Your work needs to be independent of others' work.
You must not compare yourself to others.
No one can help you. You have to help yourself.
Criticism leads to misunderstandings and defeatism.
Work from necessity and your compulsion to do it.
Work on what you know and what you are sure you love.
Don't observe yourself too closely, just let it happen.
Don't let yourself be controlled by too much irony.
Live in and love the activity of your work.
Be free of thoughts of sin, guilt and misgiving.
Be touched by the beautiful anxiety of life.
Be patient with the unresolved in your heart.
Try to be in love with the questions themselves.
Love your solitude and try to sing with its pain.
Be gentle to all of those who stay behind.
Your inner self is worth your entire concentration.
Allow your art to make extraordinary demands on you.
Bear your sadness with greater trust than your joy.
Do not persecute yourself with how things are going.
It's good to be solitary, because solitude is difficult.
It's good to love, because love is difficult.
You are not a prisoner of anything or anyone.
—Rilke
Monday, May 10, 2010
Friday, May 07, 2010
Sunday, May 02, 2010
the grid plan
"I made the comment about how, you know, the Grid plan emanates from our weaknesses, this layout of avenues and streets in New York City, these systems of 90 degree angles, and to me the Grid plan is puritan. It's homogenizing in a city where there is no homogenization available. There is only total existence, total cacophony, a total flowing of human ethnicities and tribes and beings and gradations of awareness and consciousness and cruising.
And this woman turns to me and she goes, 'You know I never really thought of that.’ She goes, ‘I can't imagine it. Everyone likes the grid plan.'
And of course the question is, like, who is everyone? I mean, it’s just what I had said. I mean, whoever that is under the white comforter, cuddled up with 34th Street and Broadway, existing on the concrete of this city, hungry, and disheveled, struggling to crawl their way onto this island with all of their machinated rages and hellishness and self-orchestrated purgatories, I mean, what does that person think about the grid plan? Probably much more on my plane of thinking, my gradation of being, which is: let's just blow up the Grid plan and rewrite the streets to be much more a self portraiture of our personal struggles rather than some real estate broker's wet dream from 1807. We're forced to walk in these right angles, I mean, doesn't she find it infuriating?
By being so completely allegioned to the Grid plan, I think most noteworthy is this idiom: I can't even imagine changing the Grid plan. She's really aligning herself with this civilization. It's like saying, 'Oh I can't imagine altering this civilization. I can’t imagine altering this meek and lying morality that rules our lives. I can't imagine standing up on a chair in the middle of the room to change perspective. I can't imagine changing my mind on anything. I, in the end, can't imagine having my own identity that contradicts other identities.'
When she says to me, after my statement, ‘Everyone likes the grid plan’ isn’t she automatically excluding myself from everyone? ‘How can you not like the grid plan? It’s so functional. Take a right turn and a right turn and a right turn and then there’s a red light and a green light and a yellow light. It’s so symmetrical.’ By saying that everyone likes the Grid plan, you're saying 'I'm going to relive all the mistakes my parents made. I’m going to identify and relive all the sorrows my mother lived through. I will propagate and create dysfunctional children in the same dysfunctional way that I was raised. I will spread neurosis throughout the landscape and do my best to recreate myself and the damages of my life for the next generation.'”
~Timothy Speed Levitch
from "The Cruise"
And this woman turns to me and she goes, 'You know I never really thought of that.’ She goes, ‘I can't imagine it. Everyone likes the grid plan.'
And of course the question is, like, who is everyone? I mean, it’s just what I had said. I mean, whoever that is under the white comforter, cuddled up with 34th Street and Broadway, existing on the concrete of this city, hungry, and disheveled, struggling to crawl their way onto this island with all of their machinated rages and hellishness and self-orchestrated purgatories, I mean, what does that person think about the grid plan? Probably much more on my plane of thinking, my gradation of being, which is: let's just blow up the Grid plan and rewrite the streets to be much more a self portraiture of our personal struggles rather than some real estate broker's wet dream from 1807. We're forced to walk in these right angles, I mean, doesn't she find it infuriating?
By being so completely allegioned to the Grid plan, I think most noteworthy is this idiom: I can't even imagine changing the Grid plan. She's really aligning herself with this civilization. It's like saying, 'Oh I can't imagine altering this civilization. I can’t imagine altering this meek and lying morality that rules our lives. I can't imagine standing up on a chair in the middle of the room to change perspective. I can't imagine changing my mind on anything. I, in the end, can't imagine having my own identity that contradicts other identities.'
When she says to me, after my statement, ‘Everyone likes the grid plan’ isn’t she automatically excluding myself from everyone? ‘How can you not like the grid plan? It’s so functional. Take a right turn and a right turn and a right turn and then there’s a red light and a green light and a yellow light. It’s so symmetrical.’ By saying that everyone likes the Grid plan, you're saying 'I'm going to relive all the mistakes my parents made. I’m going to identify and relive all the sorrows my mother lived through. I will propagate and create dysfunctional children in the same dysfunctional way that I was raised. I will spread neurosis throughout the landscape and do my best to recreate myself and the damages of my life for the next generation.'”
~Timothy Speed Levitch
from "The Cruise"
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
my love
The following poem is titled "My Love, A Partial Explanation" and is written by Shaindel Beers. I just discovered it tonight.
You ask what was different this time,
and I answer that it was the combination of rocks and water
and make some obscene joke about the sexual escapades
which would have ensued had we been in Maine or Oregon,
but this is because I don’t know how to tell you about your eyes,
which you think are brown, but which I know are gold-flecked
in different lights, and the way they smiled
when we talked our odd talk about relationships
and the stars; not really astrology,
more astrodynamics and Eagles’ lyrics with a bit
of quantum theory thrown in for good measure,
and I don’t know what you see in me,
but I knew you were closer to the truth than anyone else
when you said that my body reminded you
of South Dakota, because I always knew I was a plains
state—only the colors of sand and wheat and
eyes as grey as storm clouds, which used to anger my mother
because she thought if only I’d had more color,
I could be beautiful—
The other day when we watched the geese,
and you said, wistfully, Soon there will be goslings,
I didn’t mean to be a bitch and say Poor, monogamous bastards,
but sometimes life is so structured, and I’m always
on the outside, never quite able to figure out the rules
that everyone seems to take for granted.
I’ve been told that loving me is like loving a guard dog,
you’re never sure if it’s love, or if you’re just grateful
that you’re the one thing it won’t kill;
and I don’t know how to stop this,
it just seems to be my way. The way that giraffes
are my favorite animal, not only because they’re so gentle,
but because a mother giraffe can decapitate a lion
with a single kick if it threatens her calf.
You ask what was different this time,
and I answer that it was the combination of rocks and water
and make some obscene joke about the sexual escapades
which would have ensued had we been in Maine or Oregon,
but this is because I don’t know how to tell you about your eyes,
which you think are brown, but which I know are gold-flecked
in different lights, and the way they smiled
when we talked our odd talk about relationships
and the stars; not really astrology,
more astrodynamics and Eagles’ lyrics with a bit
of quantum theory thrown in for good measure,
and I don’t know what you see in me,
but I knew you were closer to the truth than anyone else
when you said that my body reminded you
of South Dakota, because I always knew I was a plains
state—only the colors of sand and wheat and
eyes as grey as storm clouds, which used to anger my mother
because she thought if only I’d had more color,
I could be beautiful—
The other day when we watched the geese,
and you said, wistfully, Soon there will be goslings,
I didn’t mean to be a bitch and say Poor, monogamous bastards,
but sometimes life is so structured, and I’m always
on the outside, never quite able to figure out the rules
that everyone seems to take for granted.
I’ve been told that loving me is like loving a guard dog,
you’re never sure if it’s love, or if you’re just grateful
that you’re the one thing it won’t kill;
and I don’t know how to stop this,
it just seems to be my way. The way that giraffes
are my favorite animal, not only because they’re so gentle,
but because a mother giraffe can decapitate a lion
with a single kick if it threatens her calf.
disclaimer
Man, I love clearing stuff out. I love the fragments I find. Things scribbled on tattered scraps of paper that at some point I'd found intensely amusing or important. At the very least, these were things that it felt useful to write down, as though they may one day have a good home somewhere. Well, I guess this is it.
(Disclaimer: some family members may find the following a bit too personal. Personally, I found it hilarious and not such a big deal, but I also find that to be the same about my lack of understanding of what constitutes inappropriate dinner conversation, and I've made more than one of you squirm with that...)
This is in keeping with previous efforts to capture and record some of my dream imagery. I don't even remember when the hell I wrote this... Here we go. What I found on a purple sticky note, word for word:
Dream - in house - group house - more like a hotel-type situation but in a house. Old Marine (now security?) says to me, "I love you." And I ask, "What? Why?" He explains that they're moving my stuff out of my room temporarily and one of the little kids of the people helping with the move found my vibrator under the bed and the kid thinks it's the best toy ever. I turn the corner to see the kid switching it on and off and squealing with delight. Hilarity and embarrassment ensue.
(Disclaimer: some family members may find the following a bit too personal. Personally, I found it hilarious and not such a big deal, but I also find that to be the same about my lack of understanding of what constitutes inappropriate dinner conversation, and I've made more than one of you squirm with that...)
This is in keeping with previous efforts to capture and record some of my dream imagery. I don't even remember when the hell I wrote this... Here we go. What I found on a purple sticky note, word for word:
Dream - in house - group house - more like a hotel-type situation but in a house. Old Marine (now security?) says to me, "I love you." And I ask, "What? Why?" He explains that they're moving my stuff out of my room temporarily and one of the little kids of the people helping with the move found my vibrator under the bed and the kid thinks it's the best toy ever. I turn the corner to see the kid switching it on and off and squealing with delight. Hilarity and embarrassment ensue.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
possessions
I am working my way through a stack of boxes that I have been ignoring for months. Where the hell does all this stuff come from? Truly, it's rather overwhelming...
I have boxes full of manuscripts, teaching materials, evaluations, old photographs, pages torn from magazines, pdf files of obscure texts, articles of interest. I have boxes full of old art supplies in various stages of use and decay. I have an obscene number of paper clips and, I can't believe I'm going to write this, I think perhaps I have too many shoes.
I ignore these things because it is easier than dealing with them (or that's what I tell myself, despite the evidence to the contrary). But lately, I can't ignore this stuff any longer. It's all making me feel crazy. I feel anxious and on the verge of tears just looking at it all, though paper shredding has proved to be surprisingly cathartic.
What's interesting, though, is that my anxiety and such is not produced by nostalgia, or even any memories attached to these objects. They are just objects in space, most of which have been boxed up long enough to prove they hold no special significance. But they exert control over me somehow and I find it hard to decide what to keep, recycle, throw away, give away. I overthink everything.
I find I construct scenarios in which said object might be useful (one day I might want to show someone the array of flyers and postcards I produced during my bookselling and event planning days, right? no? oh...) or hang onto things I might at some point wish to consider using in class. Even the desktop of my computer is littered with icons for websites I found interesting and might want to return to... I open seventeen tabs at a time, because, you know, there are all kinds of things I don't want to forget might be cool, or useful, or odd, or lovely.
It's madness! And this madness must be brought to its end. My work, possibly over the next several weeks, is to unburden myself of everything that really doesn't matter. I don't truly care about this stuff. I sometimes fantasize about having a Fire Sale. As in, please buy my shit before I set fire to it, because, frankly, I could use the money and I have to get out from under all these objects. Suffice to say that my work is cut out for me.
I have boxes full of manuscripts, teaching materials, evaluations, old photographs, pages torn from magazines, pdf files of obscure texts, articles of interest. I have boxes full of old art supplies in various stages of use and decay. I have an obscene number of paper clips and, I can't believe I'm going to write this, I think perhaps I have too many shoes.
I ignore these things because it is easier than dealing with them (or that's what I tell myself, despite the evidence to the contrary). But lately, I can't ignore this stuff any longer. It's all making me feel crazy. I feel anxious and on the verge of tears just looking at it all, though paper shredding has proved to be surprisingly cathartic.
What's interesting, though, is that my anxiety and such is not produced by nostalgia, or even any memories attached to these objects. They are just objects in space, most of which have been boxed up long enough to prove they hold no special significance. But they exert control over me somehow and I find it hard to decide what to keep, recycle, throw away, give away. I overthink everything.
I find I construct scenarios in which said object might be useful (one day I might want to show someone the array of flyers and postcards I produced during my bookselling and event planning days, right? no? oh...) or hang onto things I might at some point wish to consider using in class. Even the desktop of my computer is littered with icons for websites I found interesting and might want to return to... I open seventeen tabs at a time, because, you know, there are all kinds of things I don't want to forget might be cool, or useful, or odd, or lovely.
It's madness! And this madness must be brought to its end. My work, possibly over the next several weeks, is to unburden myself of everything that really doesn't matter. I don't truly care about this stuff. I sometimes fantasize about having a Fire Sale. As in, please buy my shit before I set fire to it, because, frankly, I could use the money and I have to get out from under all these objects. Suffice to say that my work is cut out for me.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
raw
I thought, perhaps my heart is so huge it has taken me nearly 37 years to notice I don't know my way around it... well, I am plunged into it now. There are no words to describe this rawness, this wounded bird. All my thoughts turn to ofic oqiruoylf qocinfdfn ;owcemr'utiqut when I try to articulate anything past this guttural howl.
Friday, April 02, 2010
petty griping
I'm in love and I'm scared. To say I have trust issues is an understatement, but then, surprisingly I manage to be rather trusting most of the time. My worst defense (offense?), it seems, is to pull away and become distant. That, or I push those I want closest to me further and further out of reach. This compulsion is maddening.
My sense is that I can let go of that fear, that need for distance, if I can relax, which is made easier if my beloved assists me in that regard, but that seems like a recipe for failure (not because he can't or won't or hasn't, but because it calls on the external to accomplish work I need to do internally). The trouble, of course, is that I am profoundly sad and often hurting most of the time, which means I find it very difficult to truly relax.
I know how to lounge comfortably, or blow off some steam, but relaxation-- truly letting go and dissolving all my tensions --feels damn near impossible. And because of this I am afraid I am driving away the man I love. I see it happening and yet I don't really know how to stop it.
My sense is that I can let go of that fear, that need for distance, if I can relax, which is made easier if my beloved assists me in that regard, but that seems like a recipe for failure (not because he can't or won't or hasn't, but because it calls on the external to accomplish work I need to do internally). The trouble, of course, is that I am profoundly sad and often hurting most of the time, which means I find it very difficult to truly relax.
I know how to lounge comfortably, or blow off some steam, but relaxation-- truly letting go and dissolving all my tensions --feels damn near impossible. And because of this I am afraid I am driving away the man I love. I see it happening and yet I don't really know how to stop it.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
we did it again.
My sister and I, once again, decided to do the open mic thing this past Monday at Three Friends. My lovely friend Matt Love was one of the featured readers for the Caffeinated Art Series. You can listen to me and Kiana here. I come in at 11:49 and Kiana comes in at 15:38. I love us! Hope you enjoy something of it too.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
ch-ch-changes
I have been moving through the world in a bizarre state of sweet sadness lately. I don't know if it is the changing of the seasons that is getting to me, or the fact that, once again, I've had to accept that love and awesomeness aren't always enough, or if it's just another mood cycle for me. Whatever it is, it has been affecting me deeply. I am ready for this term to be over, to be done with grading papers and evaluating students. I am ready for the world to burst into blossom, to feel the sun on my back, to have more time to write...
I have been thinking a lot about a new friend. Well, a friend I made and then pretty much lost almost immediately. His name is Chris, a.k.a Cat, and he is a member of the USMC. I will admit that I didn't know much about what it is to be a Marine when I met him, but my conversation with him made me realize how, despite having strong opinions about war and government, I had managed to grow up woefully ignorant of how the military functions and what life must be like for those who see combat. Meeting Chris made me radically rethink a lot of things. I've been watching documentaries and other films, I've been reading various news reports, and researching USMC training. I have been thinking a lot about how smart and funny and sweet Chris is and feeling rather stupid about how irrationally heartbroken I've been to think of him being shipped off to Afghanistan and what he will likely encounter there. I've been thinking of how little the media shares of what these men are doing there (laying roads and building the necessary infrastructure, in addition to taking out military targets, like high ranking members of the Taliban) and how little we hear of just how horrifying Al Qaeda and the Taliban really are... it's not just sensationalism. There are some messed up things going on over there and reading about it makes me grateful to have been born a western woman in the era I was born.
I can only imagine the sorts of things he is likely to face, the things he has already seen and survived. I had no special fondness for men in uniform; I have not developed any sort of military fetish. I had the good fortune to meet one amazing human being and to get to talk with him, to learn something about him, and to have my eyes opened to things I had not looked at directly before. I gave him my address, if he wanted to exchange letters while he was gone, but in the end he made it clear he was not comfortable investing in a new friendship when he would be leaving so soon.I think I understand this now, though I didn't at first. Who am I to him? Apart from family, it seems there are few who would really be willing to support a soldier deployed overseas and who, sadly, may not return. Why would he believe a new friend be willing to endure the emotional strain or loss, or maybe more to the point, why would he believe that such a new friend would actually be invested enough in that friendship to care at all?
I have had only one friend ever who I corresponded with while he was in the military. I went to high school with him and we'd been close friends before he joined the Navy. We exchanged letters while he was at sea. He is now married with children and we are not close now, but I remember that friendship fondly and I remember how important those letters were at the time. Chris and I didn't have time to develop a proper friendship, and yet he's already had a big influence on my life. Perhaps the fact that I am at a crossroads in my life made the conversation I had with him more significant than it might have been, but I like to think that we connected in a genuinely human way, and I hope that he is not anxious about leaving and that he is safe while he is there. I hope the Pashto he has learned will spare him from having to ever fire his weapon and that he will eventually return home and will be able to live his life in whatever fashion he chooses. Again, I feel stupid for being so sentimental, so moved by such a brief exchange with someone I hardly even got to know. I'm almost certain I'll never hear from him again, and just as certain I won't ever forget him. Weird.
I guess knowing he is leaving (maybe even this week?) has brought him to the forefront of my mind again. Thinking of his circumstances sort of puts my life more in perspective. I'm listening to David Bowie's lyrics "Every time I thought I'd got it made / It seemed the taste was not so sweet / So I turned myself to face me..." and I'm thinking of what it must be like to carry your life in a bag, to know that any day might be your last, and to move through your day unencumbered by fear. I am actually fairly self aware, as much as any monkey can be anyway, but I realize that I am not always as honest with myself as I'd like to be. I sometime listen to my fears and accept less than I want or deserve. I sometimes don't reveal what is my heart, or hide behind a wall of armor for fear of what might happen if I stood as naked and vulnerable as I actually am. I am at my best when my fear is least. So, in the service of this feeling, I have taken to running, to focusing on getting stronger, to making some important changes in my life. I have renewed my desire to rid myself of all unnecessary objects and unproductive habits. I want to distill my life down to its essentials. I want clarity of purpose.
I'm not there. I am as confused as ever. I am on the precipice of letting go of a very significant relationship in my life; I honestly don't know whether to hang on or let go, or what that will look like either way. I only know that I need something to change and that I must clear out what is unnecessary in order to create the space in which I can see what I truly need and what I want my next move to be. I also know that meeting Chris has somehow set the wheels turning in my mind and I have been reevaluating what is important to me as a result. Whatever my politics are, most of the gripes in my life pale in comparison to what he is going to face, what he has already seen during his last tour. I will, thankfully, never see combat myself, nor will those I hold most dear, but I don't want my gripes to be petty.
I want to have the courage to honor my heart in all facets of my life and to commit to what my heart directs me toward, no matter the obstacles. I have always had a fierce determination to live my life with authenticity and integrity. I guess I am feeling like I must take it to the next level. I want to move forward without fear. I want to know what it is like to live my life without fear. And, as I said before, I want clarity of purpose. Winter is transitioning to spring, old ways are passing and new possibilities are unfolding. The world is awakening; its riches are stirring. I am stirring too. I am not content to be less than what I am. Big changes are afoot and I have no idea where I will land.
I have been thinking a lot about a new friend. Well, a friend I made and then pretty much lost almost immediately. His name is Chris, a.k.a Cat, and he is a member of the USMC. I will admit that I didn't know much about what it is to be a Marine when I met him, but my conversation with him made me realize how, despite having strong opinions about war and government, I had managed to grow up woefully ignorant of how the military functions and what life must be like for those who see combat. Meeting Chris made me radically rethink a lot of things. I've been watching documentaries and other films, I've been reading various news reports, and researching USMC training. I have been thinking a lot about how smart and funny and sweet Chris is and feeling rather stupid about how irrationally heartbroken I've been to think of him being shipped off to Afghanistan and what he will likely encounter there. I've been thinking of how little the media shares of what these men are doing there (laying roads and building the necessary infrastructure, in addition to taking out military targets, like high ranking members of the Taliban) and how little we hear of just how horrifying Al Qaeda and the Taliban really are... it's not just sensationalism. There are some messed up things going on over there and reading about it makes me grateful to have been born a western woman in the era I was born.
I can only imagine the sorts of things he is likely to face, the things he has already seen and survived. I had no special fondness for men in uniform; I have not developed any sort of military fetish. I had the good fortune to meet one amazing human being and to get to talk with him, to learn something about him, and to have my eyes opened to things I had not looked at directly before. I gave him my address, if he wanted to exchange letters while he was gone, but in the end he made it clear he was not comfortable investing in a new friendship when he would be leaving so soon.I think I understand this now, though I didn't at first. Who am I to him? Apart from family, it seems there are few who would really be willing to support a soldier deployed overseas and who, sadly, may not return. Why would he believe a new friend be willing to endure the emotional strain or loss, or maybe more to the point, why would he believe that such a new friend would actually be invested enough in that friendship to care at all?
I have had only one friend ever who I corresponded with while he was in the military. I went to high school with him and we'd been close friends before he joined the Navy. We exchanged letters while he was at sea. He is now married with children and we are not close now, but I remember that friendship fondly and I remember how important those letters were at the time. Chris and I didn't have time to develop a proper friendship, and yet he's already had a big influence on my life. Perhaps the fact that I am at a crossroads in my life made the conversation I had with him more significant than it might have been, but I like to think that we connected in a genuinely human way, and I hope that he is not anxious about leaving and that he is safe while he is there. I hope the Pashto he has learned will spare him from having to ever fire his weapon and that he will eventually return home and will be able to live his life in whatever fashion he chooses. Again, I feel stupid for being so sentimental, so moved by such a brief exchange with someone I hardly even got to know. I'm almost certain I'll never hear from him again, and just as certain I won't ever forget him. Weird.
I guess knowing he is leaving (maybe even this week?) has brought him to the forefront of my mind again. Thinking of his circumstances sort of puts my life more in perspective. I'm listening to David Bowie's lyrics "Every time I thought I'd got it made / It seemed the taste was not so sweet / So I turned myself to face me..." and I'm thinking of what it must be like to carry your life in a bag, to know that any day might be your last, and to move through your day unencumbered by fear. I am actually fairly self aware, as much as any monkey can be anyway, but I realize that I am not always as honest with myself as I'd like to be. I sometime listen to my fears and accept less than I want or deserve. I sometimes don't reveal what is my heart, or hide behind a wall of armor for fear of what might happen if I stood as naked and vulnerable as I actually am. I am at my best when my fear is least. So, in the service of this feeling, I have taken to running, to focusing on getting stronger, to making some important changes in my life. I have renewed my desire to rid myself of all unnecessary objects and unproductive habits. I want to distill my life down to its essentials. I want clarity of purpose.
I'm not there. I am as confused as ever. I am on the precipice of letting go of a very significant relationship in my life; I honestly don't know whether to hang on or let go, or what that will look like either way. I only know that I need something to change and that I must clear out what is unnecessary in order to create the space in which I can see what I truly need and what I want my next move to be. I also know that meeting Chris has somehow set the wheels turning in my mind and I have been reevaluating what is important to me as a result. Whatever my politics are, most of the gripes in my life pale in comparison to what he is going to face, what he has already seen during his last tour. I will, thankfully, never see combat myself, nor will those I hold most dear, but I don't want my gripes to be petty.
I want to have the courage to honor my heart in all facets of my life and to commit to what my heart directs me toward, no matter the obstacles. I have always had a fierce determination to live my life with authenticity and integrity. I guess I am feeling like I must take it to the next level. I want to move forward without fear. I want to know what it is like to live my life without fear. And, as I said before, I want clarity of purpose. Winter is transitioning to spring, old ways are passing and new possibilities are unfolding. The world is awakening; its riches are stirring. I am stirring too. I am not content to be less than what I am. Big changes are afoot and I have no idea where I will land.
Monday, March 08, 2010
design or dumb luck
I recently had a student tell me that she knew she couldn't get away with bullshitting in my class. I took this as a compliment. She then wrote her final paper using the Harry Potter story as her guiding metaphor and comparing me to Albus Dumbledore. Despite what that may sound like, she was well within the parameters of the assignment and did a really great job on first draft (all I've seen so far), so I took this as an even greater compliment. Then, last night I was told by my lovely friend, who also happens to be a poetry editor, that she'd recently received a note from a writer submitting poems for consideration and in it this writer said that she really loved the magazine and especially the poem "How To Live With It" written by yours truly. That was a pretty sweet compliment to receive. Small moments such as these make me think that perhaps, whether by design or dumb luck, I am on the right track.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
a good day
Today was a good day. There were bicycles and didgeridoos and blossoming cherry trees. There was sunshine and loud tailless kitties and fat little dogs and dogs that looked like you could strap a saddle to them and be taken for a ride (Great Pyrenees). The afternoon reflected off the water as the trains slid slowly by... It was a good day.
I should have been grading papers, but I wasn't. I was trying to feel light. I was trying to keep moving. I was also (again) looking into the tall arched windows of an old abandoned brick building. (The Yale Union Laundry Building-- don't suppose anyone knows who owns it and what their plans are for it?) And then the sun slipped down the sky and the air cooled and I closed all the windows and doors. It was a good day and now I am sitting here in the quiet, sad, and too much in my head.
I have recently asked for something that I really want, something I am afraid I had no right to ask for, something I am afraid I will never know in the manner I wish to. I am trying to be patient, but every minute that passes makes me feel a little sick, makes me feel a little closer to receiving words I don't want to hear. I spent the day running into the wind, trying to escape what I fear is inevitable, trying to be absorbed in the small wonders of my life. Today was a good day, but it hasn't distracted me from this looming question. I am, it would seem, very adept at torturing myself this way.
I have been researching cities I am toying with starting a love affair with. Seattle and Chicago, so far, top the list. I think about the mountains of Colorado, or the desert blooms and lightning storms of the southwest. I dream of the tropics and the light in San Miguel. They might all become a home to me. They might all prove to be welcoming. But in all of them, I'd still carry this weary heart, and while I might be taken by a sunny afternoon, I never forget what beats behind these ribs. I'd like to comfort myself by stating that it's a good thing to never forget one's heart; that even when it has been blown apart, it resonates with all that is worthwhile and still has something to teach, some important wisdom to bestow, if one can quiet the mind and simply listen.
When I listen to my heart, I hear your blood moving beneath your skin. I hear the breath beat of your living heart against my cheek, under my hands. When I turn to meet it, I see your face looking back at mine and for a moment I know, with certainty, that I am not alone in this world. It is hard to be quiet and patient now. I want to punch you and run away. I want to tell you that you never mattered. I want to do anything to prolong the time between this moment and the one in which my question is answered, finally. I am afraid. This missive is my effort to acknowledge that fear and to set it adrift, to help it along its way, to break its hold on me.
I want to say I will miss you, my beautiful friend, but I said I wasn't going to succumb to preemptive heartbreak. I have, however, succumbed to some sort of illness and it is at the feet of this illness that I lay all the responsibility for this nonsense. I will miss you, though, should things resolve that way. More than you will likely ever know. Certainly more than I will ever tell you.
I should have been grading papers, but I wasn't. I was trying to feel light. I was trying to keep moving. I was also (again) looking into the tall arched windows of an old abandoned brick building. (The Yale Union Laundry Building-- don't suppose anyone knows who owns it and what their plans are for it?) And then the sun slipped down the sky and the air cooled and I closed all the windows and doors. It was a good day and now I am sitting here in the quiet, sad, and too much in my head.
I have recently asked for something that I really want, something I am afraid I had no right to ask for, something I am afraid I will never know in the manner I wish to. I am trying to be patient, but every minute that passes makes me feel a little sick, makes me feel a little closer to receiving words I don't want to hear. I spent the day running into the wind, trying to escape what I fear is inevitable, trying to be absorbed in the small wonders of my life. Today was a good day, but it hasn't distracted me from this looming question. I am, it would seem, very adept at torturing myself this way.
I have been researching cities I am toying with starting a love affair with. Seattle and Chicago, so far, top the list. I think about the mountains of Colorado, or the desert blooms and lightning storms of the southwest. I dream of the tropics and the light in San Miguel. They might all become a home to me. They might all prove to be welcoming. But in all of them, I'd still carry this weary heart, and while I might be taken by a sunny afternoon, I never forget what beats behind these ribs. I'd like to comfort myself by stating that it's a good thing to never forget one's heart; that even when it has been blown apart, it resonates with all that is worthwhile and still has something to teach, some important wisdom to bestow, if one can quiet the mind and simply listen.
When I listen to my heart, I hear your blood moving beneath your skin. I hear the breath beat of your living heart against my cheek, under my hands. When I turn to meet it, I see your face looking back at mine and for a moment I know, with certainty, that I am not alone in this world. It is hard to be quiet and patient now. I want to punch you and run away. I want to tell you that you never mattered. I want to do anything to prolong the time between this moment and the one in which my question is answered, finally. I am afraid. This missive is my effort to acknowledge that fear and to set it adrift, to help it along its way, to break its hold on me.
I want to say I will miss you, my beautiful friend, but I said I wasn't going to succumb to preemptive heartbreak. I have, however, succumbed to some sort of illness and it is at the feet of this illness that I lay all the responsibility for this nonsense. I will miss you, though, should things resolve that way. More than you will likely ever know. Certainly more than I will ever tell you.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
another open mic
Here is another podcast from the Show and Tell Gallery Open Mic night at Three Friends.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
how to live with it
I have a poem up here at Dark Sky Magazine! It's always exciting to see my words out in the world. There are some italics and stanza breaks in the original that don't seem to be appearing online, but that doesn't make it any less cool to see. I don't want to use a birthing metaphor, but, well, let's just say it's nice to see my poems take on a life of their own. They's all growns up now! (If there were any question remaining, yes, I am a total dork.)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
sorrows
who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be
beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals
that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin
sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking their bony fingers
envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh
they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own
cupped hands enough not me again
enough but who can distinguish
one human voice
amid such choruses of desire
~Lucille Clifton
who would believe they could be
beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals
that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin
sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking their bony fingers
envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh
they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own
cupped hands enough not me again
enough but who can distinguish
one human voice
amid such choruses of desire
~Lucille Clifton
Monday, February 08, 2010
puppets!
So, a short while ago I was able to put my degree in poetry to good use, trading poems for a painting by Mr. Dax Tran-Caffee of the San Francisco Bay Area. This exchange was, I think we'd both agree, a fabulous exercise in creative economics and, perhaps, a sign of things to come. He is currently embarking on a project called The Museum Proper, which will require funding from people just like you to get work underway in time for the SubZero Festival. Dax has made a video describing the project and what he needs right here. Please check it out. Please forward the link to your friends. Please contribute in whatever way you can. Public art deserves to be supported and Dax is an artist worthy of your appreciation, financial or otherwise.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
onward
So, it's 2010 and we don't have jet packs. I can't say I feel I'm missing something there. January has come and gone. The new year is underway. I've spent the past couple of months in a strange state overt sociability and also rather, well, I want to say hibernatic (Is that a word? Interweb check inconclusive. It should be) behavior. I have just entered my tenth year in Portland.
In this past year I have managed, against all odds, to keep my heart open. Moreover, I have deepened that openness and can see into it with savage clarity. And I have discovered that my love is infinite. It is positively incorruptible. I'm not exactly sure what to do with that, but I think it is a good thing. It's progress.
A year ago I wrote that being moved by simple joys and laughing more than I cried was progress. With that as my measure, then I am successfully progressing still. There has been plenty of chaos. There will be stories and poems to come from the carnival of my life, for sure. Perhaps there will even be some peace. I don't have an agenda.
I only know that I love and love fiercely. I am taking care of myself and taking care to mind my creative impulses. I may feel alien, but there are moments I can breathe and moments in which I feel whole. I feel humble, devoted, unassailable. I suppose that's not a bad start.
In this past year I have managed, against all odds, to keep my heart open. Moreover, I have deepened that openness and can see into it with savage clarity. And I have discovered that my love is infinite. It is positively incorruptible. I'm not exactly sure what to do with that, but I think it is a good thing. It's progress.
A year ago I wrote that being moved by simple joys and laughing more than I cried was progress. With that as my measure, then I am successfully progressing still. There has been plenty of chaos. There will be stories and poems to come from the carnival of my life, for sure. Perhaps there will even be some peace. I don't have an agenda.
I only know that I love and love fiercely. I am taking care of myself and taking care to mind my creative impulses. I may feel alien, but there are moments I can breathe and moments in which I feel whole. I feel humble, devoted, unassailable. I suppose that's not a bad start.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
archaic torso
I cannot get this poem out of my head, particularly the last sentence. So, instead of trying to rid my head of it, I thought, perhaps, I'd try to get it to crawl on up inside of yours:
Archaic Torso of Apollo
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
~Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell
Archaic Torso of Apollo
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
~Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell
Saturday, January 23, 2010
dark sky
I have just been informed that my poem "How to Live With It" has been accepted for an upcoming issue of Dark Sky Magazine. Show them some love and check them out!
Sunday, December 06, 2009
open mic - listen!
So, last Monday night my sister and I decided to head on over to Three Friends Coffeehouse for the Show and Tell Gallery Open Mic night. Not only did we both perform, but the evening was also podcast. You can listen to the whole night by going to the Show and Tell Gallery website, or, if you are curious what my sister and I did, you can listen to us here. My reading begins at about 11:24, then Kiana comes in at about 17:20, and we sing a song together beginning at about 24:44 of part two. So, we made public mistakes and it didn't kill us. Yay! Also, a big thanks to Laura Veirs, Frente, and Anya Marina, whose songs Kiana played.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
