fitzsimmons_a blue woman called conscience_nyu poem portfolio

A Blue Woman Called Conscienceby Erin Fitzsimmons

[email protected]

A book no more contains reality than a clock contains time.

-Tom Robbins

Erin Fitzsimmons 2

Table of Contents

Little Answers (forgery prompt) page 4

Where Are Atoms Going When They Spin? (vessel prompt) page 10

Swat and Squelch (fly/ice prompt) page 13

Save the Black Fly (fly/ice prompt) page 18

Graduation Day; For Connor page 22

Almost Ready To Hand Back A Box of Your Things And A Card That Reads Thank You (prose prompt)

page 28

Untitled (direct address prompt) page 34

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Final:

Little Answers

After spray painting an infinity symbol on the lawn and

Burning Robert Frost stanzas and surfboard fins,

Ben killed himself

By his bunk bed

In his bedroom

On the Cape.

Beth and Steve tore down the house, trying to find air to breathe,

A space to live

And then they rebuilt shelter.

After stripping and gutting it of all the tragedy it held,

They pieced together a diorama of their lives.

In the upper corner of their bedroom

They installed a stained glass window

Of a wave, that sometimes in the late afternoon

Caught the sun just right

Illuminating an infinity symbol.

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Infinity.

The tide continues long after

He stopped riding it.

His final mark could have been anything

And all over the world, people would make meaning for it

Little answers to help them

Stop resisting the tide

And remember yes,

This is what the living do.

Feel the sun sink heavy into your skin,

Lighting up empty objects

Waiting to be filled with milk.

Let yourself be drawn out by the moon.

With a tug at your ankles,

Give in.

Erin Fitzsimmons 5

Second Draft:

Little Answers

Ben killed himself

By his bunk bed

In his bedroom

On the Cape.

He spray painted an infinity symbol on the lawn and

Gathered his surfboards and Robert Frost pages.

He watched them crinkle, frail and blackened,

Devoured by fire.

Then he tucked a towel beneath his door,

Slumped his shoes at the foot of his bed and

Flicked on the gas.

Beth and Steve tore down the house and rebuilt it,

A diorama of their lives.

Erin Fitzsimmons 6

And in the upper corner of their new bedroom,

Stripped and gutted of tragedy,

They installed a stained glass window,



Illuminating an infinity symbol.

What is infinity?



His final mark on the lawn

Could have been anything

And people all over the world would make meaning for it.

Little answers to help them

Stop resisting the tide

And remember that yes,


Stare into the sun

With empty objects lit up all around you

Waiting patiently for milk.

Let yourself be drawn out

And shaded in pencil by the moon.

Feel the tug at your submerged ankles and give in.

Erin Fitzsimmons 7

First Draft:

Little Answers

Ben killed himself by his bunk bed in his room on the Cape

After spray painting an infinity symbol

And burning his most beloved things on the lawn.

Beth and Steve tore down the house and rebuilt it

Like a diorama of their lives.

And in the upper corner of their bedroom,

On the end where his once was,

They installed a stained glass window



Erin Fitzsimmons 8

And illuminated an infinity symbol.

What is infinity?



And his final mark on the lawn

Could have said anything

And all over the world, people would make meaning for it

To help them to stop resisting the tide

And remember that yes, this is it,


It is time to step onto the sand

With his sea at your feet

And state into the sun

That lights up empty objects all around you

Waiting to be filled

Let yourself be drawn out by the moon

And pretend.

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Final:

Where Are Atoms Going When They Spin?

gold shoes rubbed brown

with dust and dulling spirits

race on suicide,

dragging heels on happiness.

shoes with cracks in their faces

should rest on shoulders

to see the view

instead of standing on a shifting paradox

of sweet extremes

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and treading outside dirt onto reality.

why do your shoes hurt?

you do it each day over.

Second Draft:

Where Are Atoms Going When They Spin?

gold shoes turned brown

dust and dulling spirits

race on suicide


should rest on shoulders

instead of standing on a shifting paradox

of sweet extremes

and treading outside dirt on to reality.

Erin Fitzsimmons 11



First Draft:

Birkenstocks

golden shoes turned brown

dust and dulling spirits

race on suicide

draining full like youth


should ride innocent clouds

instead of standing where life and death meet

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rising to sweet extremes

and treading outside dirt onto reality



Final:

Swat and Squelch

Spill.

I want it all out.

I want to take razors—daggers—machetes! to my arms

And Pour.

I want to dig the fingers you call dainty

deep into my chest

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and peel back my breasts,

picking off raw meat and casting bones aside;

I want to circumnavigate my skull with a scalpel

and expose my being

to let the my complex rhythm become loud and simple.

I want to pull up the creases

and push in the wrinkles

to lose what has been found.

Dive deep and submerge the surface.

Sow the lost bits of me

That might have a chance at becoming.

So that I might sleep,

Instead of running loops

around my own head,

and getting caught in the potholes

where lost thoughts fall.

So that we might find,

somewhere inside,

sense enough

to save the black fly.

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Second Draft:

Swat and Squelch

Spill.

for you, for me, for the world

I want to take razors—daggers—machetes! to my arms

and Pour.

Erin Fitzsimmons 15

I want to dig the fingers you call dainty

into my chest

and peel back by breasts

picking away raw meat and casting bones aside;

I want to circumnavigate my skull with a scalpel

And expose my Being,

to let my complex rhythm become loud and simple.

See, I want to pull up the creases

and push the wrinkles in

to find what has been lost and lose what has been found.

Throw out the funnel!

Break through the filter!

Plant the lost bits of me like seeds

that might sow

and have a chance at becoming.

So

that I might sleep

instead of running loops

catching myself in potholes

where lost thoughts go.

So that we might find,

somewhere inside me,

the sense

the save the black fly.

Erin Fitzsimmons 16

First Draft:

Nightmare of Meaning

Minds move too fast.

Energy spent rushing forward over the surface

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Filtering, funneling shallow ripples of sense.

So much is left in lurch—

Half launched

Sunken deep into the crevices of the brain

And turned icy by stillness.

At the edge of sleep, between selves

I watch bits sink

Dropped from the current

A cast off child anchors in deep,

Throbbing in my head.

And the fresh pain points again to that dull and constant ache

My past’s unborn offspring.

As I excavate my mind for what never saw light

I wonder if the absence is felt

Outside.

If only there had been sense

Enough

To save the black fly.

Final:

Save the Black Fly

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Blades above us are trying their damnedest

to splice through the thickness—heaviness—of night.

And you,

your eye lids holding you neatly together,

are sleeping, undisturbed.

And I hate you for it.

The air passing through your humid lungs must be the only air moving tonight.

My brain hurts.

It won’t stop.

(And I hate you for it.)

Caught on the edges of Sleep—between selves—

half-birthed musings slither from their dwellings

and dance provocatively through dark alleys and dive naked into deep canals,

waking up longing like revolutionaries in the night.

I am racing through the loops of closed conversation

Bumping into moments passed and spinning out on words unspoken.

These roads are haunted.

Can you feel the unbecoming?

Bits of me, my mind’s children,

shriek and holler in the night

while you sleep.

I watch could-have-been loved ones

slip, screaming, through the hourglass like minutes.

And as the sun rises,

Erin Fitzsimmons 19

I swallow them down and let them ripple to nothing

because you wouldn’t like them.


Second Draft:

Erin Fitzsimmons 20

Save the Black Fly

Blades above us are trying their damnedest

to splice through the thickness—heaviness—of night.

And you, with your eyes lids holding you neatly together,

are sleeping undisturbed.


The air passing through your gooey lungs must be the only air moving tonight.

My brain hurts.

It won’t stop

(And I hate you for it.)

Caught on the edges of Sleep—between selves—

half-birthed musings slither from their dwellings

dancing provocatively through my dark alleys and canals

waking up longing like rebels in the night.

I watch could-have-been loved ones

slip through the hourglass like minutes.

I swallow them down and let them ripple to nothing.


First Draft:

Erin Fitzsimmons 21

Nightmare of Meaning

Minds move too fast.

Energy spent rushing forward over the surface

Filtering, funneling shallow ripples of sense.

So much is left in lurch—

Half launched

Sunken deep into the crevices of the brain

And turned icy by stillness.

At the edge of sleep, between selves

I watch bits sink

Dropped from the current

A cast off child anchors in deep,

Throbbing in my head.

And the fresh pain points again to that dull and constant ache

My past’s unborn offspring.

As I excavate my mind for what never saw light

I wonder if that absence is felt outside.

If only there had been sense

Enough

To save the black fly.

Erin Fitzsimmons 22

Final:

Graduation Day; For Connor

Brother,

I don’t know you.

I know the parts of you that are parts of me—

our common history;

dinosaurs and crayons

turtlenecks and make believe,

looking up at you—always three branches higher in the tree

limbs hanging—swinging—

grinning,

on top of the world.

A dark figure haloed by sunlight

I was always squinting,

trying to see you.

Despite our lives’

inevitable links

our minds were wrapped up in

opposite concerns,

creating vastly different

landscapes to traverse.

We existed together for so long

and shared so few secrets.

I couldn’t see the path in front of you

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to offer you a hand.

We wound up in

opposite worlds,

just out of each other’s reach.

We don’t know each other,

at least not the interesting parts…

I think this as I watch you

cross the stage.

Clapping.

Cheering.

Again, you’re

on top of the world

and I can’t see you.

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Second Draft:


Brother.

I don’t know you.

I know the parts of you that are parts of me—

our common history;

dinosaurs and crayons,

looking up at you—always three branches higher in the tree,

limbs hanging—swinging

grinning,


A dark figure haloed by sunlight.

I was always squinting

trying to see you.

Despite our lives’

inevitable links,


opposite concerns,


and shared so little.

We wound up in

opposite worlds,

Erin Fitzsimmons 25


We don’t know each other.

At least not the interesting parts…

I sit and watch you cross the stage

Clapping.

Cheering.

Again, you are

on top of the world


Erin Fitzsimmons 26

First Draft:


Brother.

I don’t know you.

I know the parts of you that are the same as me—

our common history;

dinosaurs and crayons,

looking up at you—always three branches higher in the tree,

limps hanging—swinging

mouth grinning,


A dark figured by haloed by sunlight.

I was always squinting

trying to see you.

Despite our lives

being inevitably linked,


opposite concerns.


and shared so little.

Erin Fitzsimmons 27

We wound up in

opposite world,


We don’t know each other.

At least not the interesting parts.

I sit and watch you cross the stage

Clapping.

Cheering.

Again, you’re

on top of the world


Erin Fitzsimmons 28

Final:

Almost Ready To Hand Back A Box of Your Things And A Card That Reads Thank You

Like a loud, obvious shadow

No one really had to know me.

I was like a sponge—

Soaking in everything.

A hot bed for infectious bacteria

And meaning.

They are not all that different.

I built my world by watching

You

To nest a home in my head

And cultivate the most real,

Human parts.

But at 15

Confused as to how we fit

Erin Fitzsimmons 29

I began to move the furniture around.

While I was blushing and hiding

You killed yourself

And bits of me.

The most real,

Human parts.

I retreated into my head,

Boxed up, and about to undergo renovations.

I hid.

Simultaneously tearing myself apart

And clinging to what was there,

Rotting in the reek of grief.

But somehow,

I began to form

Despite my dug in fingernails

And unwillingness.

As if I were a raindrop

Giving into the inevitable pull,

I started to become.

I stepped into my life

Let my head turn inside out

I showed up

Riddled with grief and regret

Erin Fitzsimmons 30

And a dark, dark shadow

But I got there…

Wavering—

But I got there.

Second Draft:

First Encounters

I grew up listening. It was why people liked me. People don’t remember it that way. They would probably tell you it wasn’t true. It is not that I was a quiet child; that is not what I mean at all. I was actually quite outspoken and silly. Even a bit sassy. More than a bit my dad would probably tell you. My mom can offer up funny stories of my unabashed (over)confidence as a four year old and my tendency to mimic language that a child’s ear should not yet have encountered. But I got that way through listening. Through picking up on how other people acted and what other people liked. Everyone does this, but I mastered it. I concocted the perfect mixture of endearing childishness and unexpected maturity and made it my own—made it seamless. And with age, I reworked it, playing to my strengths. And I was well liked. Probably because no one really had to know me.

I am not saying I was ignored, I am saying I knew how to get the right kind of attention. I had hard working hardly home parents and a brother called Boy Wonder, so the parts of me that weren’t cute, or funny, or positive—well, no one really took interest in those parts. It didn’t stop them, or even slow them. I was kind of like a sponge, soaking everything in around me and becoming a hot bed for infectious bacteria and meaning. Which aren’t actually all that different.

I listened to you. Like a loud, obvious shadow. I built my view of the world by watching you, and how you navigated it. Sometimes you did so with grace, sometimes with brute force, and, of course, sometimes clumsily like a child who didn’t know any better. Still, no matter the

Erin Fitzsimmons 31

fashion, I admired you, and used you to nest a comfortable home in my head, where I could watch flashes of the world outside through the window and dance a strange colliding dance of you and me between my ears. I used you, just your existence in the world, to grow the bits of me that were not nurtured by others; the most real human parts.

As I grew into a woman, I began to frantically move around the furniture, suddenly more self-conscious and confused as to how you and I both fit. And in the midst of my blushing and hiding, at the very beginning of my self-discovery as someone separate from you, you died. Killed yourself, actually. Throwing everything I thought I knew about the world, you, and myself off kilter.

All I had left were memories, ideas, and deeply rooted senses of meaning. And the knowledge that you had had no idea. To you, I was just that little girl you had to wait for on bike rides to the general store. The one your dad made you include. But to me, you structured my reality, and were the melded into the foundation of who I was.

Without you, I was out in the cold. I had been edging my way there on my own, starting to gather myself up and hand you back a box of your things back with a note that said Thank You, but this was a much more traumatic push into becoming. Now things were not so easy to separate, our threads seemed interwoven and I wanted to cling to that. Nothing really made any sense at all anymore, and playing the part that everyone liked, everyone expected for me, didn’t seem worth it at all. I was ready to retreat into that confused, boxed up home in the middle of renovations and hide. So I hid there for a while, rotting in the reek of grief. Simultaneously tearing myself apart and clinging desperately to what was there.

And somehow, I began to form anyway. Despite the lack of participation or consent, I started to become, as if I were a raindrop giving into the inevitable pull of gravity. Formative years won’t wait, even when it might be better for everyone if they had. I started to live, not with masterful tact, but genuinely. Pain that had only been allowed to exist hypothetically, in my head, became enacted and real. You stopped, but I kept going, and I couldn’t help that. And I finally stepped to the front of my own life, instead of living half removed. I got to stop being someone—someone modeled after you—and just be. I began recognizing the world as bizarre place caught in a paradox between stability and instability, and that while it often seems cruel and painful, meaning is something fluid that is made from experience and emotion, and that changes with perspective, not something that is dogmatic or real. Sure, I showed up riddled with trauma, grief, regret, and a dark, dark shadow, but still, I got there…wavering—but I got there.

Erin Fitzsimmons 32

First Draft:

First Encounters

I grew up listening. It was why people liked me. People don’t remember it that way. They would probably tell you it wasn’t true. It is not that I was a quiet child; that is not what I mean at all. I was actually quite outspoken and silly. Even a bit sassy. More that a bit my dad would probably tell you. My mom would offer up stories of my unabashed (over)confidence as a four year old and my tendency to mimic my father’s foul language. But I got that way through listening. Through picking up on how other people acted and what other people liked. Everyone does this, but I mastered it. I concocted the perfect mixture of endearing childishness and unexpected maturity and made it my own—made it seamless. And with age, I reworked it, play to my

Erin Fitzsimmons 33

strengths. And I was well liked. Probably because no one really knew me.

I am not saying I was ignored, I am saying I knew how to get the right kind of attention. I had hard working hardly home parents and a brother called Boy Wonder, so the parts of me that weren’t cute, or funny, or positive—well, no one really took interest in those parts. It didn’t stop them, or even slow them. Those parts seemed to grow even faster. I was kind of like a sponge, soaking everything in around me and becoming a hot bed for infectious bacteria and meaning. Which aren’t actually all that different.

I listened to you. Like a loud, obvious shadow. I build my view of the world by observing you, and how you navigated it. Sometimes you did so with grace, sometimes with brute force, and of course sometimes clumsily like a child who didn’t know any better. Still, no matter the fashion, I admired you, and used you to nest a comfortable home in my head, where I could watch flashed of the world outside through the window and dance a strange colliding dance of you and me between my ears. I used you, just your existence in the world, to grow the bits of me that were not nurtured by others; the real, most human parts.

As I grew into a woman, I began to frantically move around the furniture, suddenly more self conscious and confused as to how you and I both fit. And in the midst of my blushing and hiding, at the very beginning of my self-discovery as someone separate from you, you died. Killed yourself, actually. Throwing everything I thought I knew about the world, you, and myself, off kilter.

All I had left were memories, ideas and a deeply rooted senses of meaning. And the knowledge that you had had no idea. To you, I was just that little girl, the one you had to wait for on bike rides to the general store, that your dad made you include.

I was out in the cold. I had been edging my way there on my own, starting to gather myself up and hand you back a box of your things with a note that said “Thank You,” but this was a much more traumatic push into becoming. Now things were not so easy to separate, our threads seemed interwoven and I wanted to cling to that. Nothing really made sense anymore and playing the part everyone liked, everyone expected from me, didn’t seem worth it at all anymore. I was ready to retreat into that confused, boxed up home in the middle of renovations and hide. So I hid there for a while, rotting in the reek of grief. Simultaneously tearing myself apart and clinging desperately to what was there.

And somehow, I began to form anyway. Despite the lack of participation of consent, I started to become. Formative years won’t

Erin Fitzsimmons 34

way, even when it might be better for everyone if they had. I started to live, not with masterful tact, but genuinely. Pain that had been allowed to exist only hypothetically, in my head, became real. You stopped, but I kept going. And I finally stepped to the front of my own life, instead of living have removed. I got to stop being someone and be. I began to recognize the world as a bizarre place, caught in a paradox between stability and instability, and that while it often seems cruel and painful, meaning is something fluid that is made from experience and emotions and changing perspectives, not something dogmatic or real. Sure, I showed up riddled with trauma, grief, regret and a dark, dark shadow, but still, I got there…wavering—but I got there.

Final:

Erin Fitzsimmons 35

Untitled

You fancy yourself a dark cloud, looming in the distance,

Rolling in fast. An air of foreboding, trickling regret.

You imagine yourself so smug, so simple.

Chemical—atmospheric.

But I know you. You are not so airy and amorphous.

Not large and looming, but small, quiet, and precise.

No, no—

Woodpecker.

Relentless woodpecker.

You burrow in deep,

Seeking vulnerability with a sharp beak

You hollow out the insides and eat up the living bits.

But no—

Not quick like a bird.

Slow, like lava, you pour through caverns,

Hot and clinging,

You hang on my insides, smaller getting larger.

It hurts to sit still but it hurts to move.

But no, not hurt—just kind of. Something seems strange

Erin Fitzsimmons 36

And life goes on. The foreigner goes undetected.

You trace my contours with your fingers,

Carefully distinguishing the clean and smooth from the jagged and guarded.

With stealth, like a thief, you steal your way into the deep dark.

Over boulders and razor rocks,

You pull it out quietly, without disturbing a thing

And set it wild to tamper and toy on a pristine landscape

And cloak the everyday in its shadow.

With you stroking inside of me, the everyday seems different.

I think it with the water glass at the edge of my lips,

And again in the parking lot of the grocery store where I stand, about to slam the door.

This is what we do.

But that’s not enough anymore. You are stroking inside me

It crawls in my mind when I shampoo my hair

And it is in my voice when I answer the phone.

You eat up the surviving bits.

You lick your lips.

But not like that. Not with the satisfaction

Erin Fitzsimmons 37

Of a hunter dining on the hunted.

You lick and smack

With ambivalence

At the woodpecker’s mess

Of slow decay.

Erin Fitzsimmons 38

Second Draft:

Untitled

You fancy yourself a cloud, looming in the distance,

Casting a dark on cooling groves, making forest footpaths difficult to follow.

You imagine you roll in, making good time, an unexpected air or forbidding and regret

So smug, so simple. Chemical—atmospheric.

But I know you. You are not so airy—amorphous.

Not large and looming, but small, quiet, precise.

No, no—

Woodpecker.

Relentless woodpecker

You burrow in deep,

Seeking vulnerability with a sharp beak.

You hollow out the insides and eat up the living bits.

But no—

Not quick like a bird.

Slow, like lava, you pour through caverns

Erin Fitzsimmons 39

Hot and clinging,

You hang on the insides, smaller getting larger.




You trace the contours with your fingers, carefully distinguishing the smooth and clean from the jagged and guarded.



You pull it out quietly, without disturbing a thing

And set it wild to tamper and toy on a pristine landscape


With you stroking inside me, the everyday seems different

I think it with the water glass at my lips,

And again in the parking lot of the grocery store, where I stand about to slam the door.

This is what we do.

But that is not enough anymore. You are stroking me from the inside

As it crawls in my mind when I shampoo my hair


Erin Fitzsimmons 40


You lick your lips.

But not like that. Not with satisfaction

Like the hunter dining on the hunted.

You lick and smack

With ambivalence


Of slow decay.

Erin Fitzsimmons 41

First Draft:

Hopelessness

You fancy yourself a cloud, looking in the distance

Casting a scary dark on shady groves and making forest footpaths difficult to navigate.

You imagine yourself roll in, making good time, with an air of foreboding, trickling regret

So smug and so simple. Chemical—atmospheric.

But I know you. You are not so airy and amorphous.

Not large and looming, but small, quiet and precise.

No, no—

Woodpecker.

Relentless woodpecker

You burrow slow and steady

Open up vulnerability with a hard, sharp snout

Hollow out the insides and eat up the living bits.

Erin Fitzsimmons 42

But no—

Not quick like a bird,

Slow, like lava, hot and clingy you pour through caverns

You hang on the inside, smaller getting larger,

Heavy and hot.




You trace the contours with care, identifying the smooth and clean from the jagged and guarded.



You pull it out quietly without disturbing a thing.

And set it wild to tampe and toy on a pristine landscape


With you stroking inside me, the everyday seems different

I think it with the water glass at the edge of my lips,

And again in the parking lot of the grocery store, where I stand about to slam the door.

This is what we do.

Erin Fitzsimmons 43

But that’s not enough anymore. You are stoking me from the inside

As it crawls in my mind, when I shampoo my hair



You lick you lips.

But not like that. Not with satisfaction

Like a hunter dining on the hunted.

You lick and smack

With ambivalence


Of slow decay.

Erin Fitzsimmons 44

Notes:

The line “This is what the living do” in Little Answers is borrowed from Marie Howe’s poem What The Living Do.

Erin Fitzsimmons 45

fitzsimmons_a blue woman called conscience_nyu poem portfolio

Documents

erin fitzsimmons

infinity symbol

little answers ben

vessel prompt page

squelch flyice prompt

connor page

bunk bed

black fly flyice prompt