check out this:

ex-patriotism-and-poetry.blogspot.com

thats the real stuff, yo.

excerpt from new fiction piece

Just the beginning of the piece. Its pretty ok, the end (not posted) rushes too fast, according to most people. I'm working on it, alright? I'll post more later.

--

What Artists Do When Not Suffering
By Tamarah Phillips

I think it might have been Oakland, or maybe it was my own devices, but I would like to blame Oakland. Smears of white powder gleaming my eyes, looking out at a crowd that’s waiting patiently for me. “This one is called,” I say, “Picking away at Sobriety with a Bourbon Ice-pick.” And they laugh. They always laugh. I used to too, but that was before Oakland.

Other renditions of that night can have me standing, smoking and looking for anyway to get to a place where I can stand my own voice. Getting on a red-eye groundhound bound for Oakland, I thought leaving Seattle would leave behind a life of degernetive trust associated only with the feelings of self destruction. In other words, I thought I was tough enough to survive left to my own devices. Sitting outside my drunk motel room with a girl I found spare changing, we shared a joint and I realized this was it; this is what I had been waiting for.

I found Natalie the night I moved to Oakland. She was sitting outside Nation’s Burgers asking for cheap red wine. I bought her a blueberry pie and a cheeseburger. We went back to my motel room and got drunk past the point of collision. I had a bottle of whiskey and a 12 pack and thought I was going to change the world. She had a gram of cocaine and knew she could do nothing but resign herself to life of depravity.

One night walking down near Jack London Square, the place where Oakland meets the bay, seeing San Francisco glittering in street light constellations, hearing the sounds of trains in the not so distant future we held hands and made plans to kill off the pain and live in a quiet desperation. Behind Barnes and Noble, in an alley smelling of urine and cardboard boxes, she pulled out a mirror and cut us lines. "This is real pain," she told me, "You can't fathom the sort of depth I have been."


--

other than that, I'm back in Olympia taking a Writers Workshop class. I have written a feature article on Stephen Jesse, which is neat. Got OK reviews. My friend Mel 0pened a bookstore on Vashon Island. It can be found at www.strangerthanfictionbooks.com

It is a very good bookstore, great poetry section. The owner is well versed in everything he sells and it's a great little place to get a tattoo too! (more about this later)

UPDATE. First time in months....

Meet with the Writer In Residence at the Richard Hugo House on Friday. Ed Skooge, look him up.

We worked on a poem of mine and a story. Here is the edited poem:

I am Secretly An Important Man

the chuches on Broadway glitter in neon lights;
dark catholic hums that you can cash in
for heroines on heroin any day of the week.
They shoot noise and make up.

groped between breaths
in the back seat of my ford pinto, 86
blue smears of white power
gleamed her eyes
passively passing itself off as longing
instead of momentary lust
which was all i wanted

Pulled out of her Revlon lips
and forced myself back into the house
where ponytailed monsters
draped arms around jail bait
looking whores.

I had nothing to do
with my hands
smoking cigarettes on the back porch
snow falling, eyes whispering
"fag."

there is a loaded gun in my pocket
wrapped in cellophane and cigarette ashes
that struggled against scary fingers
lingers through swollen lips
I licked up the last of the juices
running down my chin and the clock chimed
ten past three
and man am I tired

down at the donut store
where bearclaws are 35cents
broken hearts a dollar
I saw that red cotton dress that made me hurt
ripped open like the back of her zipper
forced stares at that eye in cocaine
that eye in lust, that hair pulled down by suave
and please god don't forget that ass
of all orangutans screeching

she pushed up against me
and for a moment i pretended she was my girlfriend
covered in scars
only teeth and drill bits can make
i wanted her to forge maps
my body in her chapstick lips
so everywhere she went could be a reminder
that sometimes even her girlfriend doesn't tip her

back up on broadway
there is one good resturant and a bar
that although they try
they cannot
wipe away the boredom that has spewed these streets
back in the late 1960's.

"hey ma," you said to me crossing the street holding my hand,
"does it ever stop raining?"
and "son," i said
"it will stop raining the moment empty churchs
stop ringing bells on sunday mornings."

he was too young to know the difference.
I took out a smoke and he asked me to stop.

What do artists do when not suffering? Scientists believe they get it on.

Obsequious Learnings

Been writing, manically, intensely daydreaming at work trying avoid the monotony. I decided to re-read Ariel Gore's book because it makes me want to write, experience things and describe them beautifully to others.

Also been listening to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" way too much. 2008 reissue is beautiful. Add to the old favorite is Cohen's "Songs Of" because that also makes me want to write. Dealers dealing, stranger songs, going down to the river with Suzanne etc.




Some photos I have taken recently: (on my holga):

All Blacked Out And No Where To Go

I'm working on a story, been working on it for a while now, just wrote a couple pages more on it. It's about a house (as all my stories are) where addicts live. Its about trying to overcome addictions in a form reserved for those desperate but not wanting 12 steps. It's about love and friendship, the hardships that come along with those and most of all it's about honesty. Honesty is everything.

Here is part of the part I recently wrote.

I made my way home eventually and the music was over. It was sometime in the morning. Early, just after the sun rose. Margot was in the kitchen, tears swollen and trying to find recollections of something human within her.
“Hey”
I said. She looked at me and continued smoking.
“I need to go to church”
she said.
“Church?”
“Yeah, only God can forgive me now.”
I paused for a moment.
“You don’t sing”
She had tears in her eyes and there was ice cream on her shirt.
“What?”
“All I’m saying is that they sing a lot and you don’t sing well, it would be a pain to hear you singing all those hymns.”
“What?”
“I used to go to church, ten years ago, now all I can do is wish I never knew those songs. I can listen from a distance but that’s all over now”
She started laughing
“You’re nuts”
“I’m telling the truth. Swear to God.”
“ I should not go to church because I can’t sing”
“Yeah.”
“What about faith?”
“Do you have faith in yourself?”
“ I don’t know”
“Neither do I”
“We can try, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be your savior if you will be mine.”
She glanced up at me. It was the honesty that killed me.
“Yeah. Only Margot can save me now.”
She smiled

League of Innovation: Writers. (National Winners)

FICTION


FIRST PLACE

"My Best Friends Are the Ones I have Given Scabies”


Tamarah Phillips


Seattle Community College District


Seattle Central Community College

SECOND PLACE

"Nadia’s Fire”
Cheri Browne  
Lane Community College

THIRD PLACE

"Rube" 
John Strubberg 
St. Louis Community College at Florissant Valley

Quatchi! (The 2010 Winter Olympic Mascot)

So, this is amazing. Go look at THIS

A bit about the Sasquatch mascot "Quatchi"

Quatchi is a young sasquatch who comes from the mysterious forests of Canada. Quatchi is shy, but loves to explore new places and meet new friends. Although Quatchi loves all winter sports, he’s especially fond of hockey. He dreams of becoming a world-famous goalie.

THAT IS ALL.