Laura-Marie Taylor 
Laura-Marie Taylor is a poet who lives in Sacramento, California. Her zine Erik and Laura-Marie Magazine, now in its 42nd issue, always includes short essays on topics like music, marriage, and food, as well as a number of her wonderful poems. (Erik is her husband, and he's a poet too.) I interviewed Laura-Marie by asking her five questions about the sort of stuff I want to know about people whose writing I enjoy and admire. I also asked her to share one of her poems and she happened to choose one of my favorites, "don't make me say the title." You can visit Laura-Marie and read more of her writing at dangerouscompassions.blogspot.com.
1. Does the part of the world where you live directly inspire any of your writing? I'm inspired by everyday things, like riding in a car, gardening, dreams, conflict. I'm also inspired by speech, the musical quality of a thought in words which becomes a line which leads to other lines. 2. What do you do when you're heartbroken, or just disgusted or really sad? I write long letters and analyze what went wrong. I lie in bed and let memories flood my body. I obsess about details: every word, gesture, and look. I imagine if I had just done one tiny thing differently. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I bake a carrot cake. 3. Who was the first band or musician who was really important to you? (No shame!) The first album I ever bought was Disintegration by The Cure. But the first band that ever meant the world to me was The Smiths. 4. Please pick one article of clothing from your wardrobe and tell us about it. I have a pair of black stretchy knit pants, mid-calf length, that are so comfortable. I've worn them to yoga class and wear them during the summer when I feel too vulnerable for shorts. 5. Is there anything that you find fascinating that most other people either don't notice or don't care about? I love Sanskrit. don't make me say the title It makes everything more interesting, doesn't it: a way to threaten everyone at the same time. Even strangers. A jerk to the steering wheel, my left hand, no preparations. I know where every razor blade in the house is. Doesn't everyone? Does everyone? They glow with a special light. Though I hide them from myself, hide knives. I reassure my husband. I never mention it to my mom. It's a hungry lion. I say a spell against it often. It's in my blood. For so long, I considered it inevitable, not "if," but "when." I congratulated myself on birthdays. (I congratulate everyone on birthdays.) Not killing myself exhausts me. It's like a swim that never ends, a long push through pain to the place where you're allowed to die of natural causes. back to the distro |