Tag Archives: foundations

Melanie.Kristy Foundations (1)

Hey! I’m Melanie. I’m a writer, a reader and a blogger (melaniekristy.com). I’m a future librarian, a collector of neat ideas and an adventurer aching to get out and adventure. I’ve been thinking a lot about what my foundation is, what I’ve been built on and there are a few things that come to mind. I was built on the hard earth of a sleepy farmers town, hidden in a world of cranberries and bike rides. My personality was shaped from imaginary friends, real life conspirers and a steady family. I’ve always been a believer in make believe, off beat when everyone else wanted to be in tune. Since 2nd grade when I was introduced to story writing and computers (with bright green words etched into a dark green computer screen) I’ve wanted to write. My biggest muses since then have been music, fiction and people.

When I think about foundation, however, my first thoughts stray toward roots and where you are and where you’re from and being stuck somewhere you don’t want to be, or settling deep inside the cracks of good enough and complacent and living there forever. So that’s what inspired this poem:

Don’t Settle

Sometimes I think
about growing roots
right there I stand
anchored to this flesh
of dirt and leaves

The vines expand
in every direction
the leaves grasp
at skin and bone
my toes ache
digging into frozen earth

It’s time to remember
this is where you built
But this isn’t your place
this isn’t your time
your space
your town

Exhale out through cracks
in heavy setting cement
Shake it up
Quake the ground
Startle roots
Move along

And rebuild elsewhere

* For some reason some things I am terrible at being on time at. Being part of this project is also an exercise on being accountable, because my blog is as sporadic as it can be and there are other aspects of my life that I somehow forget, put off or just pile into a big mess.


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LT. Week One: Foundations


Take a petal from the middle

Pile it on top

Dust from a rose

Pads softly

Dug up under ground

Nuzzle into


Mountains out of molehills

Bricks out of blood

Mortared with binding scars

Relatable pain

Recognizable terror

Carpe Diem, Darling

New beginnings

Start up

Every day

Natural Matte-Finish

Foundation concealing

Powder pebbles

Cover the blemishes of mind

The dark circles of time

Hiding secrets

Crumbling past

Oozing sadness

Weeping creases







Dancing shoes

Scrape away the heel, that boney ridge, a weakness, raw

Stomp the floor, the ground, the earth

The stage

Shake the boards, rattle the plates, the


To the core


Slippery sweaty joints

The cats come out to swing and play

Crossing the line

To some other time

Beyond the foundation of the mind

If they could talk

What would they say?

The tremors of the earth

The crumbling, crashing rock?

The grounding purr of two cats

One found

One got

The centering space

Hunger for a new place

Foundations and friends

A support group

Circular rock

United by glitter and page

Webs of love and magic

And a literary Faery Queen


Three became four

The guys and the girls

This is my rock

This is my home

My place

This wreckage space

Rising sunshine

Falling walls

Avalanche of bloody stone

Belly of the earth

Tight and clenched

Breathing through volcano lungs

Burnt and croaking throat

Swollen glands

Oceans dry

Morph into rainbow sand

Full of potential

Ripe with decay

Everything is shifting shape


Out of time


Spinning ride

Reality can be a nauseating place

Books and dreams

Imaginary scenes

Crossing through insanity


And I don’t feel like me

I forget

I forget to write and let go

Not as brave as the others

I am messy and incomplete.

I am scattered and procrastinated.

The ground plan

The blue print

The rough sketch

Slipped from the surface of the desk

Fallen, long ago, behind the shelf

Dusty, forgotten

Waiting to be found

Roll me out,

Flat across the table

Start fresh

Fresh feeling

Pencil drawn

Errors meticulously erased so every mark is sharp and clear

Gather ye rosebuds

And let stabbing thorns fall away

Unclench the fist, letting go of petals crushed

Forgetting withered and ancient sorrow


Like an earthquake

Purge those hardened places



Wrapped in cotton

Smells like tar and hospital

Medicine could not heal those gaps

No cure for those cracks

In the foundation of his hand

Take a block from the bottom and put it on top

Build up


What has fallen off the kitchen table.


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Our lives are made of strata
One year rests on top of the other


by | January 7, 2013 · 9:54 am

New Year’s Shuffle

I have this weird little tradition that I started back in 2008. On New Year’s Day, I like to take a quiet moment and sit down with my iphone, hit shuffle, and take note of the first few songs that grace my ears each year. So, here is my own randomized New Year’s Mix for 2013:


And that’s also my first mixed-media piece of the year. What does it have to do with Foundations? Well, I think music is the foundations for most of my friendships. I’m a real music junkie and I actively seek out others that share my passion. We don’t even have to like the same kind of music (I married a metalhead, but honestly I’m not much of a headbanger, give me some Belle and Sebastian, please), but I can appreciate anyone’s musical obsessions. Make me a mixed tape and we’ll be bff’s for life.


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Week 01, Foundation


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by | January 7, 2013 · 3:54 am

jessa’s [sic] foundations.

hello everyone,

I’m Jessa Marie Mendez, and I am thrilled to be a part of the Kindred Collective! Bios are so hard for me, I tend to have that “what the fuck do people want to know about me?” moment, you know? Do I go quirky, or do I write just the facts. I don’t know. I sometimes refer to myself as [sic]. I am a freelance journalist and writer; my literary heroes are Francesca Lia Block, Junot Diaz, Sylvia Plath, Mark Z. Danielewski, Neil Gaiman, Charles Baudelaire, Stephen King and many, many more. I have an awesome blog of awesomeness, aptly titled jessa is somewhat damaged. One of my stories is in the Love Magick Anthology, edited by Francesca Lia Block.

My foundation is a concrete slab with bones buried within. It has poufy hearts with initials of past lovers etched on its surface and cracks from earthquakes and other assorted natural disasters. There’s gum matted to the curb. My foundation supports many buildings, depending on where you are on the block: a massive skyscraper; a little vintage boutique with antique brooches and two dollar cigarette pants; a bakery with vegan cookies and sweet cupcakes; a library with zines and fashion magazines from all over the world and tons of books with yellowed pages and cracked spines; an abandoned factory building where artists house secret performances.

Spooky, by the way, drew a tarot card for me on New Year’s Day: The Ten of Pentacles. Apparently, this card stands for passing down family traditions. Two days after Spooky drew this card, I received a video of my father singing. My father died when I was a small child; I had no memory of his voice. (I maintain that Spooky is a witch!) I cannot post it here because it just feels too sacred. I did write a poem about it, though, and I can think of no better expression of foundation than describing the beauty of his voice.

el voz
like honey
like wine
bitter and sweet
truths emerge from the hollow of your throat
like butterflies
in your sweet song
i hear the cries of my sisters being born
i hear the sighs of separation
i hear every “i love you”
slashed away by a cruel hand
there is no strain,
only pain
only love
only regret
only wishes
my heart swells
a big red balloon
ready to burst and bleed
your voice is not merely musical
it is music
the genesis of every sound that has ever filled my ears
the measure by which every other song shall now be compared
from my mouth emerges the first strangled cry of birth.



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Aurora: Lost and Foundation

House foundations are made from concrete and rebar. My foundation is made from paper pulp and ink. Sunny days spent indoors, shelves alphabetized, eating and drinking whatever the characters I’m reading eat. I like it when they drink tea, imagining I sip when they sip. There is no one better to break bread with than your best book friends. My BBFs are loyal. They stuck with me through high school, college, two grad programs, a move to New York and then back home to Los Angeles. They were there when I needed company in heartache, by my side in the hospital bed after a particularly nasty car accident, joyfully nestled in my purse on dates and interviews, and bravely in my hand above treacherous bath waters. My BBFs are so accepting, they never judge; I mean they’ve been there, done that, behaved poorly. My BBFs are brilliant, to boot.  I always learn something when we’re together. (My favorite is when they teach me a new word.) You may think me misanthropic, finding my besties in books, but you’d be wrong. After all, people write books. 


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