This post officially catches me up in the 30-day Challenge. Whew! I see now how hard it is committing to writing something of "substance" every single day. As my friend Jenny Rubin says, "sometimes you gotta just throw up a picture of a kitty with a yarmulke on."
That being said, I'm a little tapped out and Adriana is sitting next to me on the floor making the same monkey noises I did in third grade to get Mrs. Fisher's attention. So, I thought a great way to cap this swell off (and tip my hat a bit toward shows like Mortified, which I'll be doing in Boston March 21) would be to share a little of my bad teenage poetry.
That being said, I'm a little tapped out and Adriana is sitting next to me on the floor making the same monkey noises I did in third grade to get Mrs. Fisher's attention. So, I thought a great way to cap this swell off (and tip my hat a bit toward shows like Mortified, which I'll be doing in Boston March 21) would be to share a little of my bad teenage poetry.
BAD TEENAGE POEMS
(that are really just paragraphs of big and/or illustrative/alliterative words)
by Carolyn Castiglia
(that are really just paragraphs of big and/or illustrative/alliterative words)
by Carolyn Castiglia
- One day, little red riding hood [sic] was walking through the forest on her way to meet the man of her dreams. Suddenly realized [sic] that she forgot to change her tampon and ran home to remedy that instead. By the time she arrived at the gorgeous man's [sic] abode, he was already entertaining Snow White and Rapunzel. Bummer - but she was never big on orgies anyway. [This poem is sic.]
- Crazy stuff - the stuff that unstuffs itself from your head when you just let the damn stuff come. What a funky funky head - the one you wear above your shoulders. Too bad it doesn't work like mine. Too bad it works like hate and fear and war and not love and confidence and peace. Too bad so sad my grandpa used to say. What crazy stuff that funky stuff from your stuffy, stuffy head.
- I hold in my hand a hammer, with which I am to shatter this glass. A panel of glass that fills a window pane. And this window with its deluge of transparency resurrects even the dreams which have been left dormant. I am transfixed upon them every moment of my life... questioning the capability of my strength to conquer my dreams. But now I'm seeing something frightening. Beautiful dreams... lost... unfilled... forgotten... storm clouds rumbling across this window in my mind. But perhaps this window which I see is really a mirror... reflecting me?
THE END
I wrote that last poem in 1991. I was 14. How 'bout that phrase "the capability of my strength to conquer my dreams?" Somebody thought she was a reader! To this day, I don't think my strength has gotten any more capable than it used to be. {sigh} You should also know that there are some visual effects in the handwritten version I couldn't recreate on the computer. You know, like the tear stains on the corner of the page, for example.
