Becoming Beth - a Diary in Bullets

• We all gathered in Sean's backyard to do a read-through of the play today. Most of the cast members are new to me - a couple of people I almost worked with in a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor last year. I think we'll all get along. Lots of laughs. While we're all sitting under the gazebo talking about rehearsals, I realize I'm the oldest one there. How is this possible?
  

• Did I get the part of the passive-aggressive, overbearing, overly-cheery boss because I FIT that part? Note to self: Don't ever tell anyone that if they just take a bath and come into work it will all be ok.

• Cast day at the lake today. Dei instructed us to all bring music that we thought our characters would dance to when no one was looking. I chose "Dreamweaver" and "Sexy Thing." We spent the morning doing all sorts of theatre improv on the lawn, then all danced to our various musical choices. Tim brought some great jazz from the 1920's. Anne brought a song called "I Hate Everyone." Perfect. Now that song is on my computer. We all swam (floated!) in the lake and then had grill food and watched people buzz around the lake on their jetskis. Good bonding time.
  

• We're trying to get the first scene down so we can do a "teaser" at the studio for Third Friday. I'm wondering if the stage will work - it's a small space. In the end, it does. We all cram into the tiny office/library and use it as a green room. The audience laughs during the performance. Whew!
  

• I've been told to watch "Scrubs" and think about the blonde character's delivery of her lines. My character is big, absurd, and delivers many of her lines directly to the audience. Everything Beth does reminds me of some of the bosses I've had in the past. The woman who taught me how to wash lettuce properly. "Don't tear it! You'll bruise it." I quit that job the next day. That's when I was Edna. Now I'm old enough to be Beth, and well, I am becoming her, slowly, with direction.
  

• Rehearsals are getting rigorous. Set pieces are added. The performance space is really cool - rugged and concrete - a space between two factory buildings that's been framed in with a new concrete block wall with huge windows. There's a ton of dust. Marissa and Dei try to get everything swept before we start every night, but when I come home I wash my feet - they are black with dust.

• Drink water. Get sleep. Don't strain our voices.
  

• Energy was a little low to start today, so Dei had us play a game of hide n' seek. Inside the building was off-limits, outside was fine, and a base was decided. Halfway into the game, I remembered why I suck at it - I get lonely in my hiding place and eventually peek out and get caught. Wow - David can run! He was a blur as Anne and I tried to nab him. Energy level picked right up after our game.
  

• Dei is taking great pains to help us polish our scenes and characters. Today Tim nailed one of his most dramatic scenes. I was sitting on a paint can in what will become backstage as he performed. He made me cry. I looked at Dei and nodded yes.

• Ok, feeling a little anxiety today. Am I the cast member who is weak? Blar. It'll get better. It's just hard being the character everyone "loves" to hate. What if they all hate to hate me?
  

• Enough reading of the script and hearing it, and I'm getting some of the craft the playwright put into this piece. Repeated lines carry over ideas from scene to scene.

• There are bats in the space. Rehearsals are getting later and later, and the bats swoop around over our heads starting around 10. We duck and laugh, but they have to be "taken care of" before performance time. I hope this doesn't mean death for them.
  

• The clothing company that is housed in the building donated some clothes to us as costumes, so we had a little fashion show today - Anne and I. I don't think I've ever tried on so many clothes. Plenty of great pieces for Beth Breath. I've noticed myself eyeing my own closet suspiciously. Is this a piece Beth would wear? Purge! In the end, the costumes are perfect. When I put them on, it helps me get into character.
  

• I love theatre people.

• Helen's been making props like mad. New pieces get added as Dei gets ideas - a pirate hat, a sword, plenty of handiwipes. She's really rallied with all this work, and done an excellent job. Plus she's liking the rehearsals, cast fun.

• Photos today. Program will be made soon. I wrote a short two or three line bio on a sheet of legal paper. Program already? This means the performances are coming up soon. The set is shaping up now too - Mark has been driving in from Philly to paint and rehearse - he should set up a cot. He must be exhausted.
  

• Dei's choice of music for the transitions is brilliant. We started blocking all of those transitions. My brain has a hard time with jumping around from scene to scene and making sense of where things happen. I know when we do a run-through it will all fall into place.

• Warm-ups before rehearsals include some of the funniest tongue twisters I've ever heard, among other focus and physical activities:

I am a mother pheasant plucker -
I pluck mother pheasants.
I am the best mother pheasant plucker
to ever pluck a mother pheasant.

and I really like this one that Chad taught us:

She stood on her balcony, nimbly mimicking him hiccuping
and amicably welcoming him in.

• I've learned to take afternoon naps.
  

• Last night, during a exit, I had a great idea for a scene for my book. This isn't the first time working in the theatre has informed my writing. Woo hoo!

• I love love love the improv, the opening, the ending, and everything in-between.

• We create these little realities, live in them for a month, and then tear them all down in a day or less.

• I've given up on modesty. People are just going to have to see my white fleshy flesh during costume changes.
  

• Opening night. Tim asks in the green room if I'm nervous. I say I have caged animal energy. I explain that it starts as a chipmunk, then it becomes a weasel, a racoon, a monkey...you get the picture. We all put on makeup and costumes and pace around the room like panthers.

• There are flowers for Helen and me, from Dan. They are gorgeous pink roses.
  

• We all go out to celebrate after at a local bar - lots of good feedback from the audience. Some are coming back this weekend to see the show again. That's a great review.
  

• Pick up rehearsal. Warm ups. We read through the Q & A that was in The Weekender this week - Anne was interviewed about the play. She was pretty mortified by the whole reading out loud of her words, but she did a really terrific job promoting the play and just being her wonderful self in the interview. We ran transitions for lighting/music cues and then did a speed-through of the play. Hysterical. The play on, well, speed.
  

• Only three more performances.
  

A Short List of Things I Like To Do

Watching people hug, then guessing from the type of hug the relationship and/or situation. Airports are good places for this. Bus stations, bus stops, cafes.

Eavesdropping on conversations. Delicious.

Cloud watching, naming them, renaming them as they morph.

Pouring cream into coffee just for the explosion of swirls.

Playing with smoke. Incense works great for writing words in the air.

Spacing out. Just kinda staring, middle-distance, not thinking much.

Sticking fingertips into melted candle wax.

Listening. Closely.

Stopping lists short, then returning to them later. Or not.

Where She Takes It All Back and Rambles on a Bit about Humanity

I admit, I've been wrong. I've unfairly judged a book by it's first two hundred and fifty pages, and now I'm in the throes of not being able to put it down. This realization means that I now get to go back and give those other books I put away another shot. When I had this epiphany, it was closely followed by a sinking feeling that what judgment I place on books I might also place on people. I'm pretty sure I don't, but I'm keeping a keen awareness about it.

There aren't many people I don't find completely compelling, so why are some characters in books so flat? It seems unfair to humanity to write a character that seems like a cardboard cutout.

Being in any public space that you frequent, and really watching the people in it - how many have you seen before? Probably none, possibly one. Ok, now think about that. You live in this neighborhood, and you are often in that establishment...and it's filled on a regular basis with people you don't know. People who have personalities and stories. A whole new cast, every time you go there. Variety!

Yesterday I watched a woman at the grocery store browse the paperbacks. She already had two romances in the cart (I almost leaned in and told her to come by the studio for a couple of freebie books that were left in the door slot recently), along with a frozen TV dinner. Maybe she's lonely, or maybe she's a guerilla artist who takes apart the seedier parts of the novels and superimposes them on top of pages of the Bible, then projects the resulting text onto buildings and sidewalks. Maybe that's her way of getting back at the severe aunt who raised her because she never had the opportunity in her teens. Who knows - but I like to think about it.

Why We're Fat

A former student who is heading to college this fall told me today that she picked up a copy of the "College 08" catalog from Target. Inside were these mouth-watering recipes:

Need: 1 milky way, 2 reeses cups, 1 3 musketeers, 5 sticks of 5 gum

Directions: Place candy bars in a sealable plastic bag. Mash candy bars into a thick, delicious clay. Lay the gum down onto a hardback book, covered with something to protect it.
Using a can of Coca-Cola, roll out gum into one big, flat sheet. Fill the sheet with the chocolate gooeyness. Roll flattened gummy sheet up. Slice the roll in 1/2-inch servings. Serve!

Delicious. Gum as a sticky rind for a solid mass of chocolate goo. Imagine, pink rind, brown goo inside. They should call these "Anus Tidbits."

It gets better:

Hip Chex

Directions: In a large bowl, mix Coke Zero with Chex Mix, let stand for a few minutes. Mix thoroughly until it becomes a buttery blended paste. Top with cheese and a pinch of shredded beef jerky. Microwave for 15 seconds, then again and again until hot and melted. Carefully remove from microwave and serve with crackers to your finest friends.

Your finest friends, or your worst enemies?

Good Book, Bad Book

The other night over dinner with some friends we were discussing our reading habits. L. mentioned that a family member instilled in him the sense that "life is too short to read a bad book." I laughed at that, and agreed. If I'm not enjoying a book, I tend to put it down and move on to something I do like. M. and Dan are both the type of readers who will finish a book, no matter what.

Then I brought up the gift book. What do you do when a friend gives you a book and they say "I think you'll love this one," and two chapters into it you're wondering why they thought so? I'm in the center of a long book like that. I can tell you why I'm going to finish it though - I want to find the part that made the friend connect with me while they were reading it. It may be one sentence. Maybe a phrase? In the meantime, I am really wondering why they thought this was a good book for me. It's sort of like a mystery, without the compelling plot.

Do you finish books whether you like them or not, or is life too short to read a bad book?

Whee!

I love it when I go for a long drive with just my own thoughts and I come home all flush with ideas. There's something about the white noise of tires on pavement that really works at the subconscious, or it warms my creative neurons. Whatever it is, today I spent about four and a half hours in the car and the last two I was ready to be home at the computer, typing. Which I just did.

This is the first time I've been really excited about writing anything in a long time. It's a big project, and one I've been simmering on the back burner for about three years when the character name came to me during a walk in the Lower East Side after my dad's death. And it did just that - appeared in my mind like someone spoke it to me.

This summer it seems like I've got the right stew of images/words/activities going on in order to get the writing underway. Energy comes from knowing what to do, my friend Susan says. She's right. I'm not totally sure I know exactly what I'm doing and that's ok. The energy is there and the page isn't blank.

Notes from the Studio

I think we'll have to start giving our volunteers and interns very specific instructions as to what they might be expected to do around here.

In the course of the past week, I've had to call out a con-artist, (attempting to fill bags with free books from the "take a book/leave a book" box to sell later) recite one of my own poems from memory (guy who stopped in today to talk about his art collection), haul cardboard, explain every single day what it is we're doing here to visitors off the street, listen to a poem that was published on poetry.com and smile and nod politely, explain to the mailman that we aren't moving we're just changing the art in the gallery, etc.

It's nice to have poems in the head. Handy brainmatter. Wish I had more memorized, actually. I'll have to work on that.

Bored?

Don't be. Summer fun at the Idea Factory.

Yeats and Playing the Building

I read some Yeats this morning. Heroic, formal, conversational. I like the poems that are character and dialogue driven - where each stanza is part of a dialogue. Crazy Jane on Judgment Day is a good example of this structure. This is not the type of poetry I normally read or am drawn to read, so it's a good education for me this week. One thing I've noticed is that not much has changed - as humans we seek to say the unsayable and find a fresh point of view in a world that is less than fresh.

I've been reading David Byrne's blog, and really enjoying it a lot. He's an excellent writer, and writes often about art experiences around the NYC area. I found Creative Time through one of his entries, and really want to make a trip to NYC soon to see (and play!) his installation at the Battery Maritime Building. It's titled "Playing the Building."

Found this Boing Boing interview of David Byrne by Xeni Jardin that shows how the installation works. Who wants to go with me to play?

Sleeping and Waking

I'm reading two books right now. One is Sleeping on the Wing: An Anthology of Modern Poetry with Essays on Reading and Writing by Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell. The other book is Until I Find You, by John Irving.

A couple of days ago, Kristy Bowen mentioned on her blog about how she reads poetry to study it, but fiction is something she reads for pleasure, and she gobbles it up on the subway, on buses, during every free moment. There are times when I do this too. Like now. Sleeping on the Wing is really an educational text, and the novel is not, so my reading choices appear pretty clear cut. In the morning, I read a chapter of Sleeping on the Wing, and then I write, but it's a sort of gluttonous pleasure that I don't get from the novel reading. And on the flipside, I learn as I read from the novel too and have thoughts like - aha - that's the third time Irving has hinted at the boy's future - a device -or - that is one of the greatest sentence structures - I wonder if I'll ever write one like that? So far, the first 150 pages of the novel are compelling. I want to know what happens to the boy. There's been a lot of tattooing, prostitutes, church organs and interesting characters throughout the European travels he's taken with his mother. I keep turning the pages. A good sign.

This morning I read several poems by Arthur Rimbaud. He wrote all of his poetry between the ages of 15 and 20, and only lived into his forties. He stopped writing poetry, but wrote letters later in his life. I was amazed at his ability to create dreamlike scenes from the sort of moments that are so simple they seem to defy words - lush and beautiful imagery. Kenneth Koch follows the chapter with a short essay on translation, that ends with his admission to learning French just so he could read Rimbaud and Appollinaire. I'm enjoying this book so much, it made me cry to think I can't thank Kenneth Koch for the Rimbaud translations, and the inspiring essay. Too late to thank him, other than by continuing to read and write.

The Deep Well

Don't feel compelled to read or post a comment to the Assessment entry below. I'm just keeping track of what I feel will become something that I should have a record of, if only to reveal it for the slobbermonster that it is.

The poetry here this morning is this:

I've been writing with a pink pen to throw myself off-balance a little, or to chart a straighter course with my writing. The change in color, a color I wouldn't wear or paint my walls, brings a strange joy back to the page that has helped me get back into a regular schedule.

I've been reading some poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins recently. He was a Jesuit priest whose poems showed his reverence for and love of God. He looked at nature as particular, single tributes to God. I don't get into Godly poetry, but what I like so much about Hopkins was his play with language. He invented words, combined words, used sounds in a way that made his poems beg to be read aloud. I really like his poem The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo, for the sound and meaning - how despair leads to spare, how the repetition makes you imagine the deep well.

Your Local Government at Work

Notes on a Property Assessment

Arrival Time for meeting: 3:15 p.m.
Departure from office: 5:30 p.m.
Actual Meeting Time: 15 minutes

The county I live in is in the process of reassessing everyone's property values. I received my notice in the mail a few months ago, showing an increase in property taxes of about 300 percent. The notice gave a number to call for an "informal hearing" where I was encouraged to come in and appeal the new assessment. I called. Three hundred percent is quite a hike in price, and it seemed to me that they got the lot size wrong.

My meeting was yesterday afternoon at 3:15 p.m. No big deal, I thought. I'll go into an airless office with blue, low-grade carpeting, meet with a dry-humored man, and explain the mistakes they've made. A few years ago I had the house appraised, so I took along that packet of photos and information. I figured Helen and I would be out of there in time for us to make it to her hair appointment.

The building and location? Think quonset hut set up on a tract of land behind an industrial park. No cheer for miles. Weeds aplenty. A parking lot filled with cars, the sidewalk outside peppered with people carrying binders thick with proof that their houses aren't worth what the county thinks they are.

When we walked through the doors we were greeted by a security guard who asked us to open our purses. "Just checking for handguns and knives." Once cleared, we entered the waiting area and reception. To the right were three or four rows of chairs, all filled. In the corner to the right, a small television set sat on a chair, blinking an afternoon game show. The receptionist was a boy in his teens, who told me that their system was down today, and that they were backed up and behind schedule by about an hour. I laughed. He said we could go out and come back, or wait, or reschedule. From the looks of all the waiting people, I opted to wait since rescheduling would be more of a pain. I asked the boy if there was a place to get a soda or snack. He replied that he didn't know of anything nearby, and admitted to being an out-of-towner. Good to know the local government is hiring kids from 40 miles away - still in our county, but so far that he must pay $20 in gas to get to work everyday.

Helen called her salon to reschedule her hair. We found our place on the concrete outside, and leaned against the building in the blaring sun. First we ran lines for the play I'm in, and when that became dull, we listened to the other people making fast friends of one another, inextricably connected by the government morass they found themselves in for the afternoon. A man with a bluetooth headset stopped by us and asked "Informal?" "Pardon?" I asked. "Oh, informal or formal hearing for you today?" The clarification helped, but I wondered why he cared. "Informal." "This is the third time I've been here with a friend. Formal's the way to go, believe me. You won't get anywhere today. You'll need a lawyer."

A lawyer? That's when I really started paying attention to what or who people had with them. Large, overstuffed binders with tabs and stuffed pockets. Photos. Rolled up maps of land. Crikey. I had one folder, my old appraisal, and the letter they sent me. Still, I felt like I could explain the mistakes they made. I have a small lot, not a huge one.

When Helen and I stood up to stretch, we realized that our backs were covered with a fine chalky silt from the side of the building. It wouldn't brush off.

Every now and again a woman receptionist would pop out of the office to bleakly call out a name, and sometimes she'd reel a person in, sometimes not. Our name was never called. We were waiting about an hour when we got thirsty and decided to try out the soda machine inside.

The machine was located near the waiting area. Right next to the chairs. Enough room to walk between the last row of people if you scooted sideways. So scoot we did, with our dollar and fifty cents scraped up from the bottoms of our combined purses. Who knows how much a government soda could cost?

$1.3o. The most arbitrary amount for a soda we'd ever seen. I apologized for whacking the poor guy seated next to the machine with my purse when I turned to put my $1.50 into the slots. The soda thunked out, and a thin dime came out as change. Let's to the math, shall we? Oh yes, lets:

1.50 - 1.30 = .20

Even the soda machine gets the math wrong.

We took our soda outside and waited. The security guard came out and picked up a couple of signs for parking as if they were closing up for the evening. When someone sitting on the curb inquired, he said "Just my department is leaving. You'll be here awhile still." Another 45 minutes or so passed before we talked to a man who asked when our appointment was. He said we ought to go in and check - they were calling names for people who had similar appointment times.

Inside, the receptionist claimed she called our name, but not outside. Why not outside? Why call names outside only sometimes? Even chain restaurants keep better tabs on their customers. She led us down a hall to another waiting area - a small makeshift hallway created by two rows of facing chairs with an aisle down the middle. To the back of one row was a series of temporary partitions, and behind them were county desks and computers, each with a cheerless employee. The receptionist slapped a yellow post-it to the wall while we took our seats. Two suited men were talking about their land in the seats near to us, an elderly woman wheeled past us with her oxygen tank in tow, and an elderly man walked by with his blue-suited lawyer. The chairs were filled. The game was on. We had made it past the moat, over the alligators and to level two.

The open partition offices gave the air of freedom to speak, but really they were to keep you from creating a scene in front of everyone, since the waiting are was so near. When one of the appointments was finished up, the employee would approach the post-it, cross off a name and call a new one. There was a short lady who did this, and barely called the name out. She whispered it. She repeated it, in a whisper, and didn't bother to walk down the line of waiting people to repeat it, then she moved on to the next name.

The man with the appointment in the office in front of us had three properties. His government employee had trotted off somewhere to check a number and he turned to us and said "This isn't where I want to spend my Friday afternoon. You know, a hot dog vendor would do well outside today."

Our name was finally mispronounced from the post-it note on the wall by a man who introduced himself as Joe. We went into our office on the opposite side of the partitions - a real office with windows and light, and an L-shaped desk. On the short end of the L, a gavel rested. On the long side, Joe's computer and paperwork.

First, he called up our property file on the computer. It was complete with lot size, room information, and a photo taken in Dec. of 2004. The Christmas decorations were on the porch. He went over the numbers briefly, I corrected the half bath information he didn't have. Then I showed him my appraisal, which he sniffed at, since it was old.

"Let me do these numbers for you," he said as he clapped his keypad. "Ok, now this number might surprise you, or not...but this is your current fair market value of your house."

He turned the face of the calculator to us. It's digital numbers called out absurdity. Ninety seven thousand dollars.

"Can you tell me what this number is based on?" I asked. Joe explained that it was current fair market value set in January of 2008. Not much of an explanation. Where do they come up with this math - considering the housing market right now, my brain was racing.

"So you mean to tell me that if I were to slap up a For Sale sign today, I could ask 97 thousand dollars for my house that's built over an abandoned mineshaft, has had 60 foot deep subsidences in the backyard, and is crooked?"

I signed a paper that said I was not in agreement with the assessment, and Joe gave me a list of items I would need to bring to my formal hearing:

mine maps
photos of subsidences
photos of house and land
copy of the deed (for lot size determination)

At no point during my phone call to set up this 15 minute interview was I told what I might need to bring. Joe added with a condescending tone to his list, "Make sure you bring everything. I'll be here for that hearing, and if you don't have it all, you won't get anywhere."

On my way out, I filled out the request for a formal hearing form, which didn't match up with the intial form I received in the mail at all. Then I was told there was a five dollar filing fee.

Not being told what to bring to the intial meeting meant that they were pretty much sure people would get nowhere with an informal hearing, and would need the formal hearing. Five bucks per person adds up quickly. I thought of the first man who stopped and asked "Informal?" He was right.

I'll be contacted about a date for my formal hearing in Sept. I'll have all my ducks in a row by then. Once I have the hearing, I won't hear from them on a decision until October.

Pure Ego

It won't last much longer, that stunned, mouth agape look I get sometimes when I announce that Helen is my daughter. Once the new friend is breathing again, the following comments are usually made:

You could be sisters!
You don't look old enough to have a child.
I'll bet you get this all the time, but you really look young.

I smile, reply with "It's genetic," or "I love what I do, and it keeps me young."

This assumption is irritating and pleasurable, like scratching the sole of an itchy foot. For Helen, it's just irritating. Sure, I'm flattered that people think I look so young, but I've also spent the past 17 years (I count gestation) wrapped up in the careful and delicate needlework of being a mother and raising a decent human being. Give me some credit.

How will I feel when the comments wane? I'll whine then too, because that's what I do best. Maybe that's why I seem so young.

Life imitates life

There is a young robin that has fallen in love with my pet cockatiel, Bananafish. Every morning when I do my yoga I let Bananafish out of his cage. He flies around the room, stretches his wings when I do the Sun Salutation, and lands on my head or shoulders when I'm in quieter poses. He imitates the sounds I make, a few household machinery rings, dings and chugs, and can say a few key phrases for bird networking (Who's a pretty bird? Bananafish. I'm a peepy peeper. Love you!) I've noticed that he also imitates other bird chirps. Apparently he does a really good impression of a robin. This morning he lured one right into the window and it hit with a dull thwack and landed in the lemon balm in the garden below. The poor robin just sat there, regrouping, it's little beak downturned like half of a staple. Scruffy. Perhaps pissed. Plotting a sweet, lemony revenge.

Collaboration Week

Experiments in looping and layering: re(verb)er

Yesterday, This Morning, and into the Foreverafter

A woman with bright cobalt blue hair. 

As Dave and I stood on the sidewalk outside the studio, a man driving by leaned out his car window to say "Hey you, Fuck you." It was a very intimate and targeted Fuck You.

The proof for a poem of mine that will be on the bus soon (I hope the #12) is up in the window of the studio. Come over and read it. Or take the bus in the coming  months - Poetry In Transit!

Two good emails - one from an editor kindly responding to work I submitted to an anthology, and another from a woman who wants me to teach a workshop in the fall.

A few days ago I got an email from Franz Wright, but it wasn't really for me, it was for another poet. I passed it along. Then I ordered one of his books.

This is a week of creative collaboration with the love of my life. 

Helen started her new job this morning. She's working for a local magazine - writing, making sales calls, doing office work. One of the greatest sounding "first jobs" ever. She's excited. 

Learning lines. My brain likes to twist words and substitute. Bad.

The firemen said hello this morning as I opened the studio. They stand in the truck bays and hold their coffees and stare into the studio all day. They have yet to set foot in here, but they'll eat the cookies I take over to them. Maybe I need to leave a trail of crumbs.

Read Through

Well, I got the part of Beth in "The Mistakes Madeline Made," a play written by Elizabeth Merriwether. She's 25. I'm not. Beth is in "her late 30's or early 40's." I am. This weekend I tried on some clothes and lamented that my body looked like cottage cheese piled into a pair of underpants. How is this fair when I bike and yoga every single day? Note: Mid-life crises.

Everyone at the read-through was great. Funny. I think we'll all get along well. Am I the oldest one? Likely. We sat under Sean's new gazebo and read through the whole play without any breaks. There was a lot of laughter. The play has moments of hilarity that are interrupted by deep sadness, like a punch in the gut.

Theatre work always makes me key in on conversations and dialogue, and I want to write everything down. Last night I overheard some people I worked with a few years ago talking at a restaurant. God, they were pretentious. They deserved to be eavesdropped on, notated. Who calls women "chicks?" Chicks dig it, he said. Cripes.

I have lines to learn. Many of them, but I know I can do it. It's been done before. What makes me sad is this - all these characters, any character that any actor has played, dies the moment the lines vanish from memory. That particular way that character was portrayed, I mean. Sure the character still lives on the page, but it won't have the same life played through another actor. Which is interesting to me. My Beth gets six shows worth of life, and two years from now, I won't be able to recall a word she said.

Morning

Morning is my best time of the day. These are the few months where I get to spend mornings outside, walking around the yard with my coffee cup, inspecting the insides of bee balm, writing and waiting for hummingbirds to appear above the trumpet vine. Yesterday I was helping a friend with some of her poems, and we discussed our morning rituals - we both consider the early hours well-spent in moodling.

Is my domesticity showing in my poems? Yes. Like a loose slip.

Meals from the Poet’s Paltry Pantry

There ought to be poetry here, or something poetic, but instead there are lentils. My food pantry is empty, but the word pantry is filling. I've been writing. Better to have a fat notebook than a fat, er, rump.

Laziness kept me from biking to the grocery store at 6 p.m. This is what I made last night from what was both inside and outside of the house.

Lentil & Cucumber Salad

1 c. lentils
2 c. water
1 tbsp. vegetable broth (powdered kind)
1 sm. onion (from the garden)
1 sprig rosemary (from the garden)
1 sprig tarragon (from the garden)
some sprigs of chives
1 small cucumber
1/2 c. frozen corn

dressing
2-4 tbsp. olive oil
1 clover garlic
1 tbsp. balsamic vinegar
1 blot dijon mustard

Mince herbs. Bring water with broth to boil, add lentils and herbs and cook for 20-25 minutes or until the lentils are just soft – not mealy. At the halfway mark (10 mins?) add the corn. While this mixture is cooking, make the dressing. Set it aside. Seed and cube the cucumber, and mince the onion. When the lentils are done, drain in a colander. Toss and drain, toss and drain. Allow the lentils to cool for at least 15 minutes. Since I’m impatient, I put the colander in the refrigerator for a bit. When they are cool, toss in a bowl, add the cukes and onion, and drizzle on the dressing. Mix it all up and serve on a bed of greens.

Being Mr. Do Bee

My father used to leave for work every morning briefcase in hand, and on his way out the door he'd say "Be a Do Bee," to me and my sister. For those of you who didn't watch Romper Room, there were two Bee characters - Mr. Do Bee and Mr. Don't Bee, who taught pre-schoolers the differences between right and wrong. The Do Bee Song was a bit of ridiculous fluff that was reminiscent of the Hokey Pokey. Being a Do Bee meant you used your manners, were polite and kind. Being a Don't Bee meant you were a slobbering jerk.

Today, when I hear my father's voice telling me to be a Do Bee, I act on it. This morning at church I heard him during a meditation (Happy Father's Day, Dad!), and when I got to the studio I opened up the packets of materials I received from Heifer International and read through them. Next week I'm starting a "Read-to-Feed" storytime at the studio that encourages kids to read books and gather sponsors to donate for each book they've read. At the end of the program, the funds go to purchase an animal through Heifer to help out a needy family. If this program works out, and the kids are interested, we'll start Get It: Global Education to Improve Tomorrow. I've already learned more about coffee and banana imports than I knew yesterday.

Is it the right thing to do? Unsure. The right thing to do would be to pursue some paying venture, probably. This feels like a good thing to do.

First Sentences

There wasn't much verb in my day yesterday. An hour class in the morning put me into a strange headspace - I napped in the afternoon, read a little Rilke. Later in the day I took Helen to the mall to hang out with her friend, and I did the three hour "vulture mom" loop of the Sprawl-Mall area. Most of my time was spent in the air-conditioned big-box bookstore, where I read the first sentences of various novels. I wasn't motivated enough to write them down, but I think I'm going to make that an exercise to work on today. I have enough books here at home to start it for sure. I'm not positive where I'll go with the idea from there, but it was fascinating to see how authors "grab" their readers. That first sentence is an important one. Francine Prose talks about how she keeps books that have good first sentences in them very near to her writing desk.

I also browsed the "how to" and "how not to" write a novel books. Funny how most of the advice is similar, and the authors of those books have their own novels on the bargain racks of the store. That's not to say that these books aren't helpful at all - but I really think that what you need to write are just three things:

1. An idea
2. Motivation
3. A good editor

The rest is personal preference and ritual. Time to brew the coffee.

Dan set us up with a photoblog for our iPhones, so it's been a constant chronicle of the daily in pictures for the past couple of days in testing it out.

3 iPhones, 1 Photoblog

Summer Reading List

I read multiple books at the same time, for maximum effect - although I'm not quite sure what that effect is. I like the combination and contrast of ideas and images. A barrage of poetic phrasings, unfriendly gunfire, and prose about canoes. Currently reading:


Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States" got me interested in reading history again, and I found this book recently. I'm almost finished with it, and will give it to Helen when I'm done. It's a comic book style history of the United States. Brilliant. Eye-opening.


Rilke's "On Love and Other Difficulties" was a gift from a friend. I'm reading and writing comments in the margins. Lots of gems in here, but there's an offhand parenthetical about happiness not being all that important that has left me hanging. I wonder if he clarifies somewhere later in the book? I hope so.



NPR's National Story Project is now anthologized in Paul Auster's "I Thought My Father Was God," a collection of essays submitted to and aired on NPR. It's edited and organized well - the flow from one essay into another is never jumpy. Some essays are haunting, others are expected tearful goodbyes at the train. It's a book that emphasizes the important role of storytelling and memoir. One of the last essays is a nod to Paul and his good work with the project, which is good work indeed, but I thought it was a little self-serving. That's just an editorial peeve of mine.

One of my favorite poets, Margaret Atwood is best known for her novels. I always love her writing. The version of "The Door" that I purchased comes with a CD of the poet reading a few of the poems. I haven't listened to it yet. I have read the entire book through twice though. There are words in the poems that I didn't know (sedged) and phrases that last and become the first thing you think upon waking:

anything can be a saint/if you pray to it enough

Sharp-edged, cynical, reflective, confessional and humorous (some wonderful poems about being a poet and the responsibilities of being one), it's a collection worth reading many times, and then sharing.

Summer's Other Rhythms

Summer rearranges my interests. I'm easily distracted, and take on many little projects all at once. Some days, when I get too humidity-slogged, I think I'm not doing anything worthwhile. I need to remind myself that summer offers up a different sort of rhythm than the other seasons of the year, and I should relax and recognize what it is I have managed to accomplish. So here's a little photoblog of what I've been up to this past week.

Quite possibly the worst photo (or most pornographic) of the Oscar Meyer WeinerMobile, ever. On our way to New York City last week, we got caught in a food conversation - we were all hungry. Jim and I were discussing the glory of Entenmann's cheese danish, and an Entenmann's truck appeared. Then hot dogs were mentioned, and The WeinerMobile passed us. We all laughed, took out our cameras, and snapped away. This is what I got. Interesting.

I spent some time with my mom last week while she went through some surgery. This is her cat, Miss Havisham. This was a rare moment. I usually only see her back end as she scuttles away into the basement.

A gift of newly-opened peonies from Mom's good friends.

We had shelves in the studio office/library rebuilt. On Monday, I repainted the entire room. It's cheery, and all the books are now re-shelved, the window has a sheer curtain (only $5!) and my desk is set up. Thanks to Dan, we now have wireless internet there too.

One of the supreme joys of spending days at the studio is making up the message for the sign. Monday's 2nd side was a haiku. Yesterday's sign read:

Most of our poetry books
cost less than 4 gallons of gas...
and take you farther.

Not a haiku.

The pantry before cleaning.

The pantry after cleaning. I have a lot of vinegar, so I cleaned out the coffeepot, too.
I can't stake a claim to this. Helen made this at school. Handbuilt. I like the glaze choices a lot.

Today I'll finish handlettering a children's story I wrote as a friend's baby shower gift. One of a kind! My hand got really tired yesterday doing the writing. I'm about halfway through the text. I also have wedding invites to make, a billboard to design, a book to layout, and various other projects in the queue. They'll get done. I just need to relax into them. Summer.

I have two poems in the new issue of The Chimaera, and an interview with Kristy Bowen (written by Talia) about keeping a studio space in Oranges and Sardines. What great company!

Alison Brackenbury's poem, "The Book of Weeds" in The Chimaera is really lovely.

Two of my flash fiction pieces have found a home:

Avatar Review

If you're in the city...

Boog City presents

d.a. levy lives: celebrating the renegade press

Paper Kite Press
(Kingston, Penn.)

Tues. May 27, 6:00 p.m. sharp, free

ACA Galleries
529 W. 20th St., 5th Flr.
NYC

Event will be hosted by
Paper Kite Press editors
Jennifer Hill-Kaucher and Dan Waber


Featuring readings from

Joel Chace
Craig Czury
Barbara DeCesare
Andrea Talarico
Jim Warner


with music from

Alan Semerdjian


There will be wine, cheese, and crackers, too.

Curated and with an introduction by Boog City editor David Kirschenbaum

I wrote another short play which I'm going to shuffle into the twelve cards of other short plays I've written recently to see what kind of hand it creates. A winner? A trump? A flush? I fold? Who knows. That's the fun part.

Yesterday, riding my bike home from the grocery I saw gypsy moth caterpillars crossing the tarmac like furry little tour buses. They are pests. I know this well - I've seen bald summers for all their appetites, but I still can't bring myself to push a bike tire over one of them.

Oh, the scents of backyard barbecues this weekend! A waft of toasted marshmallow and grilled hamburger. Laundry on the line, filtering the sunshine. Children laughing. Later, I'll make my grandmother's potato salad, in the same bowl she used for it. The best ever.

Something Like a Recipe

I enjoy cooking when it's a challenge. Today I decided to see what I could make with ingredients I already had in the pantry. This is what I ended up with - something Mediterranean in spirit, with morels.


Jenny's Thursday Pantry Mashup

Ingredients:

1 clove garlic
splash olive oil
3 chicken thighs
handful of morels
1 can white kidney beans
1 16 oz. can of organic diced tomatoes
handful of fresh spinach leaves
a couple of glugs of red wine
1 cup brown rice

Cooking Instructions:

Warm up olive oil and garlic in large saucepan/pot. Add chicken and a generous glug of red wine. Hum a little! You're on your way to dinner...

Get the brown rice started in a rice cooker.

Let the chicken cook a little on low with the pot covered. Flip it over, tend to its needs. You don't want it to get rubbery or burn, or end up on a therapist's couch calling you names twenty years from now. Add the morels, and a little more wine. Cover again. When the morels are hydrated, take them out and sit aside. Add the tomatoes, spinach. Cover. Let the chicken cook all the way, bubble bubble bubble.



Add the white beans, and return the morels to the mix. Serve over the brown rice. A side salad is a good, greeny pairing. Of course, wine to drink is nice too, if you have any leftover you big lush! Is that you still humming? Yeah, no more wine for you.

Rainy Day Walkbike

Sometimes we have to work with what we've got for the storefront window of the studio. This is this week's offering - a half finished foam mask, an old phone, and an urgent message written on a kid's chalkboard. Next week I'll start spending more time at the studio - daytime hours. I'm gearing up for that.
I took a rainy, soggy walk to the Main Bike World today to pick up my new bike. I overshot the walk by about eight extra blocks because I was scouting out the back roads that would make a good bike route. By the time I got to the store, my pants were soaked, and my umbrella was about as helpful as a curtain of tissue paper draped over my head.

This is my sweet new ride to the studio. It's a good bike for trekking around town. Nothing fancy. I got a little wire basket for the front of it. Less gas use, plus up and downhill exercise is going to be really good for me this summer. The guys at Main Bike were genuinely surprised that I'd be riding home in the rain. If I saved the bike for just the sunny days then I'd hardly enjoy all it has to offer. The rain felt really good on my face and I couldn't help but smile while riding home.
Yay!

Last Day of Residency Creativity Burst

No poems for today, but we're going to have some imaginative fun in the classroom. Today I'm going to have the kids work in groups. Each group will get an object and each person will take on a role:

The Historian
The Scientist
The Advertising Executive

Their instructions:

Name the object. Decide where it came from, or how it was invented. Describe specifically how it works and what it does. Will it improve lives? If so, how? Write a 30 second commercial for your object. This ad will air on TV. Create a jingle, a rhyme or a one line slogan that will feature in your ad.

When all three have contributed to the project, they will come up to the stage area and explain their findings as if being interviewed at a press conference. The class will have a couple of minutes to ask questions like the press. When that's over, the group can perform their commercial.

I think this is a multi-level idea here. The ad, the press conference. A letter could be written from the point of view of one of the customers or users of the object. Drawings could be made of how it's parts are made and what it takes to put it together. If the object is something from the past, newly dug up and discovered, drawings of the site, bios of the "Archeologists," findings could be recorded. Ads could be performed and videotaped. A website for the new discoveries, or a book of all their writing and drawing could be created. Fun, fun, fun. This was the sort of stuff I really loved as a kid. It's great to relive it.

Hungry for ideas? Go to the Idea Factory.

Raising Your Hand to Sink Lower in Your Chair

Seventh grade history was a class of shame. That was the year I raised my hand to the question, "Who in here isn't Christian?" (A question that today would get a public school teacher fired, or at least kicked out of the coffee clatch). When called on by the teacher, I chirped that I was Protestant. He put his head in his hands and shook it back and forth. I remember the brown pants he was wearing. I can recall the dandruff on the back of a classmate's head. The air in the room was like when a cloud passes over the sun. I sank that day, and spent most of my year in fear of him. His hands were like a gorilla's. He'd hulk between the aisles of our desks while we were taking a test, slow heavy steps, and stop to lean on any student's desk who wasn't answering up to his expectations. "You know number seven. Think harder." He pushed and demanded.

In eleventh grade, I had his brother as my AP European History teacher. He had the same stature, one that demanded respect or tickled the fight or flight response in his student's brains. I remember him asking me if I was a better piano player than my friend Lynn, who was seated right next to me at the time. He was looking for conflict, which I thought was strange, since a few days earlier he told us something I have never forgotten:

Small minds talk about people.
Great minds talk about ideas.

Another reason to sink lower in my chair. As a writer, I like gossip. It's not about spreading it, but hearing it. I love to read tabloids in the supermarket aisles, browse the articles in the cheapest of magazines. I eavesdrop on stranger's conversations. Helen gets sick of me asking her "Any good dirt today at school?" Her friend always used to say "You know I don't like the gossip, but..." and she'd launch into some delicious account of a classmate's conflict. It's not about passing judgment, which is what I think my history teacher's reminder was (he was, after all, working with teenagers). Hearing a good bit of gossip is about catching a delicious idea for plot. It's about the complexities of human nature. Maybe it's the small mind that just talks about people and a medium sized mind that sits and listens and takes notes, then the muscular mind takes those scraps and turns them into something worth reading.

Here's my revision of my history teacher's two-line admonition:

Great minds can figure out a way to justify their gossip-mongering ways.

Just kidding. Really. How about this instead:

Great minds think and then create something from that thought.
Small minds watch television.

To Husbands

To keep your marriage brimming
with love in the loving cup,
whenever you're wrong, admit it;
whenever you're right, shut up.

- Ogden Nash

I have never started a poem whose end I knew. Writing the poem is discovering.

—Robert Frost, New York Times (7 Nov. 1955)

Success is the ONLY Option

On a poster in the hallway (and also in some classrooms) of an elementary school I'm visiting currently:

Success is the only option.
PSSA is here to stay.
--

Welcome to the public school machine. It's an industry. Desks in neat little rows, children writing and reciting only the facts and formulas the state wants to see on a test. I believe that schools need to be accountable for what they are providing in education, but not at the expense of respect for the intelligences that people possess other than the analytical.

PSSA stands for Pennsylvania Standard of School Assessment. In 1999, Pennsylvania adopted academic standards for Reading, Writing, Speaking and Listening and Mathematics. These standards identify what a student should know and be able to do at varying grade levels. School districts possess the freedom to design curriculum and instruction to ensure that students meet or exceed the standards' expectations.

Every Pennsylvania student in grades 3 through 8 and grade 11 is assessed in reading and math. Every Pennsylvania student in grades 5, 8 and 11 is assessed in writing.

Most elementary schools I've visited hold homeroom PSSA study sessions. The homeroom teacher is usually accompanied by another teacher and they do some type of competitive math or spelling exercise. Earlier this year I witnessed the last half of a spelling game where those who couldn't spell were left standing at their desks and then berated by the teacher for not knowing the third and fourth level words that the other kids had mastered. I can't imagine starting my day of learning this way.

Individual student scores, provided only to their respective schools, can be used to assist teachers in identifying students who may be in need of additional educational opportunities, and school scores provide information to schools and districts for curriculum and instruction improvement discussions and planning.

In compliance with §4.51(b)(4) of the PA School Code the State Board of Education approved, "specific criteria for advanced, proficient, basic and below basic levels of performance."

By April after the tests are completed, the teachers and the kids are still showing signs of post-test stress and shock, and the posters and little acrostic "poems" the classes wrote on PSSA are still up in the hallways as a reminder:

Proficient Level
Study Hard
Standards of Academics
Advanced Readers

To Kutztown!

KU Hosting "Wordpainters" for National Poetry Month


Two poets who do "wordpainting" and digital poetry will read at Kutztown University Wednesday, April 9, at 5 p.m. at Kutztown University for National Poetry Month.

They are Jennifer Hill Kaucher, editor of Paper Kite Press Studio and Gallery, a Kingston, PA, studio devoted to creative writing and visual art, and Dan Waber, a visual-concrete-sound poet, multimedia artist, and publisher who makes his online home at logolalia.com.

Hill-Kaucher and Waber collaborate on a variety of print and digital poetry projects. Jennifer's four books of poetry include A Proper Dress, poems examining the role of women in regional Pennsylvania history. Dan's book Boys, A-Z: A Primer is an "x-raying" of the "y-chromosome zone" given that "all boys come disguised, especially from girls."

Refreshments will be be served starting at 4:30. Books by Hill-Kaucher and Waber will be for sale, and they will sign books following the reading.

This free event open to the public is co-sponsored by the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, the English Department, and Berks Bards as part of BardFest.

Why I'm Not Jenn Kaucher

It's starting to crank me up a bit how people (some who know me well) refer to me as Jenn Kaucher. That's not my name. My name is Jennifer Hill-Kaucher. You can truncate my first name all you want - J. Hill-Kaucher, Jenn Hill-Kaucher, Jenny Hill-Kaucher, Je Hill-Kaucher, you get the picture. Don't take off the Hill. Hill is the birth name that was passed to me from my parents. I plan on doing good work in the world and giving them credit. When you take off the most important part of my name, it's like getting a doll with no head. Please don't be lazy and edit out the part of my name that matters most.

Trotsky's Chirp

This morning I started to record my two poems for The Chimaera. The editors said that it's an option to offer mp3 files, but it's one I wanted to try. I don't do much recording around here, and certainly don't have an acoustically sound set-up. I had to cover up the cockatiel to keep him from chirping while I recorded my two poems. "It's nighttime, Bananafish! Go to sleep while I speak these two poems, and then it will be morning again."

I think the poems are chirp-free.

Recently Read, Slightly Reviewed

Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
Loaned to me by my daughter Helen, and stamped on the inside with her school's address. As I read it I wondered how many germy fingers touched it before me. Why don't I think that of library books as much? Steinbeck sure knew how to do foreshadowing and character development. The morning after I finished the book, I kept thinking about it all and had many "aha!"moments. I loved Lennie in the very first pages, and knew it wasn't going to end well for him. I was right. Bugger. Now I have to put the book in the freezer.

Blue Ruby, Heather Thomas
A full-length collection of poems that float in and out of the political and the domestic. A language of wounds and cleaving. Not light, but infused with light, intelligence and beauty.

Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Famous and Obscure Writers, Smith Magazine
Read it in an hour. Loved it. See two posts below.

Cherry Ames Army Nurse, Helen Watts
This is the book series I can't stay away from and I don't really want to admit to reading at the same time - sort of the same appeal the "bad boy" has for most women. In this 4th installment to the series, Cherry finds herself in the Army Corps of Nurses during WWII. Curiously, the mystery never starts until about three-quarters of the way through the Cherry Ames books. In this case, it's all about tropical fevers, bungling corpsmen, and the just-right serum. Parts read like an ad campaign for the war machine. I was really expecting Cherry or one of her pals to say "Gee, isn't the war just swell?"

I Marry You, John Ciardi
On loan from a student in a workshop I'm teaching, and wow am I grateful for the loan. I've put my friend Andrea on the search for a copy of this book for me. Ciardi had a hell of an ear - the music in each line is almost Shakespearean. I've been reading the poems aloud in the morning, after I write a bit. This particular collection of poems is personal too - at a time when revealing the personal wasn't fashionable in poetry. Twists of language, and the occasional word I don't know (delicious!).


Three Books I'm Working On Now:

How To Write A Movie In 21 Days, Viki King
Terminally perky "survival guide" that promises to give the aspiring screenwriter the shortest distance from blank page to completed script. I lost it for two weeks, and found it on my desk. So much for shortest distance.

Naming the World, Edited by Bret Anthony Johnston
Exercises for the creative writer. I tend to read these in spurts. Worth it for the advice of Tom Robbins alone.

Wakefield, Andrei Codrescu
A funny, deadly-serious and brilliant novel. Poor Wakefield has a year to prove to the Devil his authentic life, or it's curtains for him. Codrescu's Beelzebub is a fun and quirky character. Unfortunately, I put the book down and haven't picked it up so I could finish all of the above. (Yes, I put down Codrescu to read Cherry Ames!) I plan to get back to this book today.

Jenny's Procrastination of Taxation Schedule

I'm a poet. Is it worth taxing me? Well the government sure thinks so. Must be all those political poems I'm writing and distributing. Every year I put off the inevitable - adding up all the pathetic figures from my freelance poeming that lead to calling myself "self-employed." It's an awful lot of work to keep track of every single cent when every single cent doesn't add up to all that much, and then to be taxed on it further...well, it makes me scrunch up my face like a dehydrated apple. I know that all my taxes more than likely won't go into filling potholes or creating playgrounds. This makes me even more scrunchy.

So the yearly schedule of procrastination works this way:

• Receive bank statements and miscellaneous income 1099's - don't open them, file in basket above desk. A nice metaphor all year long - taxes looming overhead.

• File bunchy receipts in basket in a folder marked "receipts" until the folder practically bursts like a dandelion gone to seed.

• Wait until April.

Today the unveiling of this past year's income and expenses began with opening everything.

• I checked a friend's blog, nominated some witty writing for consideration on Boing Boing, and chatted with my sister in Japan while the cat sniffed the envelopes on the floor.

• Coffee brewing followed.

• Stapled bank statements and ordered them into consecutive months while singing along to "Aeroplane" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

• I decided to brush my hair and put on makeup afterall - it might make me feel better about all of this.

• Decision to blog about tax process - began blog.

• Began highlighting of expenses. Is Meow Mix tax-deductible? No. Neither are other groceries. We should both start hunting.

• Completed mileage report. Over 4000 miles traveled for poetry.

• Lunch. Chicken salad made with half a mealy apple and onion. None of this is tax-deductible.

• Can it be right that I made no income in February last year?

• Correct.

• Almond nibble. Number crunch.

• Cash receipts completed in an Excel file. Missing one 1099 form.

• Called "payer" who owes me the 1099. Also called the "payer" who owes me a paycheck for this past month's work. Was told by latter "payer" that if there's no "situation" I'll get paid in a few days. I paid $260 in gas and tolls to get to that job for the past month. There better be no "situation." I have to pay my taxes!

• Took a break and reviewed my social security benefit statement. Did you know that if you die your family is eligible for a SPECIAL one-time only death benefit (which in my case wouldn't cover the heating bill)? What moron worded that? Last time I checked, when someone dies they only do it once. I've sat in a social security office waiting for answers after someone dies. It's not "special" nor is it a "benefit."

• Began the arduous task of spreadsheeting all the 2007 disbursements all done by cross-referencing checkbook entries with bank statements and receipts. Twelve months worth. Woo.

• Took daughter to softball game. A welcome break, but the weather is so nice I wanted to be outside too. I could use the walk.

• Made dinner, was cranky, gave up on taxes for the day. Vowed to finish in the morning.

Today is another day of deductibles, but I hope to spend only a focused few hours on it before it's done and I can go outside and play. Ultimately, who cares? I made under 25K, I will likely owe about 2K, and the world will not stop turning as a result of any of the paperwork or whining.

A delicate, clinking trove

Smith Magazine's anthology of six-word memoirs "Not Quite What I was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Famous and Obscure Writers" is a delicate, clinking trove of regret, happiness and reinvention. I ordered a copy a few weeks ago from Anthology, and spent about an hour on the sofa in the store reading through the collection. Ok, so I didn't sit on the toilet and read it - which is one of the descriptions that the Smith editors give for their book - "The most literary toilet reading you'll ever find."

The best review I can give for this book is that after reading it, I shared it with many people. We passed the book around in workshops, choosing the memoirs we like best to read, and then we tried our hand at fitting our lives into a six word phrase. I've found that writing them is as addicting as the 365 project character descriptions. You can't write just one, you begin to think in six-word phrases for everything - you want everything in your life to be so compact and neat. That's the appeal, for me anyway. Total control. The appeal to the reader is a keyhole peek into another's life.

Here's one of mine:

It's always in the other purse.

Now stop lolling around here, go read a few from the book, and then write some of your own.

Books in the Front

We had a bad psychology going on in the studio - all of the books were in a little room in the back. It sent the message that they weren't worth looking at, or that they weren't accessible. So this weekend during gallery hours we put together two sets of bookshelves in the front of the studio where people can easily view and browse the titles. A good move all around - it opened up the studio space (we originally had a table there that took up a lot of space just to hold flyers), and it makes it obvious what we do and what's for sale.

In May, when I'm done with residencies, I'll start keeping regular weekly hours there. I'm moving my computer into the room that used to house the books and will be handling all press-related work at the studio.

Bunnies, Buffalo & Niagara

Bunnies from Mom arrived in the mail on Friday. They landed in the grass of our collective Easter basket.



The Canadian side of Niagara Falls. Over the weekend we were in Buffalo, NY,(for the Small Press Book Fair), Niagara Falls, Canada, (to sleep) and London, Ontario (to help Dan finish up 700 covers of a literary journal). We got home at 2 a.m. this morning. I'm feeling a little blurry.

Duct Tape Jenny

Who says you can't make a replica of your torso out of duct tape? This one is mine - the almost perfect (slightly lopsided?) dress form for my wedding gown. I have to ship it to my sister in Tokyo. She's making the pattern for my dress, and found the instructions for the dress form on Etsy Labs.

Wayward Poems Find Homes

It's always nice when someone puts their arms around a poem and leads them through the door to a warm living room. "Trotsky's Axe" and "Goodbye Goodness" will appear in the May issue of The Chimera. I'll add the link when the new issue is ready.

Talking About Writing is Not Writing

Today I'll be appearing as part of a discussion panel of writers at a writing group. I was asked to participate about a month or so ago. They needed a poet to round out the group, I think. I sent in my brief bio, and a couple of days ago, I got an email that included questions I might be asked:

What is your writing routine?

Where do you find your ideas/inspiration?

What appeals to you most about your particular genre?

Do you feel that you have “made” it as a writer, and when did that happen?

How do you handle writer’s block?

I've listened to panel discussions at writing conferences and gatherings. Sometimes they are really inspiring - usually when they have a topic - like "Privacy" or "Writing the Political." Talking about writing is just that - talking about writing. Ultimately, writers write. I don't know if telling anyone my writing routine is going to inspire them to write. The organizer of the event has said that these are just questions to get the discussion going - so I hope that the discussion goes off on some complex tangents - fast.

A Simple Exercise Based on Titles

I have a lot of free time in between some of the classes I've been teaching, and I'm far enough away from home that I can't just go home to handle work and errands, which on some level is good. It gives me time to write, prepare lessons, and think. Yesterday I spent a little time lolling about in a bookstore, reading various books on creative writing where I found an exercise about titles. I think I'll get this book, which is called "Naming the World," and has a terrific essay by Tom Robbins on using envy to fuel your writing. I almost bought the book yesterday, but then realized I was in a big box store, and can order it from my friendly independent instead. So for now, I'll just hang out in the big box, review and read the books, sip tea, write and then order everything I like from Anthology.

The exercise went something like this:

Write a word you like just for the sound.
Write a word that conjures some negative memory.
Write a song or album title.
Write an adjective and a noun combination.
Write a question.
Write a word (or phrase) that conjures some happy childhood memory.

Once you have your list, you now have six titles. Write one page stories that go with those titles.

A simple exercise! And pretty damned inspiring. I had time to write my first story, which gets it's title from the first prompt.

Conjunction

A train takes off from the station, the metal fists between cars punch their curved sockets, trees blur in flashbacks and forwards. Passengers settle into their separate news sources - papers, wifi laptop versions of the New York Times, iPhone triangulation of final destination directions. A man in a camel colored coat burrows into a novel that his wife recommended, but can't get past the first few sentences. Two women speak in hushed tones about the role of Paul in the bible, one clears her throat over and over while trying to convince her friend about the wickedness of the world and her own transformation in the discovery of God. Her shiny purple eyeshadow migrates to her upper cheekbone each time she touches her face. The other woman's mind drifts from the conversation, spotlights her concerns with her waist. Her husband used to curve his arm around her to fall asleep, and now he prefers to stay awake with vodka and crosswords. The conductor walks the aisle, tears perforated tickets down the center, punches empty stars into the numbers for each stop. Lights wink off and the train floats on its tracks, guided by gravity's passive aggressive desires.

Poetry in Motion

Yesterday, I was asked to contribute some short poems (no more than eight lines) for use in the Poetry in Motion project here in Wilkes-Barre with the Luzerne County Transportation Authority. This is exciting to me - the idea of a poem occupying a space that would normally be filled with an advertisement. So this week I'll be thinking in eight line or less phrasings.

Paper Kite Press in Buffalo

The 2008 Buffalo Small Press Book Fair takes place on Saturday, March 22, 2008 from noon to 6pm. The event will be held at the Karpeles Manuscript Library Museum, Porter Hall, located at 453 Porter Avenue in Buffalo, NY.

The book fair is a one day event that brings booksellers, authors, bookmakers, zinesters, small presses, artists, poets, and regional cultural workers together in a venue where they can share ideas and peddle their wares. Tables will be available at the event where people can showcase and sell their work. Poetry readings, performances, discussions, and related lectures are also scheduled to go on throughout the day.

The event is FREE to attend and open to the public!

Paper Kite Press will be one of the 80+ vendors there.

Opening the Door

You've got a great idea for a play. You research how to write a play, maybe you take a couple of classes, and you read a bunch of plays. Man, that idea you have is so great you just like to flash it through your mind over and over. Parts of it are vague, sure, but it's the idea of the century! You tell people you are working on a play. They are impressed - you're a writer! They ask you what it's about. You reveal parts of your idea.

You've never written a word of it. It's all still up in your head. Why? Because that's where it's safe.

On the page, it might take another turn. The idea might change. The characters might speak for themselves. In your head, every detail is just the way you want it. Nothing changes. Everything stays the same. There is no risk.

Your idea is a character standing by a door. She's got her hand on the doorknob, but she's not allowed to move. She just stands. There is no action.

If you don't write, you're not a writer. I don't care what kind of writerly outfit you wear, how quirky you are, how much coffee you consume, how misunderstood you feel. Write. Let yourself write badly. Don't tell people about your idea, write your idea. Let it take on the life it was meant to have, not the one that is safe. The best writers are those who write all their ideas - the good, bad and ugly. Eventually one of them sticks.

Poetry Out Loud

Memorizing a poem is a "chance to make a friend for life." - John Barr, President of the Poetry Foundation

Poetry Out Loud NEIU 19 Regional Competition
March 3rd, 2008
7 p.m.
Mellow Theatre, Lackawanna College, Scranton, PA
(for directions: http://www.lackawanna.edu/mellow/directions.html)

FREE and Open to the Public! Don't Miss this Great Poetry Event!

Eight high school students from schools all over the region will recite great poems in the NEIU 19 Regional Competition of Poetry Out Loud: National Recitation Contest.

Created by the National Endowment for the Arts and The Poetry Foundation, Poetry Out Loud encourages high school students to memorize and perform great poems. Poetry Out Loud invites the dynamic aspects of slam poetry, spoken word, and theatre into the English class. This exciting new program helps students master public speaking skills, build self-confidence, and learn about their literary heritage.

The competition begins at the classroom level, with winners advancing to school-wide, then regional, state, and ultimately to the National Finals in April where the winner will receive a $20,000 scholarship prize.

The regional competition, sponsored by Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, NEIU 19, Lackawanna County Office of Arts and Culture, Wilkes University, Keystone College, and the Mellow Theatre, will be held on Monday, March 3rd at 7 p.m. at the Mellow Theatre in Scranton. Eight schools will bring one student each to compete in the semifinals. One will be chosen to advance to the state level competition to be held March 12th at the Governor's Residence in Harrisburg. The winner of the final state competition will receive an all expense paid trip to Washington D.C. (with a chaperone) to compete in the National Poetry Out Loud Competition to be held on April 29th, 2008.

For more information about Poetry Out Loud, please visit: Poetry Out Loud