27. An Amputee's Guide to Sex

I've always thought: Nothing major has ever happened to me. I have nothing to write about.

Granted, that may not be true; To put it melodramatically, we all have experiences that other people will never go through, and so, in a way, our life is "big" enough because it is OUR life, and no one elses.

But this idea, that to be a writer you have to experience something, really came up when I went to the Eclectic release party. Other than the student readers, there were two published writers, one of prose and one primarily of poetry. The poet, Jillian Weise, was absolutely fantastic-- she was lively, engaging, read well, her work was interesting. And she's an amputee.

She read from one of her collections, The Amputee's Guide to Sex (who doesn't get caught up with a title like that), and though the poems were simple, explaining things we both all know and all don't understand, they were so grounded in real-life, I was both inspired and intimidated. This woman, I thought, has something to write about. She lives in a world parallel to ours, but totally seperate, too, and uses her words to invite us in to that world for a brief peek. What do I have like that?

As depressing as it can be, I find readings like that to be the most beneficial. She was fantastic, and I celebrate her awesomeness when it comes to writing simply but powerfully. However, it's easy to get lost in their experiences and think, Well, of course she's a good writer...look at that material she has. As though, for writers, the more abnormal you are, the more blessed you are (who knows, this could be very true, but I bring it up just as a general point).

I'll post a poem of hers, below, as well as a couple of links ot get to other poems of hers if you're interested (I like the simplistic storytelling of this one, which is why I chose it, but if anyone is intruiged by reading poems that center more fully on amputee's or amputees and sex, there are a few poem samples by her on the websites I'll link to). Let me know what you think/thought about her!

WAITING ROOM
By Jillian Weise

I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old.
Elizabeth Bishop, In the Waiting Room

We're in a waiting room crayoned
and carved: Toby was here 7-12-87.
There is bubble gum under your chair.
Degas' ballerinas with their feet

over their heads. Look what I can
do, they say to a room full of children
with back braces, broken breast plates.
In the corner, a woman knits sweaters.

She is known as Toby's Mother.
Toby is known as the-kid-with-leukemia.
He will be your roommate in Intensive Care.
He will wake you up, screaming

in the middle of the night and you will wish
he would go ahead and die. The Nelsons,
in the other corner, play chess. They wait
for doctors to explain why their daughter

won't eat. Every conversation is the same:
Have you taken the tubes out? Is she eating?
How much is she eating? Mrs. Nelson brings
homemade white chocolate chip cookies.

They used to be her daughter's favorite.
We like the Nelsons because they feed us.
We like them because they remind us that we
still eat, we're okay.

http://www.softskull.com/detailedbook.php?isbn=1-933368-52-7
http://books.google.com/books?id=gzf5bu6u9xIC&dq=The+Amputee's+Guide+to+Sex&printsec=frontcover&source=bn&hl=en&ei=Vc22S6L1C4fu9gT8l-TqAw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=4&ved=0CBcQ6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=&f=false