn’t want to
share em off

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Susan B.
Inspiration Piece

Altars Inside of Me
by Terah Van Dusen
Response Piece

There is an altar inside of my heart. It is as large as the Pacific ocean, as big as the universe. It will contain all that I could ever offer up to it. Everything but the negative, but the bullshit.

When I was a young girl my father taught me the in’s and out’s of the altar. He taught me this like any good parent would do, through example and not lecture. My father showed me that in our home, instead of a big screen t.v., or a t.v. of any size we would center ourselves around a small wooden shelf set a top a clean woven rug, the shelf neatly displaying framed photos of Lord Krishna and his wife; Radha, photos clipped from Back to Godhead magazine including one of of Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the guru saint who brought eastern Hindu religion from the banks of the Ghanges to the eastern United States and then eventually westward to us  in California.

In addition to photos the altar held a dish of uncooked brown rice containing the stickends of incense, fat ends lit at the start of every daily worship, a deity of Ganesha, perhaps the most kid-friendly of the Gods, and offerings of warm milk, apples, or blossoms plucked from the native shrubs outside our cabin door. With these memories in mind, I build altars inside of my body.

There is an altar inside of my heart, an altar inside of my head, my face, there is an altar inside of the soles of my feet and inside of the parts that make me Woman. Upon these altars I place sea shells, I place moss and twigs and the burnt orange peels that my dad would place on top of the woodstove to produce a fragrance.

I build a Ganesha out of clay and place him squarely at the soles of my feet. I fashion angel wings out of raven and dove feathers and with them I create two angels and name them Constance, and Gladys. I outfit the Goddesses that guardian my altars and I dress them in saris, princess dresses, and kimonos…a blue gown for Yemaya, the goddess of the sea, coral and jade for Radha, Krishna’s wife, who reminds me to be more patient and selfless in love, red for Venus, the very goddess of love, and yellow for Mary, mother of Christ.

There is an altar inside of my heart. It is as large as the Pacific ocean, as big as the universe. It will contain all that I could ever offer up to it. When I was a young girl my father taught me the in’s and out’s of the altar and with these memories in mind, I build altars inside of my body. There an altar inside of my head, my face, there is an altar inside of the soles of my feet and inside of the parts that make me Woman. Upon these altars I place hope. I place self-love. I offer up my potential and surrender my sorrow. I build altars in my body and in my home. I build altars inside of my heart.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Jane Souza Hulstrunk
Inspiration piece

Terah Van Dusen
The Three Musketeers
Response piece

I want to write about my neighbors. My neighbors down the lane. The ones that live behind the boxwood hedge on that property with the purple house, the green house, and the yellow house. They live in the smallest house, the purple one. The other houses are for pet birds, antiques, and a blond mannequin named Suzanne. Oh, and they have one large space dedicated solely to dancing, which is larger than their living space. Its walls are covered with hand-painted murals–murals of Welsh goddesses, tropical scenery, and deceased K-9’s.

Known as the Three Musketeers, my kooky (and I say that with love) neighbors consist of two sisters and one boyfriend. The three of them share a modest single room living space as well as the same bottle of auburn hair dye. At some point, their hair will fade to a rusty autumn orange and then simultaneously, they will all be rocking the deep auburn color again. The boyfriend has long hair, of course.

I want to write about Saturdays.

On Saturdays, I give the Three Musketeers a ride into town. At least I did for all of summer and fall. I haven’t seen them since the snow hit. Our other neighbor, Ember, told me “Oh, the Three Musketeers don’t go out in Winter.”

I want to write about one Saturday in warm, early September.

I was driving the Three Musketeers to town on route to work. They wanted to be dropped off at a friend’s house downtown–we were deep in conversation (they are all excellent conversationalists) about alternative education, raw food dieting, and reincarnation. No one had told me exactly where I was supposed to be driving, I just knew to go “downtown”. Well, I drove several blocks before interrupting Leeza, the sister-Musketeer without the boyfriend (I think, though someone mentioned that the three have an “odd” relationship), I said to her, “I’m sorry I don’t really know where I’m supposed to go…” and I made a slow left turn onto 12th Street, turning off of the busy four-lane street I was on, onto a side street. I want to write about how I saw a man standing on the sidewalk on the corner in front of a pale yellow and white house and the Three Musketeers all hollered “This is it! That is our friend!” just as I intuitively slowed to a stop in front of our destination.

I want to write about mushrooms and rock and roll.

I want to write about chanterelles, morels, hedgehogs, yellow feet, shaggy manes. I want to write about The Doors.

In the year 2000, my father quit his job as a road-construction worker and opted for seasonal work: mushrooming in the fall, Harry & David of Medford, Oregon in the winter and landscaping in the summer…if lucky. Without a doubt, my father enjoyed mushrooming the most. He studied Mushrooms Demystified, the bible of mycology, took an identification workshop at the local community college, and began tagging along with avid mushroomers every chance he got, tromping through the wet and wild Forest Service and BLM lands of Washington, Oregon, and California. And sometimes, scouring peoples’ backyards. My father hated crabbing, a popular local trade, “too sad” he’d say, shaking his head. He chopped his fingers off at twenty working in a saw mill. Though he never said why, he doesn’t prefer to do that work anymore. But mushrooming, mushrooming was something my father could get behind. He became obsessed, often picking alone but sometimes making hundreds and hundreds of dollars a season, maybe even a thousand, which in my father’s world is considered lucrative.

I want to write about all the times I tromped along with him. In the fall of 2009 and 2010, I was working just up the highway from him at the Oregon Caves National Monument. I was spending a lot of the time crawling around the “back” parts of the cave: the places with no paved trail, no light bulbs, and no head space. Crawling up the mountain sides, looking underneath the manzanita shrubs and alder trees reminded me of caving, and I told him that.

I want to write about mushrooming with the Three Musketeers. I want to write about Linn wearing her Mary Janes and me teasing her for it. I was wearing gators over my jeans and hiking boots. I want to write about Linn some more. Linn, the sister-Musketeer with the boyfriend (perhaps the most loving couple I have ever met) religiously wears dresses. If she wears pants they are tights or leggings, and always with a dress. When we went mushrooming she wore a flowery summer dress with her Mary Janes and nylons. She looked like me going to church when I was nine. It was fifty degrees out. It had just rained and the land was soaked like a sponge.

I want to write about the long-haired boyfriend, Thea, like Theo with an ‘a’. When I arrived, Thea was busy wrestling with a boom box the size of a pit-bull. He had it hoisted over his shoulder and was covering it with a poncho” ‘case it should rain”. It was already sprinkling, but there would be tree cover where we were headed.

“Love hikin’ with a stereo,” Thea said to me with a nod.

“Oh, I’ve never done that,” I replied.

“Oh yeah, keeps the cats away.” he said, alluding to the mountain lions.

Thea wasn’t bringing a bucket. Said he wasn’t any good at spotting mushrooms, “my eyes”, he explained.

I want to write about finally leaving ten minutes later, me thinking “how do  I find these people?” and “gosh I love them” and “aww I want to be as in love as Linn and Thea!” and “Does Leeza really sleep with him too?” I want to write about how our property borders BLM land and our landlord posting “No Hunting” signs all over so that when we hike we can be nearly sure we’re safe. I want to write about the single-trek dirt trail and crawling over the wire fence and Linn’s summer dress getting snagged.

I want to write about Leeza spotting the first chanterelle, of course, and us seeing all sorts of different fungi while listening to Riders on the Storm and Plastic Fantastic Lover and Mr. Tambourine Man. I want to write about the long silver radio antenna snapping off its base and Thea holding the radio together for two full hours, giving up on the hunting and focusing only on providing us with all the groovy tunes, which is not to say he didn’t bitch about the broken antenna the whole time.

I want to write about the pound and a half of orange chanterelles I plucked with my pocket knife and placed carefully into my white plastic bucket, the bucket my father gave me. I want to write about how I keep mushrooms cleaner than anyone I know and when it comes time to cook, the specimens are already free of fir needles, mud, and lichen. I want to write about the meal I prepared for myself after the hike, using store-bought tomatoes from some far-off, sunny place. I want to write about the thyme, the sea salt, and the rosemary. I want to write about the chanterelles. I want to write about eating alone. I want to write about writing. I want to write about it all. Radio. Rain. Lovers and fall. I want to write.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

One Red Elephant

By Helen Lewis

Inspiration Piece

Good Little Woman

By Terah Van Dusen

Response piece

The armpit of Humboldt County. That’s what I’d call that place. And I mean that in the best of ways. See armpits aren’t popular. And I don’t like popular. Plus armpits are warm, one way or another. Warm when they’re not wet. Just like Orick, California.

Orick wasn’t a one stoplight town. This was a no stoplight town, bordered on one side by lagoon and on the other side by a tall forest of redwood and fir. The small town was, oh a forty minute drive from Arcata to the south and Crescent City to the north with a whole lot of wonderful nothingness in between.

I lived in Orick for one summer and half a school year but the memories linger, and viscerally. I shared a room with my younger brother Jesse in a small yellow house my mom and step dad rented behind a burl shop. My mother was making jewelry at the time—beaded rainbow-colored earrings that hung long. Earrings for gypsy’s.

In the summer, my mother sunbathed outside with a neighbor lady. The neighbor lady had a big, scary dog she kept behind a short, brown fence. She had two daughters my age whom I played with regularly. We played Saved By The Bell and they wouldn’t let me be Kelly Kapowski even though they were both blond and I had long brown hair just like Kelly Kapowski. But it guess it was fair after all because one of the blond girls would’ve have to be Lisa Turtle and she was black. So I was Lisa Turtle, the peacekeeper.

At school, I learned all about saying Bloody Mary into the mirror three times. Which was scary even if “nothing happened” because the bathrooms were always dark and gloomy because that’s how Orick was because that’s how Humboldt County was—shrouded in fog and with a mean tree cover to boot.

It’s not as if nothing ever happened in Orick. But mainly, nothing ever happened in Orick.

However one time, the circus came to town.

~~~

I had the best teachers in the world and though I don’t recall their names, I’ll tell you about ‘em: That’s right, there were two. Not one teacher and one assistant: two teachers. They were husband and wife and they held equal power. When they weren’t teaching they were archeologists. I suddenly wanted to be an archeologist too.

I didn’t even care that they usually had me on “orange” status (i.e. yellow=good, orange=almost pink, pink=bad). That was the coding we had on a big board in the back of the classroom—it’s how they kept track of us kids. Three pink slips meant a trip to the principal’s office. I didn’t have a chance to make it that far, I moved back to Rock Creek after the insides of my ears healed but that’s another story.

My two teachers taught us kids about dinosaurs and whales and they fed us mussel’s they’d collected themselves at the nearby shore. They taught us paper mache, let us paint using real paint brushes (not just the foam on stick bullshit) and always informed us of local current events.

Like the circus.

~~~

We were sitting in class when the wife-teacher showed us a big colorful flyer for the circus, said it was happening on Saturday and not just in Orick but at Orick Elementary School. Why not at the high school you ask? Because there was no high school.

To my surprise, a brown-haired boy who sat behind me nudged me and handed me a small square of notebook paper. I took it in my hand and looked at him but he nodded toward a bright blond boy who sat behind him. The blond boy shyly waved at me. I turned bright red, shoved the note in my coat pocket and turned my attention back to the wife-teacher because I was already on orange slip for the day and I didn’t want to get a pink slip (story of my life).

Side note: you know why I was always on orange slip? Because there were two teachers not just one.

~~~

Back at home I isolated myself in mine and Jesse’s bedroom. Jesse was outside playing. I sat on a bed near the window and it would be the first of many times I would fantasize about a boy while in bed. This first fantasy was tame, mind you.

I looked at the folded square of notebook paper and feared the worst: it would say how ugly and stupid I am.

I eyed the note. I could tell by its corners that it had been folded once and never opened. I looked at the bedroom door, wishing I could seal it shut with only my mind, and just for the moment. It would be so embarrassing if my mother caught me with a love note (at least that’s what I hoped it was). I slowly peeled the note open. It read:

Hi,

I like you. Let’s go to the circus together on Saturday.
We can eat popcorn. It will be fun.

Saturday: I’d managed to get my mother to take my brother and I to the circus without telling her I didn’t really want to go to see the elephants, just a boy. We walked to the school-circus from our house—my twenty seven year old mother in her signature frayed, worn jeans with holes and a long-sleeve plaid man’s shirt. Her girlish fingernails and cigarettes fresh from the pack. Me with long hair and a long dress with flowers and pockets and lace. The only dress I wore that previous summer. A hippie dress.

We got to the circus before dark. We waited five minutes (which was a long time in our town) in line to ride the elephant. I rode the elephant as the sun went down behind the hills to the south. Where the redwoods are. I sat strait up on that elephant and my girl hips moved with it as it stepped. Up on that elephant I didn’t give a care about the blond boy who was suppose to meet me. I didn’t care about the blond girls next door who were lucky to have sisters not just brothers. I didn’t care about my ear problems or my mom and dad problems. I didn’t care that I would grow out of my favorite dress.

Sadly the elephant ride lasted only a moment. Two minutes at the most. Much like a really, really good song or that time I danced on stage in NYC or all the times I’ve dove under water in a clear, clean river, swam to the bottom and opened my eyes and no…one…could…touch…me and I didn’t even have to hear myself, let alone anyone else.

Some moments let us be untouchable.

~~~

Later, in the audience, I’m just like everyone else. I’m sitting on cold and flat and watching the untouchable trapeze artists and the little boy who can blow fire. I’m waiting for the next big thing.I patiently watch the circus show with my nine year old hands clasped in my lap—ever so often scanning the crowd for my blond date. All of town was there, and down from the hills too cause the place was packed.

Then I saw him. His patch of blond hair lit up under the dark canopy of circus tent. The boy was dressed in a black tuxedo, white collared shirt, black bow tie, shiny black shoes. My first thought was that I didn’t think I could find the courage to approach him, let alone allow him to buy me popcorn. My second thought was: who’s that?

Next to the blond boy who’d specifically asked me to be his date to the circus was a pretty little girl in a light blue dress. They were standing together near the popcorn. The fury rose inside me like a ring of fire. Why would he invite two girls? I reread his note in my head: Let’s go the circus together. We can eat popcorn. It will be fun.

It will be fun? This wasn’t fun!

Like a good little woman, I kept my head low until the circus show was over then I led my mother and brother Jesse home on the darkest possible route as to not be seen by the blond boy leaving in his limo–as clearly he was loaded. I didn’t talk to the boy at school on Monday, I never mentioned the note, and he never apologized either.

If I didn’t already know she was his date, I would’ve thought the little blond girl was the little blond boys sister.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who
created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express
and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.