Jury duty. The little card arrives in the mail stamped in red, its official dates and directions printed with what looks like an old dot matrix. Your partially planned vacation is now on hold, you dread the date, but off you go on the clear bright morning when the calendar matches the card. Of course the weather is bright and cheerful, because you will be spending the day indoors bathed under institutional lighting.
Over a hundred people are called with you, and you all sit in metal folding chairs in the little room with clipboards and forms, and a grey stack of magazines on the windowsill. The cross-section of humanity reminds you of the library; a truly democratic place. Everyone was called to served their civic duty, and here they all share in the joy -- the retired grandmother, the unemployed skater, the over-employed and inconvenienced banker with his fat briefcase, the guy you swear you know from somewhere but can’t place, the woman with four kids who works from home stuffing envelopes. After filling out a form, you are thanked by the judge, and given instructions on what will happen next. When he exits, the room settles into a collective anxiousness. A man in front of you seals envelopes and completes his correspondence. The banker taps at his electronic organizer. Everyone is without their cellphones, and seems adrift in a sea of what-to-do without them. The mother cracks open a romance novel. A few people who recognize each other form conversational cliques. You read. The man in front of you takes out a knitting project, and you watch as each stitch is perfectly executed. You decide he must be a Virgo. His t-shirt looks ironed. The morning passes from quiet anxiousness to lethargy. The grey magazines are perused. Windows are propped open with clipboards.
You are one of the first to be drawn in the random lottery that is the first judge’s panel, and are trooped upstairs into a lustrous courtroom, filled with polished hardwood and an energy you can’t place. The plaintiff and defendant sit in silence as the plaintiff’s lawyer takes two hours to ask questions of the numbered potential jurors. It reminds you of the worst parts of school. A sunny day when your mind wandered, the teacher called on you and your brain fell into a “fight or flight” response. You answer when called. You listen to others respond, and like them less and less. You like the defendant and plaintiff less and less even though they haven’t said a word. You like yourself less for not liking anyone. Where has your kindness gone? You spend the rest of the time figuring out the armature behind the giant painting of Justice on the wall behind the judge’s desk. It has nine equilateral triangles in it.
After the defendant’s lawyer asks a very brief set of general questions, the two sides deliberate on their choices. Papers are passed between them. Finally, jurors are called to their seats. You are not one of them. The rejected return to the waiting room. You spend some time at the window. The trimmed lawn with its tufts of intermittent plantings, linear hedges grown fat into embarrassed forms, remind you that Americans can’t garden. An announcement is made that all are excused for the rest of the week. You walk back to your car in the parking garage with afternoon returned to you like a beloved lost pet, as the plaintiff and defendant dissolve from your mind and into the sun.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
What Messages Are Written in Air
A man carves a message into the trunk of a tree for a woman he has never met. She finds it years later while on a walk with the dog. She runs her fingers into the hollows of bark, memorizes the rough script, and spends the rest of her life looking for messages in the margins of books.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Hold Steady
Driving through Lisle, New York on our way to Ithaca, we see a sign that reads “Father’s Day Cooked In Ground Beef.” The houses lean and sigh, look as if they’d like to exhale some of their incorrect geometry answers. Drying impatiens swing from flowerpots on sprawling porches, a backhoe digs up grass for next week’s “Mud Bog.” Trees flash by greengreengreen – a sign to drive faster and just go.
The music we hear that night in a cramped bar makes me want to get into a car and drive with the windows rolled down. I want to visit a place I love but don’t know yet. The lyrics remind me of postcards from a friend I don’t have, but whose words I crave in his or her scrawl.
At the door, my ID is checked (wow). The bouncer has taken the gauges out of his ears, and they speak a relaxed “O, O.” Most of the crowd is younger than we are, but not by much. Maybe five or ten years, and then there are a handful of really young music lovers whose hands are branded with big black Sharpie X’s, making them visible to the bartenders. I watch a skinny teen grin as he enters, then cross his arms to hide his brand from all the college girls. Castaways is packed by nine p.m. when the opening band starts to play. A few people sway, but most still talk and drink their beers. I watch the continual stream of people enter and get their wristbands Humanity is diverse. Where do all these people come from? Dreads, skinny jeans, grey hair, pink stockings with polka dot shoes, overweight, girls who remind me of all my sister’s college friends, purple hair, no hair, quiet, sad eyed.
During the performance of The Hold Steady, I jump, dance, clap and revel behind a frat boy and his friend who like to jump, clap and dance too, only with more vigor, elbows and heavy feet. A high school girl and her boyfriend who look like they’ve stepped out of a Hollister ad try to wriggle their way through the crowd but their charm doesn’t get them far and they get stuck just a few ahead of us. When the music starts and people scream and jump around, they become as still as frightened deer. A young man just in front of me stands for most of the show looking like a cross between a Dr. Seuss character and a 1950’s sitcom father until his favorite song is played and then he leaps and pumps his fist in the air. Beer is sprayed, confetti cheers and settles onto the sweaty breasts of young women. Jim goes into a ecstatic trance for most of the show and loses his voice. I feel the sweat drip off his arm. Matt swings his head and his hair sweeps like pages in a book. He whoops and raises his arms as if every song is a touchdown, which it is. Dan listens to every lyric, squeezes my hand. The Hold Steady hold steady with charisma. Feet peek above heads in front as a body is carried through the crowd. The encore is a half an hour long. The bar is sticky, packed, and full of positive energy. Joy. The music makes me want to visit a place I love but don’t know yet, because its rooms and landscapes are now a place I love and know. Oh to be 40 forever.
The music we hear that night in a cramped bar makes me want to get into a car and drive with the windows rolled down. I want to visit a place I love but don’t know yet. The lyrics remind me of postcards from a friend I don’t have, but whose words I crave in his or her scrawl.
At the door, my ID is checked (wow). The bouncer has taken the gauges out of his ears, and they speak a relaxed “O, O.” Most of the crowd is younger than we are, but not by much. Maybe five or ten years, and then there are a handful of really young music lovers whose hands are branded with big black Sharpie X’s, making them visible to the bartenders. I watch a skinny teen grin as he enters, then cross his arms to hide his brand from all the college girls. Castaways is packed by nine p.m. when the opening band starts to play. A few people sway, but most still talk and drink their beers. I watch the continual stream of people enter and get their wristbands Humanity is diverse. Where do all these people come from? Dreads, skinny jeans, grey hair, pink stockings with polka dot shoes, overweight, girls who remind me of all my sister’s college friends, purple hair, no hair, quiet, sad eyed.
During the performance of The Hold Steady, I jump, dance, clap and revel behind a frat boy and his friend who like to jump, clap and dance too, only with more vigor, elbows and heavy feet. A high school girl and her boyfriend who look like they’ve stepped out of a Hollister ad try to wriggle their way through the crowd but their charm doesn’t get them far and they get stuck just a few ahead of us. When the music starts and people scream and jump around, they become as still as frightened deer. A young man just in front of me stands for most of the show looking like a cross between a Dr. Seuss character and a 1950’s sitcom father until his favorite song is played and then he leaps and pumps his fist in the air. Beer is sprayed, confetti cheers and settles onto the sweaty breasts of young women. Jim goes into a ecstatic trance for most of the show and loses his voice. I feel the sweat drip off his arm. Matt swings his head and his hair sweeps like pages in a book. He whoops and raises his arms as if every song is a touchdown, which it is. Dan listens to every lyric, squeezes my hand. The Hold Steady hold steady with charisma. Feet peek above heads in front as a body is carried through the crowd. The encore is a half an hour long. The bar is sticky, packed, and full of positive energy. Joy. The music makes me want to visit a place I love but don’t know yet, because its rooms and landscapes are now a place I love and know. Oh to be 40 forever.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Very Rural Pennsylvania Haibun
chickens in the road
a barn cat slinks into grass
dandelions exhale
It takes me three days to settle into a place that should feel immediately like home. At night, the air is cool and smells like an uprooted carrot. Cowbirds imitate the calls of their neighbors and wait inside shrubbery to burgle nests. There is no mall for miles, no television where I sleep at night. I grew up this way – hours to wander and think, but I’ve forgotten it all, and find myself anxious without my family.
picking blackberries
fingers and lips stained blue
scent of sweetfern
It takes three days for the rhythm of this place to relax into a beat with my heart. Poppies bow their fuzzy, sleepy heads, a peony releases its sweetness into dusk. The donkey is the rude uncle of the pasture – he honks and heehaws toward all the magnificent horses as they graze. His ears are as soft and as big as slippers. I imagine slipping my feet into them, as if into two jewel cases, thanks to Neruda. Fences turn fields of clipped grass and turned dirt into geometry problems.
horse grinds down grass
strong jaw and grey muzzle
nuzzles the world’s body
At a small crossroads store where men stop for coffee, Sanka, and the news, a giant wheel of cheese sits on the counter. Every day the wheel shrinks a little as slices of its cheddarness bid farewell on rafts of sandwiches. Homemade sticky buns and Lepp cookies wait for a sweet tooth. I resist. I remember the comfort of our town’s little store, the aisles of dusty cans, the butcher’s bloody apron, racks of candybars, conversations and local gossip.
Flavors of comfort –
potato, yam, and coffee,
stories of hometown.
a barn cat slinks into grass
dandelions exhale
It takes me three days to settle into a place that should feel immediately like home. At night, the air is cool and smells like an uprooted carrot. Cowbirds imitate the calls of their neighbors and wait inside shrubbery to burgle nests. There is no mall for miles, no television where I sleep at night. I grew up this way – hours to wander and think, but I’ve forgotten it all, and find myself anxious without my family.
picking blackberries
fingers and lips stained blue
scent of sweetfern
It takes three days for the rhythm of this place to relax into a beat with my heart. Poppies bow their fuzzy, sleepy heads, a peony releases its sweetness into dusk. The donkey is the rude uncle of the pasture – he honks and heehaws toward all the magnificent horses as they graze. His ears are as soft and as big as slippers. I imagine slipping my feet into them, as if into two jewel cases, thanks to Neruda. Fences turn fields of clipped grass and turned dirt into geometry problems.
horse grinds down grass
strong jaw and grey muzzle
nuzzles the world’s body
At a small crossroads store where men stop for coffee, Sanka, and the news, a giant wheel of cheese sits on the counter. Every day the wheel shrinks a little as slices of its cheddarness bid farewell on rafts of sandwiches. Homemade sticky buns and Lepp cookies wait for a sweet tooth. I resist. I remember the comfort of our town’s little store, the aisles of dusty cans, the butcher’s bloody apron, racks of candybars, conversations and local gossip.
Flavors of comfort –
potato, yam, and coffee,
stories of hometown.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
J'aime la nature
I watch morning television and I fear the world I love. I imagine the people I pass on the sidewalk with subheadings under their faces – “Ex-wife of Suspect,” “Sister of Shooting Victim” or “Father of Missing Child.” The television blinks missives and stories simultaneously, one under another; a compost heap of stupidity and numbness. Its commercials try to sell us supplements, super-juices, sugar-packed cereals, face lifts, ideal green energy, politicians, mops that fit into the tightest of corners, orgasmic chocolates, hair products to smooth us into who we ought to look like. Breakfast news entertains us. Musical families compete with each other and news anchors surprise “drowsy” families at their doors to announce they are the chosen ones. The dire economy is addressed with the re-introduction of depression-era recipes, women are encouraged to dress like Michelle Obama and feed their children what the First Family eats. Everything is derivative.
A few mornings ago the top news story was “Death Comes to Reality TV.” Nothing is real until we see it on television. Even death. I have to hand it to death, because it doesn’t care about television at all. It does its job unsanctioned, unbidden, and often is horribly creative.
Last night I watched a movie called “Bande å Part” or “Band of Outsiders” by Jean-Luc Godard. There is a scene where one of the main characters, a young woman named Odile, is being questioned by her aunt. The aunt lists all of the conventional things a young girl might like, and Odile rejects them all. “I detest that,” she repeats. Then she leans against the wall and says, “J’aime la nature.”
Me too, Odile. I love the parts of the world that are not broadcast; the crocus that grows out of a crack in the sidewalk, the kid who rides his unicycle across the bridge every morning to get to school.
A few mornings ago the top news story was “Death Comes to Reality TV.” Nothing is real until we see it on television. Even death. I have to hand it to death, because it doesn’t care about television at all. It does its job unsanctioned, unbidden, and often is horribly creative.
Last night I watched a movie called “Bande å Part” or “Band of Outsiders” by Jean-Luc Godard. There is a scene where one of the main characters, a young woman named Odile, is being questioned by her aunt. The aunt lists all of the conventional things a young girl might like, and Odile rejects them all. “I detest that,” she repeats. Then she leans against the wall and says, “J’aime la nature.”
Me too, Odile. I love the parts of the world that are not broadcast; the crocus that grows out of a crack in the sidewalk, the kid who rides his unicycle across the bridge every morning to get to school.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Some Rules for Living/A Credo for March 2009
This is a follow-up to a post I made awhile ago about writing credos. Here's a list of rules for myself. These are subject to change by the second. Maybe you have a few rules for yourself? Beliefs? It's a good idea to write them down occassionally - touch base with yourself, who you are, and see how you've changed over the years.
Some Rules for Living/A Credo for March 2009
It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
~ E.E. Cummings
If you feel compelled to hug someone, do it
and put your whole self into that hug.
If you feel like punching someone, think about it.
Chances are, you won’t want to later. Maybe.
The same is true for shopping impulses –
do you really need that 24 pack of ShamWOWs?
Think, then think some more.
Turn off your television, your computer,
throw the phone in the hamper under
the stinky towels and think.
Allow your thoughts to drift into daydreams.
Write down what you dream.
When you see someone enjoy creating art,
or reading, cooking, throwing a ball –
encourage them.
Do not abuse squirrels, children, the elderly,
geese at the park (even though they will chase you).
Wear clothes you feel comfortable in –
they are your socially acceptable skin.
If they aren’t stylish by today’s standards,
good.
Forgive yourself. You’ll do better next time.
Weave cloth, make paper, assemble a book,
milk a cow, help build a house –
at least once in your lifetime.
If crossword puzzles give you headaches,
stop doing them.
Make eye contact when someone
is speaking to you.
Don’t fake listening.
It will come back to haunt you.
It’s ok if you want to try to glue
ice together – just don’t count on it
making a good house.
Count your money. Keep what you need
to pay your bills and eat, then give
the rest away.
Get dirt under your fingernails.
Witness a birth.
Do something that scares you.
Lay out on the lawn in the summer at night
with a friend and look at the stars.
Write letter of praise and complaint
when they are due.
Attend the funeral.
Don’t cheat when you’re playing a game.
You will lose and you will win
and you should have fun with both.
Take walks in February
just to smell the ground thaw.
Do the laundry and don’t whine about it.
If you’re going to go to the trouble
to bake a birthday cake for someone
you love, make it from scratch.
Pay attention to the way
professionals do things –
a locksmith replacing a lock
is just as much a virtuoso
as an opera singer.
Talk to the cab driver.
Consider your own mortality,
but don’t dwell on it.
You have a talent
and a responsibility to find it.
Share your ideas!
They are not doing the world any good locked up
for safekeeping in the attic of your ego.
Travel to a place where you don’t understand the language
so you can remember what learning a language is like.
Don’t wear sandals or high heels on a hike.
Share the flowers from your garden
with your neighbors.
Sometimes it's hard to love your neighbor
especially when they are peeking into
your bedroom window. See Rule #2.
Do not develop strange, sentimental
attachments to things like cacti.
Get up early and write.
Not all of your ideas are original –
you have to learn from others first.
Kids say better what adults
struggle over.
It is possible to have too many
rules for yourself.
It is impossible to have too many chocolate chips.
- Jennifer Hill
Some Rules for Living/A Credo for March 2009
It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
~ E.E. Cummings
If you feel compelled to hug someone, do it
and put your whole self into that hug.
If you feel like punching someone, think about it.
Chances are, you won’t want to later. Maybe.
The same is true for shopping impulses –
do you really need that 24 pack of ShamWOWs?
Think, then think some more.
Turn off your television, your computer,
throw the phone in the hamper under
the stinky towels and think.
Allow your thoughts to drift into daydreams.
Write down what you dream.
When you see someone enjoy creating art,
or reading, cooking, throwing a ball –
encourage them.
Do not abuse squirrels, children, the elderly,
geese at the park (even though they will chase you).
Wear clothes you feel comfortable in –
they are your socially acceptable skin.
If they aren’t stylish by today’s standards,
good.
Forgive yourself. You’ll do better next time.
Weave cloth, make paper, assemble a book,
milk a cow, help build a house –
at least once in your lifetime.
If crossword puzzles give you headaches,
stop doing them.
Make eye contact when someone
is speaking to you.
Don’t fake listening.
It will come back to haunt you.
It’s ok if you want to try to glue
ice together – just don’t count on it
making a good house.
Count your money. Keep what you need
to pay your bills and eat, then give
the rest away.
Get dirt under your fingernails.
Witness a birth.
Do something that scares you.
Lay out on the lawn in the summer at night
with a friend and look at the stars.
Write letter of praise and complaint
when they are due.
Attend the funeral.
Don’t cheat when you’re playing a game.
You will lose and you will win
and you should have fun with both.
Take walks in February
just to smell the ground thaw.
Do the laundry and don’t whine about it.
If you’re going to go to the trouble
to bake a birthday cake for someone
you love, make it from scratch.
Pay attention to the way
professionals do things –
a locksmith replacing a lock
is just as much a virtuoso
as an opera singer.
Talk to the cab driver.
Consider your own mortality,
but don’t dwell on it.
You have a talent
and a responsibility to find it.
Share your ideas!
They are not doing the world any good locked up
for safekeeping in the attic of your ego.
Travel to a place where you don’t understand the language
so you can remember what learning a language is like.
Don’t wear sandals or high heels on a hike.
Share the flowers from your garden
with your neighbors.
Sometimes it's hard to love your neighbor
especially when they are peeking into
your bedroom window. See Rule #2.
Do not develop strange, sentimental
attachments to things like cacti.
Get up early and write.
Not all of your ideas are original –
you have to learn from others first.
Kids say better what adults
struggle over.
It is possible to have too many
rules for yourself.
It is impossible to have too many chocolate chips.
- Jennifer Hill
Friday, March 06, 2009
At the Cafe
I ticky ticky type away during a break from teaching. Someone asks if I am working on homework. "No, I'm working on a book," I say.
I am reluctant to call it a novel. It scares me too much. Like I might jinx it.
I am reluctant to call it a novel. It scares me too much. Like I might jinx it.
She Saw Your Poems on the Internet
Yesterday, a winsome eighth grader breezed up to me after class and held out a sheet I had given her earlier with one of my poems on it. "Can you autograph this please? For my sister?" I was stunned, to say the least. "She says she knows you." I asked her name, and her age. Maybe I had her as a student somewhere. I didn't recognize her name, but I meet a lot of kids. "She said she saw some of your poems on the internet. She's always looking for poems."
I signed the poem, and wondered what poems of mine she's read - worried over it actually. I'm not exactly Shel Silverstein. Maybe she's mistaken me for someone else, or, maybe she just really wants the autograph of a poet. Either way, it makes me feel good about the future knowing there's a ten year old out there reading poems that are not assigned to her in school.
I signed the poem, and wondered what poems of mine she's read - worried over it actually. I'm not exactly Shel Silverstein. Maybe she's mistaken me for someone else, or, maybe she just really wants the autograph of a poet. Either way, it makes me feel good about the future knowing there's a ten year old out there reading poems that are not assigned to her in school.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Monday, February 09, 2009
Thanks, Studs
When we read a book, we change our lives; we redesign the way we think by assimiliating certain parts of the writing into our own ideas, values, viewpoints. What power words have, and how glad I am that I grew up in a family of readers, writers, and lovers of words. Our home library was accessible to me all of the time (my father made shelves that lined the walls of the living room and guest room), and my mother took us weekly (and more!) to the local library.
Many of my close friends and several of my students know that I read Studs Terkel's "Working" when I was eight or nine years old. I can still imagine the red spine of the book peeking out of the shelves in the living room. It was a well-worked spine, with many wrinkles, and rightfully so. I think it was the heft of the book that appealed to me initially then. I was always wanting to read something that looked like a "big book." I found it to be easier to read that I'd imagined - the short sections of interviews, real people speaking in normal language. I became aware of colloquialisms (even though I didn't know what they were), dialects, and different speech patterns. I learned about all sorts of people and the lives they led, and found them all fascinating. I remember being surprised at the model talking about hauling a heavy wardrobe all over the city, and realizing how unglamorous being a model is.
I think "Working" found me at just the right time in my life. Reading it so early offered me the benefits of referring to its pages (and the memory of its contents when I am away from my copy), in a way that makes it feel like a parent to me. "Forget who you are and what your purpose is? Come here and read me," it whispers.
Studs Terkel understood the value in people sharing their life stories, and in writing them down. He honored that. Reading his book rearranged my pattern of thought, and made me part of who I am as a person and a writer today. "Working" is a book that has informed my values.
Many of my close friends and several of my students know that I read Studs Terkel's "Working" when I was eight or nine years old. I can still imagine the red spine of the book peeking out of the shelves in the living room. It was a well-worked spine, with many wrinkles, and rightfully so. I think it was the heft of the book that appealed to me initially then. I was always wanting to read something that looked like a "big book." I found it to be easier to read that I'd imagined - the short sections of interviews, real people speaking in normal language. I became aware of colloquialisms (even though I didn't know what they were), dialects, and different speech patterns. I learned about all sorts of people and the lives they led, and found them all fascinating. I remember being surprised at the model talking about hauling a heavy wardrobe all over the city, and realizing how unglamorous being a model is.
I think "Working" found me at just the right time in my life. Reading it so early offered me the benefits of referring to its pages (and the memory of its contents when I am away from my copy), in a way that makes it feel like a parent to me. "Forget who you are and what your purpose is? Come here and read me," it whispers.
Studs Terkel understood the value in people sharing their life stories, and in writing them down. He honored that. Reading his book rearranged my pattern of thought, and made me part of who I am as a person and a writer today. "Working" is a book that has informed my values.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Credos
I am of those who believe
different things on different days
- Steve Kowit
I've been working with some middle schoolers recently, encouraging them to write what they believe. Cakewalk, right? This isn't an easy task for adults, and 12-14 year olds want to stand out from the crowd and shout out their beliefs about as much as a squirrel wants to wear pants.
This isn't my first stab at this assignment. I've written a few credos of my own, and tried various ways of cheering them on from others over the years. NPR has a great resource in their "This I Believe" segment, which has been a project in the works for over fifty years. Dorianne Laux and Kim Addonizio's book, "A Poet's Companion" has a writing exercise on beliefs that is pretty good as well. I've used and combined things from both of these sources, plus added a few ideas of my own into the mix. Eventually, something gets written, but the most important part of this assignment is that thought happens - long, sustained thought about what it is you really believe, and why. Some of us never really know what it is we believe until we are tested and pushed into thinking about it. In the best of situations, there are some really long, philosophical discussions. The bell rings and no one notices.
I've promised my group that I'll be writing my credo as well, since it is something that can and should be done on a semi-regular basis to see how you've grown and changed. The last one I wrote was about a year ago, and before that it was around 2004 I think. I'm due to check in with myself.
"The Poet's Companion" cites an example from the novel "Crooked Heart" by Robert Boswell. A character named Ask has a list of rules he carries in his wallet. These are a few of his rules:
1. Never make a complicated thing simple, or a simple thing complicated.
2. Wear white at night.
3. Take care of Tom. (Ask's brother.)
4. Eat from the four food groups.
5. Be consistent.
6. Never do anything with the sole intent of hurting someone.
This seems to be the direction I'm heading in with my own credo this time. When I've completed it, I'll post it here.
different things on different days
- Steve Kowit
I've been working with some middle schoolers recently, encouraging them to write what they believe. Cakewalk, right? This isn't an easy task for adults, and 12-14 year olds want to stand out from the crowd and shout out their beliefs about as much as a squirrel wants to wear pants.
This isn't my first stab at this assignment. I've written a few credos of my own, and tried various ways of cheering them on from others over the years. NPR has a great resource in their "This I Believe" segment, which has been a project in the works for over fifty years. Dorianne Laux and Kim Addonizio's book, "A Poet's Companion" has a writing exercise on beliefs that is pretty good as well. I've used and combined things from both of these sources, plus added a few ideas of my own into the mix. Eventually, something gets written, but the most important part of this assignment is that thought happens - long, sustained thought about what it is you really believe, and why. Some of us never really know what it is we believe until we are tested and pushed into thinking about it. In the best of situations, there are some really long, philosophical discussions. The bell rings and no one notices.
I've promised my group that I'll be writing my credo as well, since it is something that can and should be done on a semi-regular basis to see how you've grown and changed. The last one I wrote was about a year ago, and before that it was around 2004 I think. I'm due to check in with myself.
"The Poet's Companion" cites an example from the novel "Crooked Heart" by Robert Boswell. A character named Ask has a list of rules he carries in his wallet. These are a few of his rules:
1. Never make a complicated thing simple, or a simple thing complicated.
2. Wear white at night.
3. Take care of Tom. (Ask's brother.)
4. Eat from the four food groups.
5. Be consistent.
6. Never do anything with the sole intent of hurting someone.
This seems to be the direction I'm heading in with my own credo this time. When I've completed it, I'll post it here.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Statement of Intent
My goal as a writer is to create works that I would enjoy as a reader. I don't want to write anything formulaic, or anything that is so complex and dense that the reader feels like she's trapped in a bramble. I am interested in innovation, but not just for the sake of newness -- innovation that breaks new ground in order to unearth the nut of the writing. Whatever is discovered in that rooting should be written in an honest and genuine in manner, not forced. I want what I write to be true to it's self.
Friday, January 30, 2009
A Big Box of Beige
Last night we tried out a new restaurant in town. It's another in what seems to be a long and well-worn, traditional line of upscale Italian restaurants in our area. Since we've been frozen under three inches of ice for the past two days, I was looking forward to not cooking or doing the dishes.
I'm not sure I'll ever get around to recounting the food we had, because the decor has left me with so much to review. How many types of beige can you imagine?
Ecru
Tan
Honey
Beige
Honey beige (that's for Dad)
Organic Egg
Underside of Mole
Jersey Sand
Caramel
Elementary School Tagboard
The entire interior of this restaurant is decorated in various types of tan, more numerous than the list I just jotted. Two large glass doors greet you into an open foyer with beige walls, cream wood trim, and a brown hostess station. The theme continues through the rooms of the restaurant: Beige walls. Sepia toned photographs. Cream tablecloths. Tan ceiling. Carmel swags. Ecru window blinds.
The three of us started to discuss what the designer might have been thinking. We decided that they were going for a "do-not-offend-or-excite" ambiance. Before the bread arrived, Helen already had the room we were sitting in newly designed with deep red walls, curtains made of paper, and some beaded light fixtures. Dan asked what I would do to redesign it. "Call Mark," I said.
On the upswing, this restaurant has no televisions, except for in the bar, which was gratefully out of our field of vision during our meal.
After our dinner, we were able to focus more on the brulee of shades going on in the artwork. Each sepia-toned photograph is double matted in two tones of beige, then framed with a light wood. That's some commitment to the Law of Beige.
I left feeling like I'd been in a sandstorm, my memory of the meal erased in a static of tan.
I'm not sure I'll ever get around to recounting the food we had, because the decor has left me with so much to review. How many types of beige can you imagine?
Ecru
Tan
Honey
Beige
Honey beige (that's for Dad)
Organic Egg
Underside of Mole
Jersey Sand
Caramel
Elementary School Tagboard
The entire interior of this restaurant is decorated in various types of tan, more numerous than the list I just jotted. Two large glass doors greet you into an open foyer with beige walls, cream wood trim, and a brown hostess station. The theme continues through the rooms of the restaurant: Beige walls. Sepia toned photographs. Cream tablecloths. Tan ceiling. Carmel swags. Ecru window blinds.
The three of us started to discuss what the designer might have been thinking. We decided that they were going for a "do-not-offend-or-excite" ambiance. Before the bread arrived, Helen already had the room we were sitting in newly designed with deep red walls, curtains made of paper, and some beaded light fixtures. Dan asked what I would do to redesign it. "Call Mark," I said.
On the upswing, this restaurant has no televisions, except for in the bar, which was gratefully out of our field of vision during our meal.
After our dinner, we were able to focus more on the brulee of shades going on in the artwork. Each sepia-toned photograph is double matted in two tones of beige, then framed with a light wood. That's some commitment to the Law of Beige.
I left feeling like I'd been in a sandstorm, my memory of the meal erased in a static of tan.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Sing a Song of Self-Consciousness
When I’m awake early and writing at my desk I can catch a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of the window. At five or six a.m. I look a mess. I tilt my head a little – what is that? A sagging jowl? This is not writerly. It is exactly who I am. Almost forty, taking notes on jowls.
How lucky I am to be just waking up, at all. I remind myself that I have friends who didn’t make it to forty, who left behind students who adored them, or their own children. So soon I will be forty, and then I will have to say that I am forty, not “nearly forty,” which sounds so much better than “forty,” which is definite, even, and very much in the middle of a long life if I’m lucky enough to have it.
I read a poem recently by a writer who I know has ego issues, and the poem was beautiful, and I wished I didn’t know anything about the poet. I figure that every writer has one issue or another, or multiple ones, or at least I hope they do so it is not just my aging face reflected in the glass but a whole chorus of us. Yes, this makes me selfish. Who wants to be alone, really? When the sun swings its magic wand and the morning hits that point where everything shimmers we will no longer be an image pressed onto the window, but part of the entire landscape. Just the words, not our faces. If we're lucky. It's something to strive for anyway. If I can stop thinking about my jowls long enough to write something with elegant virtuosity, or eloquent virtuosity. I can't remember the phrase -- not writerly, but written in a genuine and honest voice.
How lucky I am to be just waking up, at all. I remind myself that I have friends who didn’t make it to forty, who left behind students who adored them, or their own children. So soon I will be forty, and then I will have to say that I am forty, not “nearly forty,” which sounds so much better than “forty,” which is definite, even, and very much in the middle of a long life if I’m lucky enough to have it.
I read a poem recently by a writer who I know has ego issues, and the poem was beautiful, and I wished I didn’t know anything about the poet. I figure that every writer has one issue or another, or multiple ones, or at least I hope they do so it is not just my aging face reflected in the glass but a whole chorus of us. Yes, this makes me selfish. Who wants to be alone, really? When the sun swings its magic wand and the morning hits that point where everything shimmers we will no longer be an image pressed onto the window, but part of the entire landscape. Just the words, not our faces. If we're lucky. It's something to strive for anyway. If I can stop thinking about my jowls long enough to write something with elegant virtuosity, or eloquent virtuosity. I can't remember the phrase -- not writerly, but written in a genuine and honest voice.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Unfinished Symphony of Augury
A mazurka of birds casts shadows on the snow. The cat’s tail swings in a half-hearted quarter time. I sink into the background, doing my best to disappear in the open score of January, to erase with the syncopation of bleak days. Yesterday, the word “peace” spelled itself out in shadow across the road. Who knows how long it will last – probably a few more days when the municipality decides that the holiday season has wrung out its final arpeggio. With yesterday’s events the word peace felt like augury. Our chimney smoke draws itself along the neighbor’s page of yard. I’m not sure if it’s God that makes a red barn cast a blue shadow in January, but it sure is a complex and beautiful symphony.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Pop Quiz
My daughter and I discuss an upcoming trip, and I explain the itinerary and switchover at the airport. "We might have to run a little to catch the next plane. I'm not sure. I have to check. Hope we don't miss it." My insecurity is obvious. "Ha, ha! You're the one in charge. You have to get us there," she laughs. Many moons ago, I became a mother. I am the map, the guide, the latitude, the longitude, the compass, the clock, the necessitous, bulging, and often embarrassing luggage.
MapQuest does not get you to the right gate at the airport. It's a do-it-yourself operation. With any luck, you're not at O'Hare. Arriving at any destination for me is a combination of luck, pluck, intuition, and winging it. That is what I've been teaching. I should plan more, and pay attention to the details.
My daughter squeezes in a last minute study-session in the car on the way to school. "Mom, what's didactic?" I stumble around my morning brain. "Preachy. Well, poetry or stories that teach a lesson. Not necessarily negative, but sometimes. Like a speaker can be didactic. Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's it." I turn off the defroster, feeling pretty good about myself. "Ok, so what's a bildungsroman then?" Son of a. I haven't had coffee yet. "Sounds ancient, and faintly poopy...is this a matching test? I hope for your sake it is."
As soon as I get home I check the dictionary and find this:
Bil⋅dungs⋅ro⋅man
/ˈbɪldʊŋzroʊˌmɑn; Ger. ˈbildʊŋksrɔˌmɑn/ [bil-doongz-roh-mahn;
Ger. beel-doongks-raw-mahn]
–noun, plural -mans, German. -ma⋅ne /-ˌmɑnə/ [-mah-nuh]
a type of novel concerned with the education, development, and maturing of a young protagonist.
So it is ancient and faintly poopy! Parenting.
MapQuest does not get you to the right gate at the airport. It's a do-it-yourself operation. With any luck, you're not at O'Hare. Arriving at any destination for me is a combination of luck, pluck, intuition, and winging it. That is what I've been teaching. I should plan more, and pay attention to the details.
My daughter squeezes in a last minute study-session in the car on the way to school. "Mom, what's didactic?" I stumble around my morning brain. "Preachy. Well, poetry or stories that teach a lesson. Not necessarily negative, but sometimes. Like a speaker can be didactic. Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's it." I turn off the defroster, feeling pretty good about myself. "Ok, so what's a bildungsroman then?" Son of a. I haven't had coffee yet. "Sounds ancient, and faintly poopy...is this a matching test? I hope for your sake it is."
As soon as I get home I check the dictionary and find this:
Bil⋅dungs⋅ro⋅man
/ˈbɪldʊŋzroʊˌmɑn; Ger. ˈbildʊŋksrɔˌmɑn/ [bil-doongz-roh-mahn;
Ger. beel-doongks-raw-mahn]
–noun, plural -mans, German. -ma⋅ne /-ˌmɑnə/ [-mah-nuh]
a type of novel concerned with the education, development, and maturing of a young protagonist.
So it is ancient and faintly poopy! Parenting.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
A Day of Sounding and Resounding
I've heard Paul Dutton perform once when we were invited to give a couple of readings in Toronto and Ottawa. We were in the Victory Cafe, and Paul stood behind me on a bench and began reading a poem which was filled with a series of sounds that I couldn't believe were being created by a human. His was the most memorable reading of the evening. I don't remember what anyone else read, including myself - I remember Paul's marvelous and surprising utterances.
Yesterday I participated in a Soundsinging and Sound Poetry workshop with Paul. We organized a reading and workshop with him for the community at the studio, and we partnered with Wilkes University so he could give another reading through the Creative Writing Program. (It's tonight at 7 p.m. in Kirby Hall - be there if you can!)
Our Third Friday reading series has a cast of regulars, but there are always a few new people to visit. There was a good energy with the people in Paul's audience on Friday, and surely a few who were unsure what was going on exactly. A young newcomer and her mother shifted uncomfortably in their seats with the first sound poem. One of Paul's poems, titled "Um," starts with him shifting through his papers and saying "um," in a way that makes you think he's forgotten something, or lost his place. The tension builds between the performer and the audience as he continues to shift papers about and say "um, er..." and then you realize that this is part of the poem. It's perfect. Friends I spoke with afterward said that they felt themselves tensing up at first in the reading and then finally relaxing into all of the sound.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the workshop, but I knew what I hoped to gain from it - a better sense of what type of house my body is for sound. Paul started us off with a short talk on the physicality and mechanics of sound in the body, and how the body holds tensions and memories in the muscles. He led us through a long relaxation and deep breathing session, where we were all supine on the floor, with heavy limbs and sleepy eyes. This was probably the longest deep breathing exercise I have ever done, and it was completely relaxing. We didn't make any sounds using the larynx yet, just inhalation and exhalation. From that relaxed state, he encouraged us to get up when we were ready, find a place to stand (and we could also move around the room), and begin making sounds. The group split up and found places - one in a corner, one in the bathroom, I stood in my little office for awhile, a few stood in the front near the door. My first sounds were windy, and reminded me of the howling wind of my childhood bedroom at night, which made me cry a little in the imitation of it, and the surety of the memory, which was not an unhappy or scary one, but a kind of comfort and connection with nature that I miss now as an adult. Paul walked around the room. Other workshoppers were making rhythmic noises, and he encouraged us at times to move the sounds we were creating into other parts of the mouth, throat and head (earlier, he gave us a great visual of the mouth as a cave). I was at times aware of the others in the room, and at other times unaware of their sounds. Some of the sounds I made were primal, gutteral, monsterous - and I couldn't keep myself from moving my hands as I made them. The total sound in the room (when I was aware of it) had peaks and valleys I think. There was some laughter, but it was experimental. None of this felt weird to me at all. Before we broke for a long lunch (enough time to digest), we shared our experiences of the session.
The afternoon session included a more improvisational group effort, where we were encouraged to listen to one another, move about the room and create sound. My experience at first was a little more self-aware and awkward, but I eased into it. We finished the day with some group exercises, and a chant. Everyone left feeling energized. And they didn't leave, actually. Most of them came to the house to join us for dinner with Paul.
My friend Mischelle always surprises me, and last night was no exception. She played the piano as soon as we got into the house - some Beethoven sheet music I had on the rest. She's been to the house many times before and never touched the piano. I sat with her and we played duets, and she is such a good sight-reader that I begged her to play some Sondheim, which she did. I sang. When Paul arrived with Dan (and the ingredients for our dinner!) he sat down at the piano and played improvisational boogie woogie and blues. Bananafish (our bird) sang along. Another friend danced. The whole house was sonorous songlorious.
Yesterday I participated in a Soundsinging and Sound Poetry workshop with Paul. We organized a reading and workshop with him for the community at the studio, and we partnered with Wilkes University so he could give another reading through the Creative Writing Program. (It's tonight at 7 p.m. in Kirby Hall - be there if you can!)
Our Third Friday reading series has a cast of regulars, but there are always a few new people to visit. There was a good energy with the people in Paul's audience on Friday, and surely a few who were unsure what was going on exactly. A young newcomer and her mother shifted uncomfortably in their seats with the first sound poem. One of Paul's poems, titled "Um," starts with him shifting through his papers and saying "um," in a way that makes you think he's forgotten something, or lost his place. The tension builds between the performer and the audience as he continues to shift papers about and say "um, er..." and then you realize that this is part of the poem. It's perfect. Friends I spoke with afterward said that they felt themselves tensing up at first in the reading and then finally relaxing into all of the sound.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the workshop, but I knew what I hoped to gain from it - a better sense of what type of house my body is for sound. Paul started us off with a short talk on the physicality and mechanics of sound in the body, and how the body holds tensions and memories in the muscles. He led us through a long relaxation and deep breathing session, where we were all supine on the floor, with heavy limbs and sleepy eyes. This was probably the longest deep breathing exercise I have ever done, and it was completely relaxing. We didn't make any sounds using the larynx yet, just inhalation and exhalation. From that relaxed state, he encouraged us to get up when we were ready, find a place to stand (and we could also move around the room), and begin making sounds. The group split up and found places - one in a corner, one in the bathroom, I stood in my little office for awhile, a few stood in the front near the door. My first sounds were windy, and reminded me of the howling wind of my childhood bedroom at night, which made me cry a little in the imitation of it, and the surety of the memory, which was not an unhappy or scary one, but a kind of comfort and connection with nature that I miss now as an adult. Paul walked around the room. Other workshoppers were making rhythmic noises, and he encouraged us at times to move the sounds we were creating into other parts of the mouth, throat and head (earlier, he gave us a great visual of the mouth as a cave). I was at times aware of the others in the room, and at other times unaware of their sounds. Some of the sounds I made were primal, gutteral, monsterous - and I couldn't keep myself from moving my hands as I made them. The total sound in the room (when I was aware of it) had peaks and valleys I think. There was some laughter, but it was experimental. None of this felt weird to me at all. Before we broke for a long lunch (enough time to digest), we shared our experiences of the session.
The afternoon session included a more improvisational group effort, where we were encouraged to listen to one another, move about the room and create sound. My experience at first was a little more self-aware and awkward, but I eased into it. We finished the day with some group exercises, and a chant. Everyone left feeling energized. And they didn't leave, actually. Most of them came to the house to join us for dinner with Paul.
My friend Mischelle always surprises me, and last night was no exception. She played the piano as soon as we got into the house - some Beethoven sheet music I had on the rest. She's been to the house many times before and never touched the piano. I sat with her and we played duets, and she is such a good sight-reader that I begged her to play some Sondheim, which she did. I sang. When Paul arrived with Dan (and the ingredients for our dinner!) he sat down at the piano and played improvisational boogie woogie and blues. Bananafish (our bird) sang along. Another friend danced. The whole house was sonorous songlorious.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A Food Memory for Dan
It was the year of the recurring earache, the year of the pink fluoride tablets, the year of the rental A-Frame, the year of hiding under the stairs, the year of wheat germ sneaked into morning cereal. It was also the year of the Not-to-Be-Forgotten Liver Dinner. Liver and onions. My father and mother enjoyed liver, and my sister and I, both young (I was seven and she was ten), hadn’t really had the opportunity to try it yet. While I played post office under the stairs or tidied my box house in the loft, my mother was working her secret machinations with liver in the kitchen. I wasn’t aware of it, and didn’t recognize the smell. When my father got home from work, we all sat down at the dinner table. Dad was probably tired, and really looking forward to the not-meatloaf, not-spaghetti meal. My memory is a little hazy here, and the story has been told a bunch of times. It’s one of those perennial family favorites, told with joyful gusto to every newcomer to our clan. The meal was served. I think I winced. I must have made a face, or grunted. I was told to try it anyway. I balked. The liver smelled funny. It was covered with wormy onions. My father’s face reddened. All he wanted was to enjoy a good meal, and his shaggy-haired second grader was ruining it. “Enough, Jenny. Try it.” I pierced a piece with my fork and put the liver to my lips. My sister suggested the “hold your breath” technique, which fueled dad’s furor. Holding my breath didn’t work. I could still taste and smell the liver’s metallic tinge, and I gagged. Then I cried. My crying made my sister cry. The sight of us crying, her frustrated husband, and all the hard work and preparation that went into a meal all gone to hell in a handbasket, made my mother cry. There were all of my father’s girls, crying in front of plates full of cold liver. I don’t remember if dad finished his meal. I know I didn’t.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Word List
While looking at the all-forgiving snow floating in sun and onto the ground today, I wondered how many words I really know. What is my total vocabulary? I started to list the words beginning with the letter A in the notebook I keep in my pocketbook, then I realized I need the OED (which I have, thanks to Dan!), to make sure I don't miss any. Not that I expect to have a really impressive list by any means, but I want to make sure that I don't cheat myself either. I have a bad memory. Today I begin my list of words in my working vocabulary. There will be two parts to this list: words I know, and words I know and use. Who knows how long it will take - maybe two days - maybe two years? I'll let you know the outcome. I expect it to be humbling.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Fortieth Birthday Parade
She closed her eyes, chewed on her fork, and imagined two small poodles walking on their hind legs. Each wore a pink sequined hat and a little matching bow tie. Walking on back legs made their front legs dangle like gloves on a clothesline. Would they be able to keep up if they led everything? Would it be humane? Probably not. Someone would have to whisk them away after the first few steps. What would follow after the poodles was harder to imagine, but the cast appeared -- 80’s hair bands. Duran Duran. Flock of Seagulls. The old guy who rode his aluminum foiled bike down Main Street every day to collect recycling should make an appearance, and also the one who wore a bike helmet to walk around town. No politicians, no clowns, no causes. Then her float, covered in middle-school dance tissue paper flowers, soap bubbles lifting from its cushioned surface. The parade would be over as quickly as it began, a metaphor for life’s pomp and circumstance. Perfect. She’d wear a tiara and those white patent leather shoes she always wanted as a kid. Her husband and teenage daughter would probably stay home. There would be no crowd. Any spectators would be the elderly neighbors who just happened to be sitting out on their porches that morning. It would take place in an alley, and pass by the backs of bars and their beer-stained carpets. The township wouldn’t notice, so there would be no reason to ask permission to close off a street. She’d wave and pop bubbles. She’d curl her toes in those shoes.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Flappy Gnu Rear! A List (ordered by whim) for 2009
1. Don't be a lazy writer, be a scrupulous one.
2. Take a class in something you're interested in that isn't related to writing.
3. Take a class in something that is writing related, but not poetry.
4. Collaborate with someone who scares you a little.
5. Take more walks in the woods.
6. Be honest in your writing.
7. Sing more.
8. Be more patient. This includes patience with your own writing/reading cycles. However, you need to finish two projects this year, and you know which two those are.*
9. Don't be afraid to say no. You can't do everything.
10. More risk taking. Don't be afraid to say yes, either.
11. Travel and visit far-flung relatives.
12. Work out a better submission/pub schedule.
13. Resume driving lessons with Helen.
14. Help Helen with her portfolio for college.
15. Blog when you feel like it, but not when you don't.
16. Write every single day, even if it's complete drek. The drek doesn't need to be shared.
17. Read more.
18. Do more work with seniors and memoir.
19. Exercise.
20. Put a door in the back room that leads out to the patio.
21. Spend more time with friends.
22. Work on the garden.
* I am not good at being patient.
2. Take a class in something you're interested in that isn't related to writing.
3. Take a class in something that is writing related, but not poetry.
4. Collaborate with someone who scares you a little.
5. Take more walks in the woods.
6. Be honest in your writing.
7. Sing more.
8. Be more patient. This includes patience with your own writing/reading cycles. However, you need to finish two projects this year, and you know which two those are.*
9. Don't be afraid to say no. You can't do everything.
10. More risk taking. Don't be afraid to say yes, either.
11. Travel and visit far-flung relatives.
12. Work out a better submission/pub schedule.
13. Resume driving lessons with Helen.
14. Help Helen with her portfolio for college.
15. Blog when you feel like it, but not when you don't.
16. Write every single day, even if it's complete drek. The drek doesn't need to be shared.
17. Read more.
18. Do more work with seniors and memoir.
19. Exercise.
20. Put a door in the back room that leads out to the patio.
21. Spend more time with friends.
22. Work on the garden.
* I am not good at being patient.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
2008 List in Review
It's out of fashion or unoriginal to make resolutions, and it's also a bore to say you don't make them. I like to make lists. They help to keep order to my days, and some sense of a goal for longer stretches of time. Last year I made a list titled 2008 - Goals Ordered by Whim. Here is that list, with a brief commentary on what I achieved, what I didn't, and what fell into a goal purgatory.
1. Less residencies. No teaching in the summer.
Overall, this went pretty well. In 2007 I overextended myself with teaching in schools and community centers. I love the work, but I burnt out and was committed to rest, learn, and work on my own writing.
2. Write more. Daily.
Hm. This was a half-hearted promise to myself I think. I wrote in my journal, but maybe I should have been more specific about what type of writing I wanted to do on a daily basis. I completed a project that was in the works for awhile, so that's a plus.
3. Publish more.
I did send more work out this year than I have in the past, and a few short fiction pieces and poems found homes.
4. Workshops at the studio - programming.
We came up with a great idea for this that we never really set into motion. There were several workshops this year that were successes, and a few that no one showed interest in at all. Setting up programming is exhausting, and more often than not a thankless job, and it takes away time from #2 & #3. This goal defeated what #1 was trying to accomplish.
5. Publish PKP books, develop program for others to print.
Wow. This is quite a list I have going here. Lots of big goals. I kept my promise with this one, and the second half is just starting now, but it a slightly different form than we envisioned. Not bad. Did I mention that the layout, design, editing and correspondence with authors also takes away from my own writing time? It did. However, I love the work.
6. Get married.
Done. We got married in a library.
7. Take more walks in the woods.
What happened here? I raked my mom's yard the other day. I don't think I took one good forest walk this year at all. Maybe? I don't remember, and that is sad. Since I grew up in the woods, I feel very close to nature and miss it here in the coal town burbs. I did buy a bike this year, and loved riding it in the nice weather across town, or to the studio.
8. Fix sidewalk. Finish two rooms in the basement.
Thanks to my husband, the first part of this is done. I have to say, it is nice not shoveling concrete away along with the snow. The second half of this is not complete, and the flames of passion to finish those rooms now are tiny embers. Meh.
9. Travel.
I think we did more traveling last year, but we did make some pretty great and meaningful short trips into the cities this year.
10. Spend less money, and keep track.
Did I really think I was going to keep track? I should be more honest with myself when making these lists. And we got married, fixed a sidewalk and installed a new bathroom sink this year, which means we spent a chunk of money. Did I mention the work on the patio? Yeah. That too. Oh, and the county decided to raise my property taxes.
11. Exercise, but don't be obsessive over it.
I bought the bike and used it in nice weather, and have been going to the gym on a daily basis since late October. I still feel fat.
12. Visit elderly relatives with Mom, Helen and Dan.
This is the most important of all, and I fell short here for sure.
13. Read more, and diversely.
The diversely part could use a little work. We all have our favorites.
14. Take a class instead of organizing or teaching one.
I had one all lined up for myself this summer, and it was cancelled because of low enrollment. This isn't to say I haven't learned anything this year. Instead of taking a class, I spent July/August acting in a play, and learned a whole lot from my fellow performers, the director and the stage crew (Helen did all the props for the show).
15. Give more readings.
No more than usual. This seems to be seasonal - a few in the spring and a few in the fall.
16. Spend quality time with Helen.
The play was a big part of our quality time together this year, I think. We met a lot of wonderfully talented new friends, and we both got a chance to learn something about ourselves. Helen's got some great prop making skills! We're always doing something goofy together, and I can almost always make her laugh.
17. Teach Helen how to drive - then panic when she can.
I don't know if Helen would classify this as quality time spent with Mom or not. Probably not. Apparently I have a tendency to panic. We started driving in Dan's car, which is a standard transmission and a tough go for a first-time driver. Then we switched to my car, which is an automatic, and winter happened. We'll resume in the spring. Both the panic and the lessons.
18. Record dreams, and interpret.
You have to really love someone to listen to the retelling of their dreams. I know who loves me for sure. I've recorded some, and let others disperse with the vapor in the shower.
19. Keep in contact with and visit Dan's family.
Pretty good, not great. The wedding offered an opportunity to visit a tiny bit, but certainly not enough.
20. No more blogging.
Cut back, but ha, ha, ha! My desire to do this has something to do with a public vs. private writing struggle, that I'll write more about tomorrow...on my blog.
21. Finish the novel. Start it.
I like how finishing the novel comes before starting it here. I finished the former, the latter needs work.
1. Less residencies. No teaching in the summer.
Overall, this went pretty well. In 2007 I overextended myself with teaching in schools and community centers. I love the work, but I burnt out and was committed to rest, learn, and work on my own writing.
2. Write more. Daily.
Hm. This was a half-hearted promise to myself I think. I wrote in my journal, but maybe I should have been more specific about what type of writing I wanted to do on a daily basis. I completed a project that was in the works for awhile, so that's a plus.
3. Publish more.
I did send more work out this year than I have in the past, and a few short fiction pieces and poems found homes.
4. Workshops at the studio - programming.
We came up with a great idea for this that we never really set into motion. There were several workshops this year that were successes, and a few that no one showed interest in at all. Setting up programming is exhausting, and more often than not a thankless job, and it takes away time from #2 & #3. This goal defeated what #1 was trying to accomplish.
5. Publish PKP books, develop program for others to print.
Wow. This is quite a list I have going here. Lots of big goals. I kept my promise with this one, and the second half is just starting now, but it a slightly different form than we envisioned. Not bad. Did I mention that the layout, design, editing and correspondence with authors also takes away from my own writing time? It did. However, I love the work.
6. Get married.
Done. We got married in a library.
7. Take more walks in the woods.
What happened here? I raked my mom's yard the other day. I don't think I took one good forest walk this year at all. Maybe? I don't remember, and that is sad. Since I grew up in the woods, I feel very close to nature and miss it here in the coal town burbs. I did buy a bike this year, and loved riding it in the nice weather across town, or to the studio.
8. Fix sidewalk. Finish two rooms in the basement.
Thanks to my husband, the first part of this is done. I have to say, it is nice not shoveling concrete away along with the snow. The second half of this is not complete, and the flames of passion to finish those rooms now are tiny embers. Meh.
9. Travel.
I think we did more traveling last year, but we did make some pretty great and meaningful short trips into the cities this year.
10. Spend less money, and keep track.
Did I really think I was going to keep track? I should be more honest with myself when making these lists. And we got married, fixed a sidewalk and installed a new bathroom sink this year, which means we spent a chunk of money. Did I mention the work on the patio? Yeah. That too. Oh, and the county decided to raise my property taxes.
11. Exercise, but don't be obsessive over it.
I bought the bike and used it in nice weather, and have been going to the gym on a daily basis since late October. I still feel fat.
12. Visit elderly relatives with Mom, Helen and Dan.
This is the most important of all, and I fell short here for sure.
13. Read more, and diversely.
The diversely part could use a little work. We all have our favorites.
14. Take a class instead of organizing or teaching one.
I had one all lined up for myself this summer, and it was cancelled because of low enrollment. This isn't to say I haven't learned anything this year. Instead of taking a class, I spent July/August acting in a play, and learned a whole lot from my fellow performers, the director and the stage crew (Helen did all the props for the show).
15. Give more readings.
No more than usual. This seems to be seasonal - a few in the spring and a few in the fall.
16. Spend quality time with Helen.
The play was a big part of our quality time together this year, I think. We met a lot of wonderfully talented new friends, and we both got a chance to learn something about ourselves. Helen's got some great prop making skills! We're always doing something goofy together, and I can almost always make her laugh.
17. Teach Helen how to drive - then panic when she can.
I don't know if Helen would classify this as quality time spent with Mom or not. Probably not. Apparently I have a tendency to panic. We started driving in Dan's car, which is a standard transmission and a tough go for a first-time driver. Then we switched to my car, which is an automatic, and winter happened. We'll resume in the spring. Both the panic and the lessons.
18. Record dreams, and interpret.
You have to really love someone to listen to the retelling of their dreams. I know who loves me for sure. I've recorded some, and let others disperse with the vapor in the shower.
19. Keep in contact with and visit Dan's family.
Pretty good, not great. The wedding offered an opportunity to visit a tiny bit, but certainly not enough.
20. No more blogging.
Cut back, but ha, ha, ha! My desire to do this has something to do with a public vs. private writing struggle, that I'll write more about tomorrow...on my blog.
21. Finish the novel. Start it.
I like how finishing the novel comes before starting it here. I finished the former, the latter needs work.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Palimpsest
In the course of spending 12 years of my life in this slanted little house, my writing desk has settled itself into three rooms, the first being the living room. This was a total disaster, because even with my morning writing schedule, I felt the pull of the kitchen dishes stacked behind me, or the laundry below, or whatever remnants were left from the previous evening on the dining room table. Exotic plants took up valuable real estate in the windows, so there was little view. In the summer, I took my journal outside and sat on the kitchen steps, avoiding the desk altogether, writing among the bamboo we have planted along the fence. Later, the desk moved upstairs into the bedroom, and near a window that overlooks my neighbor's deteriorating concrete piling, their covered swimming pool weighted with gallon jugs of water, and the empty eyes of an abandoned Catholic church. In winter, the birds congregate near the cross, where I suspect most of the heat from the building escapes. Being able to roll right out of bed and into the writing chair has benefits. The drawback came when the bed was upgraded to king-sized and I didn't want to leave it. For the past few weeks I've been a surreptitious writer, dashing off whatever notes I could, and my desk became just another surface to fill with old playbills from the theatre.
Yesterday my desk took up residence in what we refer to as the "back room," which houses the bulk of our books, a library card catalog, and an old Dickson coal stove. It felt good to carry the desk, dust it off, and settle it under the bookshelves and next to the card catalog with its ever everlasting hope of order. To the left of my desk is a window that looks out onto the patio and backyard. Being near a window only makes more time to daydream, watch the last brown leaves hang on with diligence, and listen to the cat's wheeze as she stares out the window too, waiting for a sparrow to notate the feeder. Still, I'm hopeful that this new space will be one I return to on a daily basis. I know that there is nothing better than being here, writing with so many great sentences above me, and one white cloud hanging over the neighbor's shed like a thought balloon.
Yesterday my desk took up residence in what we refer to as the "back room," which houses the bulk of our books, a library card catalog, and an old Dickson coal stove. It felt good to carry the desk, dust it off, and settle it under the bookshelves and next to the card catalog with its ever everlasting hope of order. To the left of my desk is a window that looks out onto the patio and backyard. Being near a window only makes more time to daydream, watch the last brown leaves hang on with diligence, and listen to the cat's wheeze as she stares out the window too, waiting for a sparrow to notate the feeder. Still, I'm hopeful that this new space will be one I return to on a daily basis. I know that there is nothing better than being here, writing with so many great sentences above me, and one white cloud hanging over the neighbor's shed like a thought balloon.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Suggested Reading
There's a great cartoon in Issue #7 of Opium Magazine that says "I thought I'd never write again. Then I put on my cold wristwatch." The text is a short poem from either the wife of Philip Guston, or Philip Guston himself.
I've never been able to wear a watch because whatever chemical goodness is going on in my body stops time. Gee, maybe I should take that as a hint: Quit taking time for granted. Also - thank your friends for opening bookstores and recommending books to you.
This is a reading list that was prompted by my friend Jennifer, who is going to have a bone marrow transplant at the beginning of the year. It will be a renewing spring of 2009 for her. The other day she asked Dan and me what we've been reading that's been good lately, because she wants to stockpile some reading material for her months of recovery time. She asked particularly about poetry. I had no quick answers for her, which was upsetting. I've been a lazy reader this year - or rather, a not-so-interested-in-poetry reader this year.
So, here's my updated reading list - some of the books I've read recently that I liked. For you, Jen, and anyone else who loves to read.
Poetry
Tyrannosaurus Rex Versus The Corduroy Kid by Simon Armitage
The collection begins with a short found poem called "Hand-washing Technique -- Government Guidelines," which I thought was odd at first, then realized the brilliant placement of the poem. You should always wash your hand before reading a book of poems. God knows where they've been, and perhaps you should wash after, also. This collection has one of my newest all-time favorite poems in it, which I read to Dan last night. It's titled "You're Beautiful." Seek this collection out if you haven't read it already. I bought my copy at my favorite indie bookstore, Anthology. If you don't have a favorite indie bookstore, seek one of those out too.
The Door, by Margaret Atwood
A poet I return to on a regular basis for her terseness. The Door is her newest collection of poems, which includes a CD of Atwood reading some of the poems. I haven't listened to it yet, because I have a happy memory of my friend Heather reading a few of the poems from the book in the car on our way back from her reading in Scranton. Where was that reading? Oh yes, at Anthology, where I bought the book. I love these lines from "The Poet Has Come Back...":
The poet has come back to being a poet
after decades of being virtuous instead.
Can't you be both?
No. Not in public.
The Journals of Susanna Moodie, by Margaret Atwood
I already have this book and have read it, but I scored a first edition paperback at the Philadelphia Free Library bookstore last month on our honeymoon. I read it all in one sitting when we returned from our trip, and was surprised and happy to read in the Afterword that the poems were in Atwood's words "generated by a dream." She also did all of the art for this collection.
Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties, Translations by John J.L. Mood
A gift from Heather, purchased the day of her reading at the bookstore. I've written in the margins of this book, a sure sign that I liked it. It contains selections from Rilke's letters on love, poems on love and other difficulties, and shorter selections or Rilke's work, and an essay by John Mood. I thought the prologue to the book was one of the best I've ever read, and we used a selection from this book on our wedding program.
The Beforelife, by Franz Wright
This collection begins with a simple dedication:
I wrote these poems between December of 1998 and December of 1999 for my wife, Elizabeth." Wright wrings out striking, brief poems about alcoholism. From "Nothingsville MN":
The sole tavern there, empty
and filled
with cigarette smoke;
the smell
of beer, urine, and the infinite
sadness you dread
and need so much of
for some reason
Sleeping on the Wing, an Anthology of Modern Poetry edited by Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell
A guidebook for reading and writing poetry. I was going to take a class with Heather Thomas this summer, but it was cancelled, so I bought the suggested book anyway, did some of the exercises, and learned more about poetry, which is always good.
Plays
Fat Pig, by Neil LaBute
Great dialogue. One of three plays by the playwright all on the theme of body image.
Reasons to Be Pretty, by Neil LaBute
I didn't like this as much as Fat Pig. Opium Magazine has an excerpt from this play in their current issue.
The Shape of Things, by Neil LaBute
See the movie too, but after reading the play of course. Helen and her friend Grayson watched it when he was visiting recently. Helen read the play as well.
Kimberly Akimbo, by David Lindsay-Abaire
I loved "Fuddy Meers" which a friend gave to me. This one is just as brilliant. I really like the absurd/real in his writing.
Baby Food, by David Lindsay-Abaire
Where would I be without my theatre friends? Reading less plays, which would be a travesty. I want to produce this collection of short plays. A group of us read this at the studio recently and laughed a lot.
The Faculty Room, by Bridget Carpenter
Hilarious description of setting, funny characters, heavy ending. A little expected, actually. I enjoyed the characters a lot though.
Crave, by Sarah Kane
Like reading poems that are all cut up and thrown up into the air. Wherever the lines land, that's the dialogue. Disconnect, but also some places where there was narrative going on - an intention. I have a collection of her plays to finish now. Helen's reading this play now, and she said the non-naming of characters makes it tough to follow. I agree with her.
Fresh Kills, by Elyzabeth Gregory Wilder
A loaner from Dei, who is home from London on Christmas break. Eddie, a middle aged married man, becomes strangely obsessed with a teenage boy named Arnold, who takes an overactive interest in him. Really terrific dialogue, but there are some places where Arnold is a little unbelievably prosaic, and the end kind of reminded me of my friend Mike's old joke about writing for the theatre: "Don't know how to end it? Bring in a guy with a gun!" That's not a total spoiler, by the way. Worth reading, still.
The Mistakes Madeline Made, by Elizabeth Meriwether.
I read this over and over. Memorized lines. Played a part in a production of it this summer, which was just what I needed. It's a play that is wildly open to directorial interpretation and I'm glad our direction had good vision.
Fiction
Until I Find You, by John Irving
Took me two months to complete. Retitled in my head as "Until I Finish You." It was worth the time. I can't imagine how long it took him to craft this. Beautiful, lush sentences. This copy was a gift from my friend Bob, and Dan loaned our copy to our friend Jack.
Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn
This was recommended by Dan, and I'm not sure where it was purchased. I had to read the first sentence several times before it sunk in entirely. I read this in conjunction with several plays by Neil LaBute, and all of the story lines deal with body-image. This book put me in strange mood whenever I read it, but I enjoyed it. My friend Chad has it now, since I put it in the book box at the studio. He snapped it up when he saw the title.
Falling Sideways, by Tom Holt
Holt has a quirky, twisted, and funny writing style. This gist is this: humanity's ascent to civilization has been ruthlessly guided by a small gang of devious frogs. I'm not done with this book yet. I'm a slow reader of "quick-read" fiction for some reason. This one was loaned to me by Dan, who I think got it from Dave.
Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
Helen was reading it for school, so I read it too, since I've never read it before. I cried, cried, cried at the ending.
Non-Fiction
Not Quite What I Was Planning - Six Word Memoirs by Famous & Obscure Writers, edited by Smith Magazine
Smith Magazine launched a call to their readers based on Hemingway's famous super-short story: "For Sale: baby shoes, never worn." The concept was deceptively simple - distill your life down to six words. The result is a collection with entries that span from the heartbreaking to the hilarious. Since reading the book, I've used this concept in various writing workshops, and have written a few myself. A great lesson in reflection. Another Anthology purchase.
Reading Like a Writer, A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them, by Francine Prose
Loved it, and now have a collection of books that I love for their sentence structures, musicality, and meaning on a shelf next to my writing desk - a tip I took from reading this book. I can't remember where this book came from...might have been an impulsive Barnes and Noble purchase.
A People's History of the American Empire, a Graphic Adaptation, by Howard Zinn, Mike Konopacki, and Paul Buhle
After slowly reading A People's History of the United States, I picked this book up and read it swiftly. Every high school history teacher should use both books. From the prologue:
"We can all fell a terrible anger at whoever, in their insane idea that this would help their cause, killed thousands of people. But what do we do with that anger? Do we react with panic, strike out violently and blindly just to show how tough we are?"
Zinn reflects on 9/11 in the prologue and then begins in Chapter One with the Massacre at Wounded Knee. The graphics include drawings, photos, and snippets of newspaper headlines, and all throughout Zinn is silhouetted as if he is giving a lecture, or writing at his desk. I enjoyed this book so much I tried to get Helen to read it. Maybe she will someday. Sadly, this was a B&N purchase as well. I probably had a Scubrats coffee with it too. *sigh*
Literary Journals
Opium Magazine, edited by Todd Zuniga
Subscribed last year, I think. Opium Magazine is a fun combination of the visual and the literary, and the editors add "approximate reading times" to entries, which makes it perfect reading for the bathroom, doctor's office waiting room, or, well, anywhere really. I always find something I really like in the issue.
Short Fiction, edited by Anthony Caleshu
Issue 2 of Short Fiction showed up in my mailbox, and I don't remember ordering it, but I'm glad I did. Margaret Irish's story "The Searcher," grabbed me and wouldn't let go, so I wrote a letter to the editor thanking him, and subscribed for a year.
I've never been able to wear a watch because whatever chemical goodness is going on in my body stops time. Gee, maybe I should take that as a hint: Quit taking time for granted. Also - thank your friends for opening bookstores and recommending books to you.
This is a reading list that was prompted by my friend Jennifer, who is going to have a bone marrow transplant at the beginning of the year. It will be a renewing spring of 2009 for her. The other day she asked Dan and me what we've been reading that's been good lately, because she wants to stockpile some reading material for her months of recovery time. She asked particularly about poetry. I had no quick answers for her, which was upsetting. I've been a lazy reader this year - or rather, a not-so-interested-in-poetry reader this year.
So, here's my updated reading list - some of the books I've read recently that I liked. For you, Jen, and anyone else who loves to read.
Poetry
Tyrannosaurus Rex Versus The Corduroy Kid by Simon Armitage
The collection begins with a short found poem called "Hand-washing Technique -- Government Guidelines," which I thought was odd at first, then realized the brilliant placement of the poem. You should always wash your hand before reading a book of poems. God knows where they've been, and perhaps you should wash after, also. This collection has one of my newest all-time favorite poems in it, which I read to Dan last night. It's titled "You're Beautiful." Seek this collection out if you haven't read it already. I bought my copy at my favorite indie bookstore, Anthology. If you don't have a favorite indie bookstore, seek one of those out too.
The Door, by Margaret Atwood
A poet I return to on a regular basis for her terseness. The Door is her newest collection of poems, which includes a CD of Atwood reading some of the poems. I haven't listened to it yet, because I have a happy memory of my friend Heather reading a few of the poems from the book in the car on our way back from her reading in Scranton. Where was that reading? Oh yes, at Anthology, where I bought the book. I love these lines from "The Poet Has Come Back...":
The poet has come back to being a poet
after decades of being virtuous instead.
Can't you be both?
No. Not in public.
The Journals of Susanna Moodie, by Margaret Atwood
I already have this book and have read it, but I scored a first edition paperback at the Philadelphia Free Library bookstore last month on our honeymoon. I read it all in one sitting when we returned from our trip, and was surprised and happy to read in the Afterword that the poems were in Atwood's words "generated by a dream." She also did all of the art for this collection.
Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties, Translations by John J.L. Mood
A gift from Heather, purchased the day of her reading at the bookstore. I've written in the margins of this book, a sure sign that I liked it. It contains selections from Rilke's letters on love, poems on love and other difficulties, and shorter selections or Rilke's work, and an essay by John Mood. I thought the prologue to the book was one of the best I've ever read, and we used a selection from this book on our wedding program.
The Beforelife, by Franz Wright
This collection begins with a simple dedication:
I wrote these poems between December of 1998 and December of 1999 for my wife, Elizabeth." Wright wrings out striking, brief poems about alcoholism. From "Nothingsville MN":
The sole tavern there, empty
and filled
with cigarette smoke;
the smell
of beer, urine, and the infinite
sadness you dread
and need so much of
for some reason
Sleeping on the Wing, an Anthology of Modern Poetry edited by Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell
A guidebook for reading and writing poetry. I was going to take a class with Heather Thomas this summer, but it was cancelled, so I bought the suggested book anyway, did some of the exercises, and learned more about poetry, which is always good.
Plays
Fat Pig, by Neil LaBute
Great dialogue. One of three plays by the playwright all on the theme of body image.
Reasons to Be Pretty, by Neil LaBute
I didn't like this as much as Fat Pig. Opium Magazine has an excerpt from this play in their current issue.
The Shape of Things, by Neil LaBute
See the movie too, but after reading the play of course. Helen and her friend Grayson watched it when he was visiting recently. Helen read the play as well.
Kimberly Akimbo, by David Lindsay-Abaire
I loved "Fuddy Meers" which a friend gave to me. This one is just as brilliant. I really like the absurd/real in his writing.
Baby Food, by David Lindsay-Abaire
Where would I be without my theatre friends? Reading less plays, which would be a travesty. I want to produce this collection of short plays. A group of us read this at the studio recently and laughed a lot.
The Faculty Room, by Bridget Carpenter
Hilarious description of setting, funny characters, heavy ending. A little expected, actually. I enjoyed the characters a lot though.
Crave, by Sarah Kane
Like reading poems that are all cut up and thrown up into the air. Wherever the lines land, that's the dialogue. Disconnect, but also some places where there was narrative going on - an intention. I have a collection of her plays to finish now. Helen's reading this play now, and she said the non-naming of characters makes it tough to follow. I agree with her.
Fresh Kills, by Elyzabeth Gregory Wilder
A loaner from Dei, who is home from London on Christmas break. Eddie, a middle aged married man, becomes strangely obsessed with a teenage boy named Arnold, who takes an overactive interest in him. Really terrific dialogue, but there are some places where Arnold is a little unbelievably prosaic, and the end kind of reminded me of my friend Mike's old joke about writing for the theatre: "Don't know how to end it? Bring in a guy with a gun!" That's not a total spoiler, by the way. Worth reading, still.
The Mistakes Madeline Made, by Elizabeth Meriwether.
I read this over and over. Memorized lines. Played a part in a production of it this summer, which was just what I needed. It's a play that is wildly open to directorial interpretation and I'm glad our direction had good vision.
Fiction
Until I Find You, by John Irving
Took me two months to complete. Retitled in my head as "Until I Finish You." It was worth the time. I can't imagine how long it took him to craft this. Beautiful, lush sentences. This copy was a gift from my friend Bob, and Dan loaned our copy to our friend Jack.
Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn
This was recommended by Dan, and I'm not sure where it was purchased. I had to read the first sentence several times before it sunk in entirely. I read this in conjunction with several plays by Neil LaBute, and all of the story lines deal with body-image. This book put me in strange mood whenever I read it, but I enjoyed it. My friend Chad has it now, since I put it in the book box at the studio. He snapped it up when he saw the title.
Falling Sideways, by Tom Holt
Holt has a quirky, twisted, and funny writing style. This gist is this: humanity's ascent to civilization has been ruthlessly guided by a small gang of devious frogs. I'm not done with this book yet. I'm a slow reader of "quick-read" fiction for some reason. This one was loaned to me by Dan, who I think got it from Dave.
Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
Helen was reading it for school, so I read it too, since I've never read it before. I cried, cried, cried at the ending.
Non-Fiction
Not Quite What I Was Planning - Six Word Memoirs by Famous & Obscure Writers, edited by Smith Magazine
Smith Magazine launched a call to their readers based on Hemingway's famous super-short story: "For Sale: baby shoes, never worn." The concept was deceptively simple - distill your life down to six words. The result is a collection with entries that span from the heartbreaking to the hilarious. Since reading the book, I've used this concept in various writing workshops, and have written a few myself. A great lesson in reflection. Another Anthology purchase.
Reading Like a Writer, A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them, by Francine Prose
Loved it, and now have a collection of books that I love for their sentence structures, musicality, and meaning on a shelf next to my writing desk - a tip I took from reading this book. I can't remember where this book came from...might have been an impulsive Barnes and Noble purchase.
A People's History of the American Empire, a Graphic Adaptation, by Howard Zinn, Mike Konopacki, and Paul Buhle
After slowly reading A People's History of the United States, I picked this book up and read it swiftly. Every high school history teacher should use both books. From the prologue:
"We can all fell a terrible anger at whoever, in their insane idea that this would help their cause, killed thousands of people. But what do we do with that anger? Do we react with panic, strike out violently and blindly just to show how tough we are?"
Zinn reflects on 9/11 in the prologue and then begins in Chapter One with the Massacre at Wounded Knee. The graphics include drawings, photos, and snippets of newspaper headlines, and all throughout Zinn is silhouetted as if he is giving a lecture, or writing at his desk. I enjoyed this book so much I tried to get Helen to read it. Maybe she will someday. Sadly, this was a B&N purchase as well. I probably had a Scubrats coffee with it too. *sigh*
Literary Journals
Opium Magazine, edited by Todd Zuniga
Subscribed last year, I think. Opium Magazine is a fun combination of the visual and the literary, and the editors add "approximate reading times" to entries, which makes it perfect reading for the bathroom, doctor's office waiting room, or, well, anywhere really. I always find something I really like in the issue.
Short Fiction, edited by Anthony Caleshu
Issue 2 of Short Fiction showed up in my mailbox, and I don't remember ordering it, but I'm glad I did. Margaret Irish's story "The Searcher," grabbed me and wouldn't let go, so I wrote a letter to the editor thanking him, and subscribed for a year.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sprinkles
Yesterday I needed a pick-me-up while helping my husband with his Christmas shopping, so we stopped in at a local ice cream shop called Sprinkles. It's at the end of a local shopping plaza (a.k.a. "the strip mall"), past a store called Tuesday Morning, that does not sell mornings, but sells all sorts of off-loaded junk from stores like TJ Maxx. I wanted ice cream, probably because I saw the ice cream parlor. Forty minutes earlier I wanted hot chocolate because I saw a sign for it. I was already deep in the "must have what I want now" spirit of holiday shopping, weakened by every advertising scheme. I was fatigued. I NEEDED a dusty road sundae.
Sprinkles is owned and run by a friendly retired couple, who I like to imagine always liked ice cream and wanted to share their love of frozen treats with the public. It's a small shop, with some hand painted murals of giant slobbery ice cream cones on the walls that seem so happy they have shivered all their sprinkles off into confetti. The signs for specials are all hand-lettered with sharpie marker, they sell juice in cans, and a few lonely hot dogs spin on a warmer. A small TV sits on top of the soda cooler and lazes out a Sunday football game. A Christmas tree takes up valuable real estate at a four person table near the window.
I ordered a dusty road sundae, with no nuts, and Dan had some chocolate peanut butter ice cream while he read the local arts paper. The malt reminded me of Farmer's Dairy Ice Cream Store. Dan was done with his ice cream. "You ready?" he asked.
"Don't you like it in here? Don't you want to stay?" The hot dogs continued their spin to nowhere behind me.
I wanted to stay. Sprinkles and the malt in my dusty road reminded me of Farmer's Dairy Ice Cream Parlor in Hazleton. When my dad first got his job in Pennsylvania, and we were still living in New Jersey, he stayed at Genetti's Best Western on Rt. 309 in Hazleton. I remember visiting him, eating at Genetti's restaurant, playing a few rounds of Asteroids on the game in the lobby, and then going across the highway to the ice cream parlor together.
I can't find a photo of it on the internet, or I'd post one here. It's design was a tribute to the orange kitchens of the 1970's. I remember orange and white rectangular tiles on the front underneath a wall of windows, and a large sign that said "Farmer's Dairy Store" in a script that no Postscript typeface matches. Was there a cow head? I think so. It was a brown and white one. Through the windows you could see the counter with spinning stools and the giant white globe lights that hovered above all of it like eerie spacecraft. Ah, I see my sister and her braids. My dad and his hornrimmed glasses. My mother in her turtleneck and Sassoon haircut. Me, still waiting for two front teeth. Dusty roads.
Sprinkles is owned and run by a friendly retired couple, who I like to imagine always liked ice cream and wanted to share their love of frozen treats with the public. It's a small shop, with some hand painted murals of giant slobbery ice cream cones on the walls that seem so happy they have shivered all their sprinkles off into confetti. The signs for specials are all hand-lettered with sharpie marker, they sell juice in cans, and a few lonely hot dogs spin on a warmer. A small TV sits on top of the soda cooler and lazes out a Sunday football game. A Christmas tree takes up valuable real estate at a four person table near the window.
I ordered a dusty road sundae, with no nuts, and Dan had some chocolate peanut butter ice cream while he read the local arts paper. The malt reminded me of Farmer's Dairy Ice Cream Store. Dan was done with his ice cream. "You ready?" he asked.
"Don't you like it in here? Don't you want to stay?" The hot dogs continued their spin to nowhere behind me.
I wanted to stay. Sprinkles and the malt in my dusty road reminded me of Farmer's Dairy Ice Cream Parlor in Hazleton. When my dad first got his job in Pennsylvania, and we were still living in New Jersey, he stayed at Genetti's Best Western on Rt. 309 in Hazleton. I remember visiting him, eating at Genetti's restaurant, playing a few rounds of Asteroids on the game in the lobby, and then going across the highway to the ice cream parlor together.
I can't find a photo of it on the internet, or I'd post one here. It's design was a tribute to the orange kitchens of the 1970's. I remember orange and white rectangular tiles on the front underneath a wall of windows, and a large sign that said "Farmer's Dairy Store" in a script that no Postscript typeface matches. Was there a cow head? I think so. It was a brown and white one. Through the windows you could see the counter with spinning stools and the giant white globe lights that hovered above all of it like eerie spacecraft. Ah, I see my sister and her braids. My dad and his hornrimmed glasses. My mother in her turtleneck and Sassoon haircut. Me, still waiting for two front teeth. Dusty roads.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
A Sudden Bedtime Story
There was a wind. It was a pushy gust of a wind that plowed through the trees. This wind made the sky rattle and the trees all pray to the ground that held them. The mushrooms, once snugged in dead leaves, were stripped of their blankets and left with their pale legs showing. Twigs crackled. Birds were tossed on the whims of this sudden air, and squirrels chattered and barked. There was a wind that forced its way through a forest, and as if it had a really good cry, it swallowed and gulped, then slipped away. The trees stopped praying to their mother, the mushrooms went on trumpeting, and the story ended with a whisperwoosh.
Friday, November 14, 2008
An Open Letter of Warning for My Beloved
Love keeps a detailed record of being wronged, because love loves making lists and always being correct, spot-on and in the right. Love is irritable after long drives alone, when love likes to get into her own head and stew on the immeasurable universe of being alive. Love occasionally rejoices at injustices – little ones of course, like when the kid she didn’t like much got yelled at by the third grade teacher even though he wasn’t chewing paper. I think you already know that love is NOT patient. Love can’t wait for you to come home even as she watches your heel lift off the last step, love wakes up at 6 a.m. and expects you to have a long conversation about her strange dreams, love nicks mushrooms as you are cooking them. Love will give up if she’s dehydrated and overheated. Keep her temperature level, please. Love is kind and also bitter, love likes to boast about her waist size, her score at Scrabble, and her ability to guess who is going to call the house next. Love is rude for writing this, and demanding for making you read it, and because it is getting late into the night and love has an early bedtime, love is now irritable. Love just wants to wake up early and tell you everything she saw in her dreams.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Shoeboxes Under My Bed
I've been on some kind of weird organizational wave lately. First it was the kitchen pantry, then the studio closets. Last week I tore down the curtains that hid all the old craft items in the guestroom and cleaned off those shelves to make way for books. Yesterday I really tucked into that project, and one cleaned area opened up an entire other cluttered area - shelves led to closet, closet led to under the bed, under the bed pointed to the bedroom, bedroom cried out living room. What better time to sit in the middle of the guest room floor and sift through a thick strata of old photographs, cat-chewed artwork, notes from second grade, and computer parts? I mean, my wedding is only two weeks away.
I have always had odd timing when it comes to projects like these. If it's 90 degrees outside, I get a wild weed to rip up all the carpeting in the hallway and paint the floor. Wedding soon? Major events to host in the studio coming up? Phoo. Rearrange the furniture, fill up trashbags and reorganize all your books according to the Dewey Decimal system.
I have always had odd timing when it comes to projects like these. If it's 90 degrees outside, I get a wild weed to rip up all the carpeting in the hallway and paint the floor. Wedding soon? Major events to host in the studio coming up? Phoo. Rearrange the furniture, fill up trashbags and reorganize all your books according to the Dewey Decimal system.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Man With an Infallible Memory
No, I don't remember the walls of the womb that carried me. But the cut of her hair, the way it looks like rainy pavement today, and how in 1978 it was autumn birch leaves - I remember that. On February 20th, the kitchen floor had a sticky spot near the refrigerator. My wool sock picked it up through its fibers and played tacky tacky all day as I walked. The scent of vanilla on Wednesday, May 6th 1984. I sat behind a girl wearing a red t-shirt. She drew spirals and cubes in the margins of her notebook and chewed on the end of her pencil. When she turned around to ask me for my notes, she half-smiled in a way that made her look like a sagging jack-o-lantern. I told her I don't take notes. The room was humid and the teacher's chalk squealed on the board. September 17th, 1998. I remember what you said, the timbre of your voice, tilt of your hip. The door sealed shut with a fwip, didn't slam like in all the novels. It was autumn so many times, spring, summer, winter's empty page for everyone else, but I remember everything.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Winning the Race
For awhile I was running on a treadmill at the local recreation center, paying $7 a day ($5 on lunch hour). The room was grey, the cleanliness was questionable, and there were only a few working treadmills. At lunch, that often set me up for some frustration.
I recently joined a local gym for $20 a month. There are fifty treadmills, a circuit of strength training equipment, and plenty of spray bottles for keeping things clean. The only drawback is the arsenal of televisions that are lined up above all the equipment. They are all on, all of time, and set to various channels. There is no way to not look at them while I run, unless I close my eyes. Most people put on headphones and key into whatever channel their television is set to for that moment. I listen to music and watch the infomercial for Tempupedic, the infomercial for LifeLift, the smiling faces of the models who nod in agreement about how improved the 63 year old woman looks after her LifeLift, Obama's last burst of speeches in Florida, the local news, the Phillies players piling on top of one another in a victorious heap.
I run and run but I can't get away from America. I check for jowls in the locker room mirror. Not yet, but I know that's a race I can't win.
I recently joined a local gym for $20 a month. There are fifty treadmills, a circuit of strength training equipment, and plenty of spray bottles for keeping things clean. The only drawback is the arsenal of televisions that are lined up above all the equipment. They are all on, all of time, and set to various channels. There is no way to not look at them while I run, unless I close my eyes. Most people put on headphones and key into whatever channel their television is set to for that moment. I listen to music and watch the infomercial for Tempupedic, the infomercial for LifeLift, the smiling faces of the models who nod in agreement about how improved the 63 year old woman looks after her LifeLift, Obama's last burst of speeches in Florida, the local news, the Phillies players piling on top of one another in a victorious heap.
I run and run but I can't get away from America. I check for jowls in the locker room mirror. Not yet, but I know that's a race I can't win.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Heat Is On
I'm the sort of writer who likes the feeling of having written something, anything. I don't like writing. It's work. I do it though because I like the post-writing elation.
The house was below fifty when I returned from the studio today. I lumbered into the basement, blew the cobwebs off the furnace, filled up the reservoir with water and turned on the heat. The house has that "the heat just kicked on" toasty scent now and I don't want to leave.
The house was below fifty when I returned from the studio today. I lumbered into the basement, blew the cobwebs off the furnace, filled up the reservoir with water and turned on the heat. The house has that "the heat just kicked on" toasty scent now and I don't want to leave.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
An Ordinary Day
This is a mostly complete photojournal of my Saturday. An ordinary day, but I missed out on a few photos toward the end because it got busier and I was getting tired. It's an idea snagged from Jodi, who tried it out after reading the idea on Mrs. G's blog.
6 a.m. - feed the cats. They bansheemeow until the dishes are filled, snarf it all down in a couple of minutes and then lick themselves in content or barf it up on a rug. Cats add so much joy to one's life.
6:15 a.m. - Writing in journal with coffee companion. This was after I also fed the bird. I didn't take a photo of him because they never come out very well using my iPhone, but here's one of him in one of his favorite perches, the pasta dish on the kitchen cabinet.
8 a.m. After coffee and writing, it was time to drive to work.
Driving. It's the only thing I don't like about this particular teaching gig, which is twice a semester (not too bad). The college is about an hour's drive from my house. At least the weather was bluesky perfect and we're at the peak of autumn leaf season.
9 a.m.: Arrival at the college, marked with a photo of the sign where I parked, which is right next to the "art barn" where I teach. Now you can stalk me twice a semester. The weekender class was a good one yesterday - we wrote self-portraits.
Noon: The drive home on Interstate 81. This is a pretty accurate photo of what it is like driving on this road, which is filled with construction, trucks and impatient drivers. Yesterday PennDot crews were painting lines and adding the glass beads to the paint. When I drove to work, the sun hit the glass and it looked like fallen stars. Distractingly beautiful. A sure accident starter.
1 p.m.: I picked up a small movie screen that we needed for an event in the studio later in the evening. It's an old-school screen, the sort you probably had in your elementary classroom. The whole thing folds up, but as you're walking with it the birdlike support legs like to fold out, making it impossible to continue. We did a little dance together before I got it into the trunk of the car.
2:30 p.m.: Our contractor friend who fixed the sidewalk came over for a bit to check out the bathroom cabinet I want replaced. He measured and we discussed what I wanted it to look like and then Dan and I went out to get weather proofing for the windows and we found this sink. It was on clearance for $24. The bowl will sit on top of the cabinet. We also got a faucet. Not $24.
3:30 p.m.: Weather stripping the front door while wearing green shoes. There is always a draft from that door, and I hope this will help cure that this winter.
7 p.m.: Pre-performance with Michael at the studio. You can see that old-school screen in action on the stage. Michael gave a multimedia performance of poetry, photography and stories from a trip along the coast of Maine. I took notes as he spoke and then drew a mushroom that was featured in one of his photographs. After the performance, people stuck around to look at art, buy some of Michael's notecards, and talk.
10 p.m. - 12:30 p.m.: I have no photos of this part of my day, and I neglected to get a photo of the dinner Dan made at the house for all of us when Michael arrived (which was a delicious Pollo con Arroz dish). After the performance we went upstairs to visit with some friends who are staying in the Paper Kite "Summer Home." They are visiting family with their newborn girl. I held the baby twice during the evening, and remembered how little of understanding a newborn's needs is instinctive. You're either good at understanding the little coos, grexings and whirps, or you're not. Let's just say I'm glad my daughter is sixteen.
6 a.m. - feed the cats. They bansheemeow until the dishes are filled, snarf it all down in a couple of minutes and then lick themselves in content or barf it up on a rug. Cats add so much joy to one's life.
6:15 a.m. - Writing in journal with coffee companion. This was after I also fed the bird. I didn't take a photo of him because they never come out very well using my iPhone, but here's one of him in one of his favorite perches, the pasta dish on the kitchen cabinet.
8 a.m. After coffee and writing, it was time to drive to work.
Driving. It's the only thing I don't like about this particular teaching gig, which is twice a semester (not too bad). The college is about an hour's drive from my house. At least the weather was bluesky perfect and we're at the peak of autumn leaf season.
9 a.m.: Arrival at the college, marked with a photo of the sign where I parked, which is right next to the "art barn" where I teach. Now you can stalk me twice a semester. The weekender class was a good one yesterday - we wrote self-portraits.
Noon: The drive home on Interstate 81. This is a pretty accurate photo of what it is like driving on this road, which is filled with construction, trucks and impatient drivers. Yesterday PennDot crews were painting lines and adding the glass beads to the paint. When I drove to work, the sun hit the glass and it looked like fallen stars. Distractingly beautiful. A sure accident starter.
1 p.m.: I picked up a small movie screen that we needed for an event in the studio later in the evening. It's an old-school screen, the sort you probably had in your elementary classroom. The whole thing folds up, but as you're walking with it the birdlike support legs like to fold out, making it impossible to continue. We did a little dance together before I got it into the trunk of the car.
2:30 p.m.: Our contractor friend who fixed the sidewalk came over for a bit to check out the bathroom cabinet I want replaced. He measured and we discussed what I wanted it to look like and then Dan and I went out to get weather proofing for the windows and we found this sink. It was on clearance for $24. The bowl will sit on top of the cabinet. We also got a faucet. Not $24.
3:30 p.m.: Weather stripping the front door while wearing green shoes. There is always a draft from that door, and I hope this will help cure that this winter.
7 p.m.: Pre-performance with Michael at the studio. You can see that old-school screen in action on the stage. Michael gave a multimedia performance of poetry, photography and stories from a trip along the coast of Maine. I took notes as he spoke and then drew a mushroom that was featured in one of his photographs. After the performance, people stuck around to look at art, buy some of Michael's notecards, and talk.10 p.m. - 12:30 p.m.: I have no photos of this part of my day, and I neglected to get a photo of the dinner Dan made at the house for all of us when Michael arrived (which was a delicious Pollo con Arroz dish). After the performance we went upstairs to visit with some friends who are staying in the Paper Kite "Summer Home." They are visiting family with their newborn girl. I held the baby twice during the evening, and remembered how little of understanding a newborn's needs is instinctive. You're either good at understanding the little coos, grexings and whirps, or you're not. Let's just say I'm glad my daughter is sixteen.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Writing Exercise Part Four
If you followed all the previous prompts, you have a lot of writing. Here's how I approach a large chunk of freewriting:
- Read it all.
- Underline phrases/words that stand out as interesting.
- Choose one line to start the first draft.
- Write the first draft, incorporating the bits you liked from the freewriting, if they work. Sometimes they don't, and the piece takes on a whole new life. That's ok.
- When you feel comfortable with the first draft, share it with a reader you trust for comments and suggestions.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Part Three of the Writing Exercise
This is the heftier part of the exercise, which comes from a book on writing that features exercises by well-known writers (title and link below)and will help you to generate a lot of good ideas. I had a woman in my recent workshop ask about whether or not it was ok to write negatively about her name. She didn't want the name she had, so all of her comparisons were negative ones. She ended up writing a very honest and free piece, which was seemed to be pretty cathartic for her. Who knows what you'll get when you freewrite? From the freewrite, you can glean the parts you like and toss the ones you don't - in other words, rework and revise. For now, just allow yourself to write and enjoy the process.
from Norma E. Cantu in “Naming the World: And Other Exercises for the Creative Writer” edited by Bret Anthony Johnston:
As you read the following questions, you may jot down notes of just relax and let your mind wander as you answer them in your mind. Take your time; read each question and give yourself a minute or so to reflect. Let your imagination fly and you will be surprised to see what comes to you.
1. If your name were a flower, what kind of flower would it be? A rose? A hibiscus? A dandelion? A blossom of the prickly pear cactus or of the gigantic magnolia? What flower would signify your childhood? What about now?
2. If your name were a color, what color would it be? The yellow of the sunflower? The pastel blues of the evening sky? The deep purple of the eggplant? Close your eyes and focus on your name. See it in your mind’s eye. What color is it written in and on what color background?
3. If your name were a musical instrument, what instrument would it be? A blaring trumpet? A soft violin? A piccolo? A recorder? A tuba>? A drum? Close your eyes and say your name aloud. What instrument does your name remind you of? Does it sound like the soft ding of the triangle? The deep notes of the saxophone?
4. If your name were an ice cream flavor, what flavor would it be? Pistachio? Plain vanilla? Mango? Close your eyes and imagine your name in your mouth. What was your favorite ice cream flavor in childhood? What is it now?
5. If your name were a fabric, what would it be? Denim? Silk? Nylon? Rayon? Duct tape? Moire? Taffeta? Take a mental inventory of the clothes you own. Are they mostly cotton? Or synthetics? Do you prefer the feel of wool or of silk? Cloth is very sensual and your name is what clothes your identity/ What fabric is your name?
6. If your name were a city anywhere in the world, what city would it be? Paris? San Antonio? London? Chicago? Hong Kong? Laredo, Texas? Would it be the city or town of your birth? The place where you had your first kiss? What city are you attracted to? You may never have visited Madrid or Helsinki or Boca Raton, Florida, yet it may have a strange attraction for you. Are there any cities that hold that fascination for you?
7. If your name were a street or a highway n your town or city, what street would it be? Pick a highway or a street that you enjoy driving or walking on. Is the one your chose a quiet, secluded road or a busy, much-travelled street? Is it rural or urban? The path that we take often reflect the roads we prefer to travel on. I rarely take the interstate if I can get where I’m going on back roads or city streets.
8. If your name were a food, what food would it be? Italian? Chinese? Mexican? Midwestern? Be specific. Is it pasta? Or is it pork fried rice? Is it enchildas? Or is it roast beef? What dessert is your favorite? What dessert would say your name? After all, we are what we eat!
Freewrite for about fifteen or twenty minutes just letting go and using the answers you jotted down as a springboard for the writing. (Freewriting sounds like what it means: write anything that comes to your mind. The goal is to get down as much language as possible, so try not to lift your pen from the page or your fingers from the keys.) Don’t stop to edit, and don’t worry about commas in the right place or finding the exact word at this point. Just get your thoughts down. This first draft will yield the kernels that will become the finished piece.
Part Four tomorrow...
from Norma E. Cantu in “Naming the World: And Other Exercises for the Creative Writer” edited by Bret Anthony Johnston:
As you read the following questions, you may jot down notes of just relax and let your mind wander as you answer them in your mind. Take your time; read each question and give yourself a minute or so to reflect. Let your imagination fly and you will be surprised to see what comes to you.
1. If your name were a flower, what kind of flower would it be? A rose? A hibiscus? A dandelion? A blossom of the prickly pear cactus or of the gigantic magnolia? What flower would signify your childhood? What about now?
2. If your name were a color, what color would it be? The yellow of the sunflower? The pastel blues of the evening sky? The deep purple of the eggplant? Close your eyes and focus on your name. See it in your mind’s eye. What color is it written in and on what color background?
3. If your name were a musical instrument, what instrument would it be? A blaring trumpet? A soft violin? A piccolo? A recorder? A tuba>? A drum? Close your eyes and say your name aloud. What instrument does your name remind you of? Does it sound like the soft ding of the triangle? The deep notes of the saxophone?
4. If your name were an ice cream flavor, what flavor would it be? Pistachio? Plain vanilla? Mango? Close your eyes and imagine your name in your mouth. What was your favorite ice cream flavor in childhood? What is it now?
5. If your name were a fabric, what would it be? Denim? Silk? Nylon? Rayon? Duct tape? Moire? Taffeta? Take a mental inventory of the clothes you own. Are they mostly cotton? Or synthetics? Do you prefer the feel of wool or of silk? Cloth is very sensual and your name is what clothes your identity/ What fabric is your name?
6. If your name were a city anywhere in the world, what city would it be? Paris? San Antonio? London? Chicago? Hong Kong? Laredo, Texas? Would it be the city or town of your birth? The place where you had your first kiss? What city are you attracted to? You may never have visited Madrid or Helsinki or Boca Raton, Florida, yet it may have a strange attraction for you. Are there any cities that hold that fascination for you?
7. If your name were a street or a highway n your town or city, what street would it be? Pick a highway or a street that you enjoy driving or walking on. Is the one your chose a quiet, secluded road or a busy, much-travelled street? Is it rural or urban? The path that we take often reflect the roads we prefer to travel on. I rarely take the interstate if I can get where I’m going on back roads or city streets.
8. If your name were a food, what food would it be? Italian? Chinese? Mexican? Midwestern? Be specific. Is it pasta? Or is it pork fried rice? Is it enchildas? Or is it roast beef? What dessert is your favorite? What dessert would say your name? After all, we are what we eat!
Freewrite for about fifteen or twenty minutes just letting go and using the answers you jotted down as a springboard for the writing. (Freewriting sounds like what it means: write anything that comes to your mind. The goal is to get down as much language as possible, so try not to lift your pen from the page or your fingers from the keys.) Don’t stop to edit, and don’t worry about commas in the right place or finding the exact word at this point. Just get your thoughts down. This first draft will yield the kernels that will become the finished piece.
Part Four tomorrow...
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Highway of the Damned (and the second part of our writing exercise)
I'm on a short residency trip this week to give a workshop and reading in a town about two hours southwest from home. On my drive yesterday afternoon I took note of how different the Susquehanna River looks here. It's wider, flatter (is that possible?) and far more rocky. The water is low here. When I commented on this at the workshop someone said that the river is "younger" where I am, but I don't understand that logic.
Aside from the pleasant view of the river, the rest of the drive was like I was on the Highway of the Damned. I was given the finger for only doing 75 in the overtaking lane while trying to pass a truck. The woman flipping me off was in an SUV with a wheel cover that was custom painted with her pride at being the mother of someone in the Army.
My directions here were horrible. I went west then east then west again looking for the right exit, which was blocked or something, but the hotel I booked is snuggled down in an industrial park just off the highway. When I finally found it, I was given a room key that didn't work. It's a Residence Inn - a series of low buildings that house four to six mini-apartments. My room has a kitchen. Perfect for microwaving a Lean Cuisine at 10 p.m. and watching Cosby re-runs until you fall asleep. Which is NOT what I did.
The workshop was terrific. There were about fifteen people, and they all wrote and laughed and seemed to have a good time. I forgot that many of the people in the area also submitted poems to a contest that I juried this spring. One was chosen to be poet laureate. Attending the workshop were those whose poems didn't make the cut, and also the winner, which was fine, but it made it a little awkward when someone said at the table pre-workshop, "I don't like you. You didn't pick my poems." She was joking (I think), and after the workshop told me that she enjoyed it. Everyone wrote and they all wrote diversely, and the freewrite part of the workshop seemed to crack the inner-critics of some of the writers. I hope I see them all tonight at the reading and they read some of their work. I enjoyed their personalities and what they all shared.
Writing Exercise Part 2
What is the meaning of your name? Jennifer has Welsh origins and means “fair.” If you don’t know the meaning of your name, look it up in a baby name book. How were you named? Who chose your name? Is there a family story associated with your name? What is the historical context of your name – who shares your name? Do you have a nickname? If so, what is it and how did you get it? Jot down any ideas you have for these questions.
Aside from the pleasant view of the river, the rest of the drive was like I was on the Highway of the Damned. I was given the finger for only doing 75 in the overtaking lane while trying to pass a truck. The woman flipping me off was in an SUV with a wheel cover that was custom painted with her pride at being the mother of someone in the Army.
My directions here were horrible. I went west then east then west again looking for the right exit, which was blocked or something, but the hotel I booked is snuggled down in an industrial park just off the highway. When I finally found it, I was given a room key that didn't work. It's a Residence Inn - a series of low buildings that house four to six mini-apartments. My room has a kitchen. Perfect for microwaving a Lean Cuisine at 10 p.m. and watching Cosby re-runs until you fall asleep. Which is NOT what I did.
The workshop was terrific. There were about fifteen people, and they all wrote and laughed and seemed to have a good time. I forgot that many of the people in the area also submitted poems to a contest that I juried this spring. One was chosen to be poet laureate. Attending the workshop were those whose poems didn't make the cut, and also the winner, which was fine, but it made it a little awkward when someone said at the table pre-workshop, "I don't like you. You didn't pick my poems." She was joking (I think), and after the workshop told me that she enjoyed it. Everyone wrote and they all wrote diversely, and the freewrite part of the workshop seemed to crack the inner-critics of some of the writers. I hope I see them all tonight at the reading and they read some of their work. I enjoyed their personalities and what they all shared.
Writing Exercise Part 2
What is the meaning of your name? Jennifer has Welsh origins and means “fair.” If you don’t know the meaning of your name, look it up in a baby name book. How were you named? Who chose your name? Is there a family story associated with your name? What is the historical context of your name – who shares your name? Do you have a nickname? If so, what is it and how did you get it? Jot down any ideas you have for these questions.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Autumn Writing Exercise Part One
I'm off to teach a workshop and then give a reading in Newport today. It will be nice to get out and explore a new area, meet some people and share poetry.
If you're up for writing, I'm going to post a multi-part exercise here over the next few days. Feel free to post your writing in the comments if you like, or just read the exercise, complain about how writing exercises never get you anywhere and then don't write anything at all.
What's in a Name - Part One
One of my new-found favorite games is called “Bananagrams.” It’s a sort of cross between Scrabble and crossword puzzles. Players are given a random assortment of letters and the first person to use all their letters up by spelling out words that connect, wins. Let’s start by anagramming your name. Come up with as many words as you can just by rearranging the letters in your full name. For instance, my name is Jennifer Hill-Kaucher , and that yields the words carefree/hell/refinance /jerk/chafe/injurer/facile/hijacker/funnier/fern/fine. You get the idea. Write your full name down and then play with the letters to see how many words you can find. Post your word list in the comments, or keep it to yourself for later.
If you're up for writing, I'm going to post a multi-part exercise here over the next few days. Feel free to post your writing in the comments if you like, or just read the exercise, complain about how writing exercises never get you anywhere and then don't write anything at all.
What's in a Name - Part One
One of my new-found favorite games is called “Bananagrams.” It’s a sort of cross between Scrabble and crossword puzzles. Players are given a random assortment of letters and the first person to use all their letters up by spelling out words that connect, wins. Let’s start by anagramming your name. Come up with as many words as you can just by rearranging the letters in your full name. For instance, my name is Jennifer Hill-Kaucher , and that yields the words carefree/hell/refinance /jerk/chafe/injurer/facile/hijacker/funnier/fern/fine. You get the idea. Write your full name down and then play with the letters to see how many words you can find. Post your word list in the comments, or keep it to yourself for later.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Hug (or professional versus unprofessional)
There are a lot of books out there about living the writer's life. There are some well written ones, filled with excellent advice. I've read a few. There are ways to better yourself and your writing and to make the most of your energies, but I'm not sure about the value of teaching someone how to live in a writerly way. You're either a writer because you are writing, or you are not.
Which brings me to something I've been thinking about recently. Many friends of mine keep professional writer's blogs. That is to say they post only about things that are writing-related like book reviews, snippets of their own writing, entries about readings they have given or are about to give, and book announcements. Their sidebars are filled with links to other writers, literary journals and magazines and places where their own work has been published. It's a networking tactic, and a smart one.
Hm. My slip is showing a little. Let me adjust.
A few months ago I worked in a a high school with a teacher I met the summer before. I visited all of his senior classes, and one tenth grade class. We kept a professional relationship, but we were also fast friends. He was smart and funny and made his students feel comfortable asking questions and having long discussions. The last day of my residency, I resisted the urge to give him a hug. A few weeks later, I regretted that decision. He died in his sleep. He was only 39.
So how does this relate? I'm a writer and I am living. And a living writer has things to say other than that she had a poem published, or that she had thoughts about a book she read. Sometimes she has to feel helpless at the dentist, cake dirt under her fingernails, pay bills and feed a family. That's part of the writer's life too. The mundane and the germ-ridden sponge of the domestic.
I don't want to be that person who only writes about the writerly things in her life, and omits the rest as if it never happened because it is somehow unprofessional. I want to lean in and give a hug when I feel like it.
Which brings me to something I've been thinking about recently. Many friends of mine keep professional writer's blogs. That is to say they post only about things that are writing-related like book reviews, snippets of their own writing, entries about readings they have given or are about to give, and book announcements. Their sidebars are filled with links to other writers, literary journals and magazines and places where their own work has been published. It's a networking tactic, and a smart one.
Hm. My slip is showing a little. Let me adjust.
A few months ago I worked in a a high school with a teacher I met the summer before. I visited all of his senior classes, and one tenth grade class. We kept a professional relationship, but we were also fast friends. He was smart and funny and made his students feel comfortable asking questions and having long discussions. The last day of my residency, I resisted the urge to give him a hug. A few weeks later, I regretted that decision. He died in his sleep. He was only 39.
So how does this relate? I'm a writer and I am living. And a living writer has things to say other than that she had a poem published, or that she had thoughts about a book she read. Sometimes she has to feel helpless at the dentist, cake dirt under her fingernails, pay bills and feed a family. That's part of the writer's life too. The mundane and the germ-ridden sponge of the domestic.
I don't want to be that person who only writes about the writerly things in her life, and omits the rest as if it never happened because it is somehow unprofessional. I want to lean in and give a hug when I feel like it.
Friday, September 12, 2008
all the little yellow leaves fall
I love love, leaves leaving.A few days ago while on a walk I was reminded of Dan's "Fall Leaves Variations" and how much I enjoyed that project. When I was a little girl (which I still am...in my mind), and I was staying with my grandparents, my Pampal (grandfather) decided that it was time for me to learn about the seasons. We studied for the week - in spring the flowers grow, in summer it's sunny and hot, in fall all the leaves turn pretty colors then fall off the trees and then winter blows it's gusty snow everywhere. I'm sure he made those lessons fun. I remember most of this from being told about it by my parents. It's a favorite Jenny story. I was never one for leaving home, although I enjoyed my grandparents house a lot - the candy dish, hiding behind the couch, trips to the five and dime, sugary cereals and squirrel watching. Even with all of this I looked forward to the return of mom and dad. My Pampal knew this, and he asked me the day before my parents returned, "What happens tomorrow Jenny?" and I replied, ever eager to please..."All the leaves fall off the trees?"
These synesthete's leaves are for Dan, Pampal, Dad - three men who give/gave me so much.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Journaling in 2008 and Beyond
My friend David pointed out a new Apple product to me this morning - MacJournal 5.1 (released 8/21/08) : Mac journaling and blog software. I read through the product description, and it's another software that promises to make my life easier, everything synched and in place and organized. It's appealing to think that everything can be tidy like that, and you'll have all the time to update, link, post and record all those moments through video, photo and blog entries. For $50 I'm tempted. But I have other software to learn - Final Draft - which I've had since March and am still cludging around with like the most hamhanded of newbs.
The product description for the journaling software included a fascinating little tidbit though - a fact that makes me wonder where they came up with it - "They say that the average human being has 10-20 memorable events that take place a day."
So far this morning I've bolted up out of bed at a lightning crash and tripped over a bag. Two down, eighteen to go!
As a writer, I agree that you should keep track. Should you be totally religious about it to the point of missing out on those 20 opportunities because you spent all your time at your computer synching and linking? I think I just answered myself. I'll keep writing in the old paper journals and occassionally posting so I can live my life.
The product description for the journaling software included a fascinating little tidbit though - a fact that makes me wonder where they came up with it - "They say that the average human being has 10-20 memorable events that take place a day."
So far this morning I've bolted up out of bed at a lightning crash and tripped over a bag. Two down, eighteen to go!
As a writer, I agree that you should keep track. Should you be totally religious about it to the point of missing out on those 20 opportunities because you spent all your time at your computer synching and linking? I think I just answered myself. I'll keep writing in the old paper journals and occassionally posting so I can live my life.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
At the Light
In September the middle schoolers move in packs, run along the sidewalks. They aim for the local park, where they spend their Friday evening sprinting and training for upcoming track meets. Three ponytailed girls pant at the corner traffic light. One bends over to stretch, places her hands on her knees, her ponytail a sudden divining rod. She will always take the lead. The other girls follow - bend, knee touch, stretch – one after the other, reeds in the wind.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Recently Read/Written
Fiction:
Until I Find You, by John Irving
Took me two months to complete. Retitled in my head as "Until I Finish You." It was worth the time. I can't imagine how long it took him to craft this. Beautiful, lush sentences.
Every story in the recent issue of Quick Fiction.
Currently reading in fiction: Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn
I thought it was going to be about computer geeks. I was wrong. YAY!
Plays:
Fat Pig, by Neil LaBute
Great dialogue. One of three plays by the playwright all on the theme of body image.
Reasons to Be Pretty, by Neil LaBute
Not as good as Fat Pig.
Kimberly Akimbo, by David Lindsay-Abaire
I loved "Fuddy Meers" which a friend gave to me. This one is just as brilliant. I really like the absurb/real in his writing.
The Faculty Room, by Bridget Carpenter
Hilarious description of setting, funny characters, heavy ending. A little expected, actually. I enjoyed the characters a lot though.
Crave, by Sarah Kane
Like reading poems that are all cut up and thrown up into the air. Wherever the lines land, that's the dialogue. Disconnect, but also some places where there was narrative going on - an intention. I have a collection of her plays to finish now.
The Mistakes Madeline Made, by Elizabeth Meriwether.
I read this over and over. Memorized lines. Played a part in a production of it this summer, which was just what I needed. It's a play that is wildly open to directorial interpretation and I'm glad our direction had good vision.
Currently reading in plays:
The Shape of Things, by Neil LaBute
Poetry:
Sleeping on the Wing, an Anthology of Modern Poetry edited by Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell
Almost Grown, by Jack DeWitt
circumnavigation, by Tara Shoemaker Holdren
Currently reading in poetry:
Nothing.
And it's kind of relaxing, actually, because I'm currently fed up with the poetry world. Not poetry. Poets. I'll come back. Just a little snit, if you will. A tiff. Not the first one I've had and it won't be the last.
Writing and/or Recently Written:
Inner Critic, a series of short plays.
Futzed around with Final Draft, the new software I got for my birthday. Edited some of the scene transitions. Just gave them all to a friend to read. Ack!
Some poems.
Thanks to my friend H., who recommended Sleeping on the Wing. It's the text that she was going to use in the class I was taking from her this summer, but the class was canceled. I've been working on my own. A few I like, a few I don't, all need revision.
Fiction.
A project that's been in the works for two years. The character just lived in my head for awhile, poking his cane at my dendrites. Now there are words.
Dreams.
I have a lot of them, they are weird, and I write them all down.
Letters.
Not enough of these. I need to get back to it.
Until I Find You, by John Irving
Took me two months to complete. Retitled in my head as "Until I Finish You." It was worth the time. I can't imagine how long it took him to craft this. Beautiful, lush sentences.
Every story in the recent issue of Quick Fiction.
Currently reading in fiction: Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn
I thought it was going to be about computer geeks. I was wrong. YAY!
Plays:
Fat Pig, by Neil LaBute
Great dialogue. One of three plays by the playwright all on the theme of body image.
Reasons to Be Pretty, by Neil LaBute
Not as good as Fat Pig.
Kimberly Akimbo, by David Lindsay-Abaire
I loved "Fuddy Meers" which a friend gave to me. This one is just as brilliant. I really like the absurb/real in his writing.
The Faculty Room, by Bridget Carpenter
Hilarious description of setting, funny characters, heavy ending. A little expected, actually. I enjoyed the characters a lot though.
Crave, by Sarah Kane
Like reading poems that are all cut up and thrown up into the air. Wherever the lines land, that's the dialogue. Disconnect, but also some places where there was narrative going on - an intention. I have a collection of her plays to finish now.
The Mistakes Madeline Made, by Elizabeth Meriwether.
I read this over and over. Memorized lines. Played a part in a production of it this summer, which was just what I needed. It's a play that is wildly open to directorial interpretation and I'm glad our direction had good vision.
Currently reading in plays:
The Shape of Things, by Neil LaBute
Poetry:
Sleeping on the Wing, an Anthology of Modern Poetry edited by Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell
Almost Grown, by Jack DeWitt
circumnavigation, by Tara Shoemaker Holdren
Currently reading in poetry:
Nothing.
And it's kind of relaxing, actually, because I'm currently fed up with the poetry world. Not poetry. Poets. I'll come back. Just a little snit, if you will. A tiff. Not the first one I've had and it won't be the last.
Writing and/or Recently Written:
Inner Critic, a series of short plays.
Futzed around with Final Draft, the new software I got for my birthday. Edited some of the scene transitions. Just gave them all to a friend to read. Ack!
Some poems.
Thanks to my friend H., who recommended Sleeping on the Wing. It's the text that she was going to use in the class I was taking from her this summer, but the class was canceled. I've been working on my own. A few I like, a few I don't, all need revision.
Fiction.
A project that's been in the works for two years. The character just lived in my head for awhile, poking his cane at my dendrites. Now there are words.
Dreams.
I have a lot of them, they are weird, and I write them all down.
Letters.
Not enough of these. I need to get back to it.
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