NYWC, take one: "I Am From ___"

i aim high. i'm enlisting barthes, chabon, & didion, running a dragnet through their work in order to help my own. that said, such a path is still a one-way street, & in the long run, the potential to make me a better writer is limited. the contribution is indirect, & while i learn a great deal, i must still be my own teacher. recalling the experience of some of my students, i realize that i need to get someone else involved. fortunately, i've found some good someone-elses in the New York Writers' Coalition.

i went to my first meeting today & have decided to attend as regularly as possible. at first, i wasn't entirely sure how it would go, as i'm rather demanding of my readers. plus, the session was going to revolve around prompts. honestly, i hate prompts. prompts are satan's spawn. but then i did this:


"I Am From___"

                I am from the nowhere space and reside in, out, over, under, and across liminal boundaries. I am ether, yet still solid, human, and individual. I, I, I. Me, me, me. That is who, where, and what I am. But that is never enough.

                Do you count on me? Do you count me as one of your own? Will I ever be this or that, whatever or whoever you prize? Will I be the one you need bleed on your behalf, devoted, loyal to the point of protective stupidity and death? I have never been such, not that I’ve ever been told.

                My story is told on my behalf, when others want it told. What is in it? Who is in it? They never tell me, appropriating my scenes to suit their vision of the world, and the narrative I’ve woven since birth very quickly becomes not my own. It becomes something for someone else to wear. They leave me naked.

                I would freeze. I would die. Would. I’ve peered over the edge more than once, knowing that to forever fly would be to forever fall into finality. And my end would become my own, defining my story and ripping it from the fat, greasy fingers of those who never had the right.

                I, weak, cold, hungry, bereft of the text that should be mine. I am there, prostrate, face buried in frigid, steely blades of grass. Empty. But not empty. Something, rising, slowly at first, presence and form unknown. Then it explodes into the world. The raging gusts howling just below are nothing, purrs juxtaposed with two words that race and roar, repeating themselves into infinity:

                I, Am, I, Am, I, Am, I, Am, I…

                Both statement and question, assertion and doubt; the tornadic maelström tears me from the earth that had heretofore lain such possessive and oppressive claim to my complete being. Fear takes me first, and I cannot bear to open my eyes, for the knowledge that the known world is gone.

                I, Am, I, Am, I, Am, I…

                These simplest of syllables fling me higher, and the cloud ceiling rumbles as I approach. My essence is shaken as a rag doll, and finally I can’t bear to not see my waiting fate. Electric darkness, flashing threat: descend, or be done. But I cannot. I cannot go back. I can never go back.

                I, Am, I, Am, I…

                Unable to stop, my body penetrates the omen. I'd believed I was ready for the rigors, but I quickly realize that I am not. Scissors of lightning flash, making kirigami of my flesh. The atoms of H₂ and O, seen as pillows from a distance, nearly smother me with wet. I sputter and spit up the charged blood and drowning drops through which I’m flying. Faster. It’s all happening faster, and my end must be hastening. I hurtle blindly, though my eyes are open. I think, “If only I’d chosen the chasm.”

   I. Am. I.

                And with that, I stop. Body, light, and sight, all warm. I am suspended in surprise. The butchering of the clouds was not so, but rather a cutting of the chaff. The life-taking waters cleansed, taking with them a pernicious toxicity. I am astounded. I am renewed. I am speaking again, possessed of a story that no one can possibly take. I peer across the heavens, and with that two word story, I reclaim myself.

               I. Am.