random exclamation of JOY!

I don't know what the downsides are to tossing a bunch of batteries around and, frankly, I don't want to think about it. If only this idea could get pushed one step further-- something sustainable, non-toxic, solar? Anyway, check THIS out!

file this under random weirdness

Oh, the subtle joys of myspace... today I received three messages, as follows:

"I know this will seem very strange, but I am wondering if you know someone by the name of J___" (name edited to protect the girl who sent this)

"If you do know J_____ and are romantic with him I would recommend that you call me first before speaking to him."

"I didn't mean that you should contact me before him in a threatening way. That is your choice completely. I would only advise from past experience that if you are involved with him that you may have as many questions as I do. Perhaps not, perhaps you think I'm some crazy chic babbling nonsense about some man you don't know.

I hope more than anything that is the case. If not, please contact me. If it is more comfortable for you to call me, I can give you my cell phone # if any of this is relevant. I apologize if you have no idea what this is about.

Sincerely,
C______"


Well, suffice it to say that I had no idea what she was talking about. So my response was this:

"I've known J______s before, but none with that spelling and certainly I am not currently involved with any now. Hope that all is well with you though-- sounds like there may be an awkward or strained situation. Good luck!"

To which she very kindly replied:

"I'm very relieved that it sounds like you have no clue what I am talking about. I am going through a very difficult time with my husband that is making me obviously paranoid. I'm sorry to bother you. You do seem like a cool person. Thank you for the response, you could have told me to go straight to hell and you were very kind.
Good luck to you as well."

What an odd day. I hope she fixes what's wrong with dear old J___, or takes it as her cue to walk. Either way, I feel for the woman and was glad to give her at least a moment of relief.

I'm exhausted.

Who knew that teaching was so much work? (okay, okay, that's obvious, but jeez) I made it through my first week of classes. I didn't trip, vomit, accidentally bare a breast, fumble my language so badly it resulted in a wildly inappropriate double entendre, nor, does it seem, did I bore or frighten my students. But, on the downside of things, I haven't eaten since yesterday, I'm running on four hours sleep, and I have no idea how I'm going to squeeze my studies into all the lesson/unit planning I need to do (read: how the hell did I get myself into this and will I be able to get through it)? I wonder, at the end of these two years, will I still have earned that fancy distinction of getting to wear a bright yellow rope around my neck?

finally...

I've begun the work of adding recommendations for books (and probably music, art, and other interesting things as they occur to me or I discover them) over at my other blog: Almost Better Than Honey. I'm not at all sure what I'll do with it really, or whether I'll even have the time, given that the new school term begins in two weeks and my time between now and then is filled with workshops. Not to mention I was tapped for teaching duty, so yours truly will be expected to stand in front of a classroom full of 25 students and act like I actually have the authority to be there. Which I will, but I'll surely feel like an impostor! In any case, wish me luck. I'm sure I'll need it.

overheard in the wine aisle

To set the scene:

An elderly woman stands directly behind me, browsing the deli selections while I browse the wine section with B. A rather homeless looking man walks in and breezes between us.

"Good to see you grandma," he says, continuing past.

"Excuse me? Who are you speaking to?" she says.

"I just said 'good to see ya'"

"I am not your grandmother," she huffs.

"I was just saying hello."

"What? I can't hear you. I'm deaf." And with that the elderly woman turns heel and walks away.

This was the most awesome exchange ever. B and I stood still for the duration, afraid to move or speak and thus break the spell. We had a good laugh about it afterward, but damn if I don't want to be that spunky when I'm her age!

rearrange and see it through

I'm sitting in my new apartment listening to the whir of the fan beside me. I haven't yet switched on my music, but am taking a moment to feel the stillness and to have a drink of water. This is where I'll spend (most likely) the next two years, while attending grad school. I'd like to think it will grow on me, become a place of respite and serenity, but right now all it feels is quiet and somewhat empty. Oh, it looks homey enough, but that's just window dressing. I know better. I know what's missing. At the very least I hope the quiet and the empty will turn to the fecund and will help me get focused, centered, and to become more productive. There is plenty of space for yoga, that's for certain. And I purposely did not get cable (plus, the television gets absolutely no reception here-- though, thankfully, the cell phone does) so I hope I will not permit myself to become too absorbed in the pointless or overly distracting. There is work to be done and this is the place I must do it.

I admit I am rather envious of the new apartment that B has moved into. Actually, I'm not at all envious of the apartment, but the neighborhood. It is quirky and artsy and cute on the one hand, and a little old and run down in sections on the other, so it feels like a real neighborhood with actual people. There's a lady down the street that looks so old you are impressed she stands upright and there's a smattering of giant sunflowers with sloping spines and drooping heads. The landlord and his daughter are learning to speak Spanish and Chinese, and there are people of all colors there, which, given that Oregon is perhaps the whitest state in the union, I find comforting. It's something I miss about the SF Bay Area. I liked the old neighborhood I was living in-- there was plenty to do all within walking distance, but I like his new neighborhood. It feels as though there is a community actively cultivating something there, not a pre-planned community like you might find in NW Portland. Anyway, I think he'll like it there, too, and that makes me happy. His neighbor is also a classmate-on-the-way-to-becoming-a-friend-of-mine and she's really cool and interesting, so that's good too. It's important to have good people in close proximity, even if all you do is say hello from across the courtyard. It's an energy thing, I guess.

So, I'm off to Buster-proof the apartment (Minou has never been a problem in this regard, too uncoordinated?), beginning with the bookshelves, which will also house some sculpture and pottery. I have no clean dishes, though everything is currently in their respective cabinets (I needed to know where things were going to fit, before I could be bothered to wash off the packing newsprint). I have art to hang, if it's not too late to be hammering and drilling, and myriad other things to organize, straighten, or find homes for. I haven't yet brought myself to make tea here. It is one of the many things I enjoyed with B and it will take time to readjust to the solo version again. The cats are out at the old place, enjoying one of their last nights of freedom, before their only access to the outside is the view from any number of windows. I feel terribly guilty about this. I've never had indoor only cats... I did manage to put the cat hammock in the window of what I hope will become my art nook. That is meant to make the cats feel welcome and, strangely, to encourage me to actually make some art in that area of the apartment.

So, this is home, as much as anything can feel like home these days. It's where all of my things are, though everything has been rearranged. I suppose I'd better get used to it. On a completely unrelated note, I am pleased to link to another friend's new blog: Tricia in Ethiopia, also listed at right. She hasn't written anything yet, but will be spending the next year in Ethiopia teaching children. She mentioned she was thinking about keeping a blog, to give friends and family information and updates about her life there and what she was experiencing, as it occurred. I encouraged her to do so (as I'm sure did others) and told her I would check it often and link to it from mine. So, hopefully we'll all get to see what is going on from her vantage point on the continent of Africa. It's not like you'll hear much about it on the news. Hell, we're at war and all anyone seems to report on is Jon freaking Benet. Ugh. My personal motto may have to become "Expatriate in 2008" depending on how the next year or so unfolds. I wish you all well. Go outside and do something beautiful.

explanations and apologies

It hasn't quite been two months since my last post (though that mark is fast approaching), but it has come to my attention that there are people who do read this and are annoyed that I haven't posted in so long. My apologies in particular to Heather. This one's for you.

Since I last wrote, a lot has changed. I have a new apartment (almost fully moved in--advanced thanks to Chris); there has been a parting of ways, which is painful, bittersweet, and hard to tell from here whether it's entirely the right choice; I'm about to embark on a new program in school, though it is a familar topic of study; my grandmother is out of the hospital, but saddled with bills and, apparently, a new round of antibiotics to try to take care of the original problem; and my cats are due to turn on me, just as soon as they realize that "outside" is a concept they won't know for at least the next two years and that I am their new prison warden. Lots of tiny new beginnings to contemplate and losses to grieve. I am brimming with ideas, mostly for new art pieces, but a bit worried that all I have are ideas. I need action. Concrete motion I can apply to these ideas. In short, I need to get out of my head. Not so easy, considering I feel like I want to crawl under a rock and stay there for a while. (What do you think I've been doing since my last post?)

Strangely, in a town where good weather is so short-lived and rain falls 9 months out of the year and I am a California weather girl at heart, I am looking forward to winter. I hesitate to say fall, since fall is such a short blip in Portland. Oooh, it's chilly, look at the leaves... turning to muck in the rain addled street. Then, winter. But, winter is a good time to crawl inside onself, shed the old, clear out room for the new. It's a time of internalizing what is to come next-- a period of gestation, if you will --and a time to comfort with blankets,wine, fire, soup, and, of course, baked goods. Winter will begin early for me. It is more of a state of mind. I am losing the fireplace, but I will have candles and the rest of that list. If I can manage to fill my time with good work and good people, I will eventually emerge from, maybe not a chrysalis, but from someplace dark and deep and, right now, necessary.

from laughing comes crying

I've had a roller coaster of a weekend... All I can think is that life is a grand and precarious thing, full of tenderness and fury, and that it is short and we should snatch at those opportunities for happiness that come our way, because tomorrow might never happen.

My cousin and dear friend got married on Saturday, to a wonderful guy I am pleased to welcome into the fold. There was so much love, between them and pouring out of everyone else in support. Truly, it was beautiful to watch and I am grateful I was in the wedding party and could experience it all up close. During the reception, she received a call that a girlfriend had just delivered her baby, another close friend of hers learned only the day before that his father-in-law had passed, and two guests, including our grandmother, ended up in the hospital after the reception. Actually, Grammy Ruth is still in the hospital, her 88 year old body under close observation. Definitely the whole cycle of life has been accounted for in the last few days. And it's strange. It's been a love fest, all of us bursting into tears, of happiness, concern, sheer exhaustion. "My heart is open," my cousin keeps saying, "and it's full." I feel similarly.

My heart is open, and the fullness varies from hour to hour, sometimes feeling more or less, but I'm starting to think perhaps all of this emotion has welled up from a profound sense of abundance, even in places I might have been looking for lack. Everything is on the surface right now, my head reeling, so much to think and feel and still so tired from all the activities, and a certain amount of drama, over recent days. I'm feeling that it is important to recognize the good in one's life, the people and the attendant moments, and to hold on to them, but not too tightly. To welcome joy in and to not be afraid of sorrow or a sense of being overwhelmed, but to walk forward into it, head on and to experience what it can offer. I feel a strange sense of calm, despite the click and whir of my wheels spinning.

However, what I feel most pressing at this moment is to become horizontal for a time, before I sit and reflect on the amazing Damien Rice show I saw tonight from the side of the stage at the Paul Masson Mountain Winery in Saratoga, before I write any more, and certainly, before I go back to the hospital in the morning, so... I've seen a lot of tears of late and cried a good number of them myself and therefore I will leave you with the words of Max Ehrmann: "with all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." Life is short, but love is in abundance. Go forth and offer it.

this is me procrastinating.

Okay, so I have two Spanish finals in two days, three stories I need to critique, and handful of poets whose most recent poems await my opinion, and a half dozen revisions I need/would like to make to my own work, but what am I doing? Procrastinating, pure and simple.

I can't decide whether I always get this way when the weather turns warm, or if I am in fact suffering from some sort of "senioritis" even though I've been a senior, technically speaking, for the past few years. All I seem to want to do lately is to sit in the sunshine, work in my garden, listen to music cranked up really loud, wander around with no specific end in mind... If I had any money, I'd be planning a roadtrip. As it is, I will be spending half of June in California, but there will be no trippin' of any kind. I will be a bridesmaid in a sexy-are-we-allowed-to-wear-such-cute-dresses-in-a-church? kind of get up for my cousin's wedding. I will get to see a handful of old friends that I haven't seen in several, and in many instances ten, years. Perhaps most importantly, I will be able to hang out with my two fabulous sisters, whom I've not seen in a year.

But, I am restless. I need to find some kind of temp work immediately upon my return, or paying rent this summer will be a rather dodgy affair. I need to be sure that the graduate classes I've just enrolled in are what I want to take next fall. I need to get organized and start submitting some of my work for publication. Never hurts to get a jump on those rejection letters. If I decide to submit any fiction pieces, I'll surely have to send them to a certain charming associate editor over at Tin House, who I've recently learned thinks I am interesting and smart. (Of course, he hasn't actually read anything I've written, so we'll see how long that impression lasts...)

All in all though, life is good. My undergraduate degree will finally be complete in a matter of days. I'm sure to forget most of the Spanish I've learned over the past two years upon graduating, but that will give me an excuse to start plotting my next Latin American adventure so that I can brush up. I am already nervous about what I'll be doing and what will be expected of me in my capacity as a graduate assistant in the writing program next year, but I'm sure the nerves will subside, or at least transmute into excitement and fun. In another month or two I will have more cucumbers, crookneck, and tomatoes than I could possibly eat, and a whole summer (impoverished though I will be) to reflect upon all the many amazing things, people, and possibilites open to me and all the fine friends and memories I've made along the way. I've definitely had it worse.

conversing with the elders

Last night I had the pleasure of hearing Barry Lopez speak, both in the Smith Ballroom at PSU, and in conversation at the reception in the Simon Benson House afterward. As always, he impressed me with his gift for articulation, his courage, and his generosity of spirit, as I'm sure he does to all he encounters. He said that to figure out who you are, in the world, and what that means to you, and to learn what it is you have to say, and how to say it fearlessly and honestly is more important than trying to figure out who you are as a writer. He said there are many that can craft something that is technically perfect, and one can marvel at the technique, but ultimately you are left with the sense that it has been written by nobody; it is something unremarkable, and in fact will be forgotten within hours.

But the imperfect voice of someone struggling to make sense of the world, to articulate what it is that wells up inside of them, will always be engaging and memorable. I can't even begin to recapitulate the myriad ways in which his words are a gift to me, and to all of humanity. He makes me near wordless with appreciation and flush with excitment. He does not turn his eye away from what is desperate, but turns towards it, confronts it head on. No matter how desperate the world is, no matter how griefstricken he might be, his unflagging sense of hope always rises to the surface. He is a breathtaking writer, both in his use of language and in the strength of his convictions, his sense of reverence-- but more than that, he is an astonishingly wonderful human being. I consider myself lucky to have been blessed with the opportunity to hear him read, and speak, and most fortunately, to talk with him, on several occasions over the last several years. He is 100% present and authentic and kind. And, as I told him to his face last night, if I can manage to be half the human being I envision him to be I will have accomplished quite a lot.

Lastly, I'll share with you something he shared, which is the definition of the word for "storyteller" in one of the Inuit languages: the person who creates the atmosphere in which wisdom can reveal itself. I'm paraphrasing, as the direct quote is somewhere in my friend Dave's journal, but you get the idea. He also said that one gets to be the storyteller so long as the stories that you tell help. If they stop helping, one is no longer the storyteller, even if still professing to be.

on speaking up, out, often...

A wise man once said to me, "I figure the more I speak my mind, the more people will deal with it." This seemed like good sense and I vowed to try to live by such a philosophy. So often, we bite our tongues, sidestepping what we really mean, opt to say the kind thing and not the honest thing. Now, I am in no way advocating brutal honesty to the point of cruelty, as that serves no productive end. I'm all for kindness, in fact am grateful that it exists and I've been lucky enough to have known people who possessed such kindness and chose to bestow it upon me. I only hope it was also honest.

And what do I mean by honesty? The simple dictionary definition is: 1) The quality or condition of being honest; integrity and 2) Truthfulness; sincerity. In short, it is about saying what you mean and meaning what you say. As a writer, this is something I think about often. How to say what I mean, precisely, without flinching. It's not easy, as the truth is not always that interesting, at least not to anyone who's not specifically me. I've learned that just because something happened in a particular way is no reason to write about it. I applaud those writers that make real life read like a novel. It's a talent, but I am more partial to those that draw from the real to explore the imagined. With this method, one can make things turn out as they should have, or might have, or never would, with no obligation to be faithul to the facts.

I think that Neil Gaiman probably sums it up best in "A Writer's Prayer," the text of which I'll include below. If, in fact, it turns out that I'm not meant to become so talented and intriguing as Neil, I can still learn from the man. So here it is:

A Writer's Prayer

Oh Lord, let me not be one of those who writes too much;
who spreads himself too thinly with his words,
diluting all the things he has to say,
like butter spread too thinly over toast,
or watered milk in some worn-out hotel;
but let me write the things I have to say,
and then be silent, 'til I need to speak.

Oh Lord, let me not be one of those who writes too little;
a decade-man between each tale, or more,
where every word accrues significance
and dread replaces joy upon the page.
Perfectionists like chasing the horizon;
You kept perfection, gave the rest to us,
so let me earn the wisdom to move on.

But over and above those two mad spectres of parsimony and profligacy,
Lord, let me be brave, and let me, while I craft my tales, be wise:
let me say true things in a voice that is true,
and, with the truth in mind, let me write lies.

so i've been lax...so what?

I haven't updated in quite a while. It's hard to stay focused on this thing when I am focusing on other (shall we say, more important?) areas of my life. I'm busy... busy writing, and working, and applying for scholarships, and catching up with old friends, and I even (finally) learned who my artist was for the poet/art exchange from a last term. His name is Michael Endo and you can see his art on here. I don't have much else to say at the moment. I was given an interesting assignment, personalized for me by my poetry professor:

"Shannon, your exercise is couched as metaphor. I’m calling it Compost. Begin by assembling particular things you like – images, personal symbols, etc. Perhaps together they constitute a narrative about something hard for you to write. Then have the poem decay/disintegrate into compost, so rich it could support a garden."

So I have that to look forward to and work on. Until later, may you rest well and dream of large women.

it's official

I don't think I will continue updating with poems from the artist exchange project... I was more interested in the process and the exchange, but trying to maintain a blog about it just wasn't as fulfilling. So, it's settled. The project is complete. I meet my artist for the first time tonight, then dash off to the Aladdin to see Willy Porter, who always delivers a fresh and amazing show. Now, I have a writing exercise to complete (does this qualify as procrastinating?) and some earth to turn, seeds to plant, and some rigging to make up in order to keep the birds and the neighbor's free-range bunny out of the garden. But first, more coffee...

today on the streetcar...

"Do you enjoy sodomizing yourself?" a booming male radio announcer-type voice asks.

WTF? What kind of annouce... wait.. who the...what is going on here? Well, for anyone who's ever thought to themselves, "who says that kind of thing?" I now have a face to go with the proverbial "crazy guy" on public transit. But, he was not smelly or even apparently crazy (unless, of course, you count saying totally whacked out things to strangers as crazy talk). By all appearances, he seemed perfectly normal, lazing against the window, occasionally looking around, but politely keeping to himself.

Then, a number of people step off the car and one woman gets on and takes a seat opposite him. She has dark hair and eyes, wears a tan coat with faux fur trim on the hood. She passively looks out the window. Did she look unusual? Not at all, Portland born and bred if I had to guess.

The man sits up, slowly leans over to her, and says, quite loudly, "Do you enjoy sodomizing yourself?"

How is a person supposed to respond to that? She immediately looks away from him and out the window, silent. I must have had a shocked, who-the-hell-are-you sort of expression on my face, because then sets his sights on me. He sort of half gestures and, for a moment, looks as though he's going to explain what he's just said, justify it somehow, but says nothing. Instead, he starts walking toward me.

"That's probably the kind of question you should keep to yourself," I say.

He takes his position at the exit door next to mine and continues to look at me. "Are you going to incur all that yourself?" he asks me.

It sounds like an important question. Only, I don't know what that even means. I step off the streetcar, thinking, Try not to get struck by lighting! and watch the little crazy man staring at me incredulously through the glass doors as the streetcar pulls away.

catching up with... everything.

I'm just reaching a point where I think I might be able to catch my breath. I've one more poem and painting to post, as well as a final poem. I have mixed feelings about the project, as my artist more or less abandoned the process the past few weeks. I can't take it personally, since we don't know each other, but I hope (no, I don't really hope this) that something awful happened and that is why they flaked out. I suppose my irritation will have waned by the time I get to meet them and we can talk about what did work and what was useful. More on that later.

Apart from that, I am gearing up for my last term as an undergrad. I'm being graduated summa cum laude in June and I've just received notice that I've been accepted into the MA - Poetry program. Additionally, I'm being given the Department's only graduate assistantship position for poetry, so my tuition is covered (plus a stipend), and that's cause for celebration. I've also begun an internship (unpaid, sigh) at a great little literary press called
Hawthorne Books, so I've been very, very busy. Still, spring is in full swing and I've planted flowers and vegetable and am looking forward to some quality porch-sitting time, as soon as the weather finally cooperates and gets warm. Next on the agenda (after graduation) is a trip back home to be a bridesmaid for my lovely cousin Candace. And probably looking for part time summer work. I don't know though. I feel more compelled to live out of my car for a few weeks and to drive down the coast, writing, and maybe making art. A good road trip would certainly provide some much needed inspiration and there's nothing like sleeping on the beach to help with that.

It's strange. I am accomplishing quite a lot, good things are happening, but I can't help but feel almost as though it's happening to someone else. Part of me just wants to drop out, live in the tropics, improve my Spanish skills, teach English, trade paintings, cook, love, live simply... Here there is school and loan debt and my future to think about. I am 32 but still respond to such things like an 18 year old. I don't want to work at a soul sucking job I care nothing about, and that, I'm afraid, is more likely than landing a gig doing what I damn well feel with language and paint and bits of sparkly things or rock and what not. There isn't a job opening for me to get paid to be me and what I do best isn't lucrative or dependable. If I fail as a poet, I can fall back on my art, and failing that, what? Sing jazz again? I'm tired of being poor and if I could actually sell out without that being a problem for me, I probably would. But I can't. It doesn't work that way for me. So instead I have to suck it up, get to like being poor, and do something interesting. If you see me on the street, pass me a smile. I'll always be grateful for one of those.

the fifth exchange

Another poem, another painting, another opportunity to wonder whether and how this artist and I frustrate and/or understand each other...

exchange number four

I have been so busy the past few weeks I haven't had time to post anything...so, here is exchange number four, sans the text as a separate entry. Click on the picture and it will be easier to read. I've two more since this one to post, but have been completely wrapped up in school and my new internship at Hawthorne Books. I'll post more soon.

I couldn't resist.

Sitting here, contemplating the shallow vapid core of modern society, while acknowledging that, yes, it is still a beautiful world, I came across this quote from Andrea Dworkin's book, The New Womans Broken Heart:

"I have no patience with the untorn, anyone who hasn't weathered rough weather, fallen apart, been ripped to pieces, put herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice. Then something shines out. But these ones all shined up on the outside, the ass wigglers, I'll be honest, I don't like them. Not at all."

because some days are harder than others

Here is a photo I took in Cahuita, Costa Rica this past July. I needed the reminder.

exchange numero tres

This is exchange number three... I've saved my poem with the picture, as a jpeg, so that the formatting is visible; the use of space is actually integral to the poem. However, it may be difficult to read, so the text of the poem is included below (enjoy! though it lacks the impact of the original), but lacks the formatting:

Brutal, this
precariousness
of life always
dancing on edge.

There are two ways out
and they are not a door, but
a window.

Rent limbs feeding
young, and whether one hawk

or fifty
dark scavengers

war or dreaming
with flagrant violence
or, as some go, peacefully

wounded earth
will one day heal.

The ecology of death
still bears
the shape of ancients.

A murdered boy
will bury his mother
for the crime of speaking

and yet
slender blades
will burst from sand
green and fresh

time will run
backwards

no one suffers
the indignity
of worms and maggots
doing what they know

like this

flesh and bone
a bone feast, offering

alms for the birds.