Saturday, October 14, 2006

It's been two years since I've posted here. I'm canning the blog I love because I need a fresh start. I'm not sure where I'm going, or if I'll post publically again, but something has to give.
Danna Saunders at 1:20 PM

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Thursday, September 23, 2004

I keep thinking about what I should write.
I can feel some of the stories in me-sitting at the bottom of my daily bag of activities.
Somehow work, eating and attempting sleep come out on top.
I'd like to tell you that I am making progress-but it does not seem that way.
wish me well...
Danna Saunders at 7:10 AM

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Monday, August 02, 2004

I sent these in to apply for a grant. That was a couple weeks ago. Writing has been very sparse lately. Too happy I suppose?
Danna Saunders at 5:52 PM

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Thursday, June 10, 2004

Perhaps nobody yet has been truthful enough about what "truthfulness" is.
-Nietzsche.

My mother did not know about me until it was too late.
Too late to understand my common complexity.

The same woman who would later make her wish she had paid more attention to her own heart.

My mother--used to being a backseat driver became startled when I began to quicken.

My kicking making her wish that she could still fabricate wishes in her beadwork. I made her believe in a life more simple-like a rock rolling as it trickles through a soft stream. She wanted this possibility, but could not deny me.

She was already changing—whether she wanted to or not. I had already begun gleaming with my own blood. My cells multiplying with every breathe she took. I would not leave her-my heart knew no other intention to beat-but for her.

I did not know inside of her what she was; only what she wanted to be. I saw all her dreams playing inside of her womb.
Then one day it all stopped.

A chill spread through me.

The final warmth swept through me as I felt her Indianess seeping coercively through my pores as I flushed out of my water world and into the coldness of this one. I clung to her as best I could, but this choice was not mine to make.

They say the baby initiates birth.
Not this one.

The brightness surprised me as I searched for the darkness she had begun to groom me in.
I looked for the dreams I danced in while she was my host.
I searched for the familiar faces I saw projected in her.
I searched for the home, the man who I had come to believe would love us both.

She never asked and I never told. It didn’t seem to be a choice either of us could make.

Something larger than us had control.

I found this would not be the last time.

My first impression was anger drifting from her heart to my mind.
A condition formulated from our common fears.

Where was the man I had seen so many times?
Why were we hear alone?
I could no longer smell him. His soft cologne brushing against the tips of her ears as she laughed and sent a jiggle to me.
A warm jiggle like fresh bread.

The anger--created a sheen over her long jet hair. The tips of it touching her thighs. The taste of commodity cheese seeping from her nipple to my belly. The tears welling in my heart as I saw in the pool they made-the coffee, flour and dead sheep.

Her version of our truth.
Pain.

She liked long boots and leather belts. This Indian woman wore chokers. She told me, "only turquoise—my dad, your pappa, makes them for me--I have a big neck". The stone hung loosely on her strenuous neck as she rocked me.

My chasm. She called me love. But taught me anger. She listened to my stories only to fabricate better ones.

Something told me to listen and to beware.

I lived with this woman until I felt that I could be a woman on my own. Her hands used again, arduously-angry as they tied my bun as I prepared to leave-for the first time. Her tugging as she combed each tangle free. A dream released with each rough knot she slowly undid. My wisdom bonded by her hands, its thickness increased with each turn. The yard gliding over each strand-time shortening with each twist, turn and gather of hair. Her breathe on my neck as she finally managed to get it all tied up.

This mother of mine teaching me-her words lining the walls of my soul—dripping into the thing that has become me.

Do not give up.
Commodity cheese is my comfort. It’s free and it’s good for you.
Learn what to take and what to walk away from.
Do not dip too deeply into the pot my love.
Do not spend all your money at the theatre.
Do not marry young.
Live there.
Do not live there.
Of course I know what I’m talking about.
Listen to your grandpa.
Yes, he is crazy, but listen still.
No, you can not be who you are.
You are my daughter.
Listen to the life that flows in you.
I made you.
I knew you would be-what you will be-before you knew what you were.
I am the mother.
You are the woman.
Be alive.
Eat the blue corn mush.
Why is your frybread so hard my love?
You know every woman needs to know this-otherwise how will you get a husband?
Stop being angry.
There is no pain here Irma-have that baby and teach her like I taught you.
There is purpose Irma--that’s the truth.
Do not forget to get her a Census number Irma-she can not get her cheese without it.

Again, I walked away from her. She did not stop me this time. I no longer had a bun to worry about.

The world is a big place I told baby June—as I ran my fingers through her soft feathery jet hair.

As I kissed her hands as they clung to me.
As I rolled her tight and packed up.
We can make it together-our way.

Special thank you to Sherry for all her help on this one.
Danna Saunders at 5:12 PM

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Sunday, May 02, 2004

I can see her.
Holding out her hand, thumb sticking out.

The car is broken again.
It doesn't help that the back window is busted out.
Victim of another fight gone bad.

They still have not found work.

She crawls in-not before I hide the chips and the coca-cola under my seat.

"Don't worry about me" she says.
I can take care of myself.

Each day she pricks her finger, steadily dropping pieces of herself into a mechanical device.
A steady reminder of our fragility.
She tells me, "No-I'm not on insulin shots--just pills."

Just pills love, just pills.
I bite the bitterness on my tongue.

She asks me for money, "they ate all my snacks",she tells me.

"I'm losing."

I can tell, but I do not say anything.

I put her in my car-thinking that this is the last time.
The last time I will help her kill herself.
The last time I will stop and let her get out to buy more sugar.
The last time I will give her money only to have her ask for more.

The last time I will stop.
The last time I will stop.
The last time I will stop.

Danna Saunders at 3:11 PM

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This is one I posted on my blog:
I want to turn it into a story.


Lately I've been thinking about my dad.
I worry about him.
More so lately though.
I think it may be the season.

'Tis the season to rememeber father, fa la la la laa..la la laa laa.

I know it's getting warm.

You see my dad is, well to say the least--difficult.

His first love was the bottle. I think I was the 3rd. A charm of sorts.
But, given the choice between spending the day with me or a cold bud-bud won.
I can't knock him though.
I know there are things that I can't see.
Things I will never feel. Places I will never be.
Thoughts I will never think-yet I want to be there with him.
In that place where I can say that felt like I had more in common with him than football, salsa and bad jokes.

I have a great memories of us when I was little.
He used to read to me.

He would come to my room each nite prior to bedtime.
He would fix my bun or my braids.
He would get a book and read to me.
I at some point caught onto the fact that my dad had trouble reading, but it never took away from the quality of his reading to me.

When he was done would look out my window and see where the bun was.
Bun=moon.
Because if the bun was out our dog would be running around all nite.

If the bun was out my dad might not be there in the morning.
If the bun was out we might see red and blue lights flashing.
If the bun was out we might have to sleep in our car.
If the bun was out we might miss it.

Danna Saunders at 10:36 AM

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Saturday, May 01, 2004

I have decided to write more.
Here it something I wrote the other day:

Arnold wanted me to meet him.
In that smokey, yet-not nearly dark enough room.
Letting all other things go-I agreed.

Initially I wanted to say no.
To walk away from the madness.
To let him go.
To end it.

But there was something in him.
He knew things about me.
The right way to hold me.
The way I took my coffee.
He opened doors for me.
Even if it was only so he could grab my car keys-to drive so he could pretend control for 2 moments.

I told Emma today about him.
She called me and asked how I was embracing motherhood.
How I was planning to tell my boss that I needed to think about time off and look for a bigger place.
How I needed to buy some clothes that I could grow into instead of the typical-'I'll lose the weight and it'll be perfect' approach to my wardrobe.

In between her rambling thoughts of Arnold popped up.
He was singing tonight, as he does most nights.
I can't fault him. Being a lounge singer is a good way to gain both experience and exposure.

But I knew I wasn't ready to tell him that after 13 dates and a few mistakes I was carrying a version of him in me.

Funny how we met.

I went to the lounge (where he works) with my friend Missy from work.
She had been bugging me for weeks to go there.
Talking about the hot waiter and the stunningly adorable singer that she flirted with.
And having found myself alone after being stood up by yet another horrid blind date, I called her and met her there.

The lounge had an old cigarette machine.
You know-the kind that you pop the bills in and pull a plug and WOP-a pack of 4,000 chemicals comes swooping down to kiss your hand.

Except all I had was a crumpled up five dollar bill & an addiction to feed.
The machine wouldn't take my bill.
Just as I was considering taking my 2 gallon purse and swinging it through the glass some dimples came to my rescue.
Arnold.

So I'm telling Emma to mind her own business.
To let me be.
And yes, I tell her I don't know what she's talking about or how again she knows I peed on a stick 2 minutes prior and was on the verge of tears.
There is so much turmoil around the corner.
I've never been good at confrontation.

All I can think of are the years we spent trying to undue my fathers addictions with women, drugs and control.
The time I spent trying to forget seeing my father with his fist in my mothers face.
With his money in my bank account.

I'm not sure I know Arnold enough to know he won't be the same.

We were a family now.
Stronger than ever, but I doubted if we were strong enough for my newly acquired status as single mother to be.

Or was I?
Does having had sex with someone and starting a monogamous relationship make you ready to be parents?
(or A parent?)
Does me having a stable job and a car make me mother material?

The universe thought so.

I wasn't so sure.

"Hi Arnold. It's me Leslie, I can't come tonight I have to go see my grandmother Emma, she needs me."

Danna Saunders at 5:47 PM

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