resolve without resolution

Already we are midway through the month and I've not had any particular urge to write about the new year. It should be well enough established by now that I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions (TM pending).

There is only this: the sun in the sky, high above my bedroom window; a gradually diminishing set of boxes and objects for me to purge or deal with; a growing desire to write more, again, about something new, but with the clear, rested eyes I'd needed to return to the older work and whip it into the shape I'd meant it to be.

My heart is open and I'm managing to keep my head up and remembering to look around, look up, to breathe. I take my cues from the birds in the trees. I'm knitting again. I still don't know how to make hats, or gloves, or socks, but I'll get there. I'm picking up my guitar again. I'm finding my voice again. I'm making art.

I am still uncertain of many things, but grow more comfortable with the uncertainty. I am ruled more and more by simple joys and my own will and less frequently by fear. There is only this. This moment. This curiosity. This opportunity.

I laugh more often than I cry and when I cry, sometimes it is because something beautiful has welled up in me and I have no means of containing it. This is progress.

the late unburdening of 2008

Yesterday morning I felt as though a fog had lifted from my mind. The day began with hoarfrost covering the ground and ended with fire in the sky. I discovered a song within me, which, though I can't recall it this moment, I know is immanent and my voice will rise up to meet it once again. This clearing is incomplete, but progress is being made.

I have vowed to resume the work of unburdening myself of things closed up in boxes. I looked around my room, too cluttered for my taste, at the accumulation of things that possess more of me than I'd like. I began the work before my recent move and then, with three jobs keeping me distracted, I didn't continue.

Why do I still own my high school yearbooks? They mean nothing to me, but I've carried them from place to place. I have a box of ceramic supplies I haven't used in the nearly eight years I've been here. Sure, maybe one day I'll have access to a kiln again, but until then, do I really need a bag of mystery glaze? I want to get rid of it all. Rip the cds and sell the discs. Finish the assortment of art projects in various stages of completion and leave them in parks or gift them to friends. The books, I'm afraid, are as culled as they are likely to be for a while.

I have a number of cool objects, but most of them don't bring me pleasure. They accrue dust and I am weighed down by the space they occupy in my life. Already, I've disowned the majority of the dishes I had that were not made by hand by people I've known, or otherwise exceptionally visually or tactilely satisfying. I want to rip, to shred, to recycle, to gift, until I feel I can breathe again.

I know there are things I will inevitably own or acquire. I make things. Things accumulate. But I genuinely want to sip tea out of the same hand made mug every day. I want my books to have dog-eared pages and coffee stains and signs of love and wear. I want my life to be a palimpsest of my experiences, not measured by the objects I've acquired or the (lack of) security provided by my bank account. (Which is marked by a negative trust fund for the foreseeable future. Ah, higher education!)

I want to stand breath sucked away and stunned by the fire in the sky more often. I am fortunate enough to live and breathe and to have a body and a mind to take in the world in all its horror and sublime beauty. I have a mind and a language with which to remain conversant with the universe and with others. I have a lot to do before I am taken back to merge with dust and minerals and light. It's time to wake up. The fog has lifted.

a little blake...

A Memorable Fancy.

As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity. I collected some of their Proverbs: thinking that as the sayings used in a nation, mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell, shew the nature of Infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments.

When I came home; on the abyss of the five senses, where a flat sided steep frowns over the present world. I saw a mighty Devil folded in black clouds, hovering on the sides of the rock, with corroding fires he wrote the following sentence now percieved by the minds of men, & read by them on earth.

How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?

the lady of lone fir cemetery

surely you've seen her haunting the graves and gliding through the neighborhood...?

for all the english majors...

I don't know whether I should laugh or cry over Lifestyles of the Nouveau Pauvre.

sigh.

And then I went off and got a master's in writing... poetry of all things. Is there something wrong with wanting to exist in a mytho-poetic state ALL the time?

my poor little cancerous one-eyed pirate

After treating cancerous tumor #1 and finally removing Buster's surgical neck wear, I was thinking he was on the mend. His right eye is improving, though hasn't yet healed entirely, and the gaping wounds on the left side of his neck are doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing...

But this morning I found another lump on the other side of his neck and the vet hasn't returned my call. Are these lumps appearing as a result of the blood draws he's needed to make his eye serum? Is the new one a result of the shot to sedate him for treatment of the other? Are my efforts to heal my cat resulting in greater ill health?

This morning I told Buster he was being stupid. If he was planning on getting sick and dying, I said, he should have gotten well first so that he could be running around outside chasing things before he kicks it. Sitting around growing tumors is about the least fun thing a cat can do, second only to sitting around growing tumors while trapped indoors, and he should really reconsider.

He didn't want to talk about it. He turned his back to me and resumed playing with the thin stream of water in the bathroom sink.

indulgences

watching episodes of terminator: the sarah conner chronicles, mostly to see summer glau kicking post-firefly butt.

wine and cheese for dinner.

watching my roommate eat steak and cupcake for breakfast, followed by a molasses chip "for dessert" and secretly envying him.

anything one might do with a fancy cashmere blanket. fantasizing about such things and said blanket.

buying a new pair of boots I really can't afford because they were on sale and it's been raining and my cat's tumor site is sloughing off in a really unappealing fashion.

candles and bathtubs and incense. oh my!

staring at the sky until the clouds blur and dimensions cease to exist and I am almost certain I will blow away in the wind.

the poems of pablo neruda. all of them.

narcissistic blog entries even I don't feel much like reading.

mind prey

It's astounding what one's own mind can do to one's self... It knows our greatest weaknesses and thus knows where and how to strike most deeply and effectively to prey on those anxieties. The mind lies in wait for those terrible opportunities to arise.

What would our experience of the world be like if we could harness that power to our own ends? Utilize such specific strength to target our goals, rather than our fears? This, I think, is a project worth pursuing.

I am feeling better today. My mind has cleared. I've had some important communication unfold, necessary conversations exchanged. All that's left is letting go of a particular thought form to make room for a better, more productive one. Slowly, I am making progress.

two from Neruda

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.


A Song of Despair

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

in which I think

I keep making posts to obscure my heart-broken rantings. I am questioning whether to delete my posts. (Perhaps this whole blog?) I'm no longer sure what purpose it is serving... Clearly, the work I need to be doing is internal now. Everything else needs to fall away.

surely

that last post will live to haunt me.

my crappy day

So, my cat has had an ulcerated cornea for weeks and instead of getting better, my one-eyed pirate is getting worse. If that weren't enough, I discovered he also had a lump. Upon further examination, it turns out that lump is cancerous.

Today also marks the confirmation that the man-child that I break my heart upon repeatedly is already chasing after two vaginas, neither of which belong to me, so now my new lease is looking more like a prison sentence. I would like to hate him, except the one thing he is not is a liar. I knew this was coming.

Did I mention that my ex-boyfriend and one of my best friends (or so I thought) has mysteriously decided not to talk to me, after ditching out on plans, and offering no explanation as to why on either count? Yeah, I thought about calling him to tell him our cat was sick, but I didn't see the point since he's gone all non-communicative.

Oh, and I still can't find a real job because improving your life through higher education actually is code for "your degrees freak us out, go away."

A fine fucking day, if I do say so myself.

fuckin' Pre-Raphaelite, yo!

So, I'm standing at the farmers' market yesterday waiting for my girlfriends to arrive and join me for coffee. I'd just bought some apples from the Old World Apple stand and I was probably distracted by leaves and sunlight. A man with a guitar slung over one shoulder comes up to me and says, "Wow. You look like a Pre-Raphaelite." This jarred me out of my reverie and I made eye contact. "I mean, a hot red head standing there with her basket of apples, staring off..." He begins to walk away but then turns back around and says over his shoulder,"Fuckin' Pre-Raphaelite, yo!" At this point I can do nothing but laugh and say thank you. "I mean, I hate to break it to you this way, but..." then he swings his guitar,"Well, I'm gonna go play some MUSIC," the man says before walking away. What a riotous way to start the morning. If you are not familiar with the Pre-Raphaelites you can see some images of their artwork here. Afterword, Mayumi, Tricia, and Sarah joined me on the little Moroccan carpet near the coffee stand in the park, where we were later photographed for the November/December issue of French Glamour, for a story about the "Portland Lifestyle." No joke. What a fabulously strange morning!

notes from underfoot

You know how it is when you are moving... all the sifting through objects, creating piles of varying degrees of importance and chaos, the cutting away of the extraneous. I'm feeling the urge to purge. Moving is a pain in the butt, yet so liberating. Already I'm envisioning the next round on the other end, finding more to recycle as I unpack and organize.

As usually happens, I have also come across old letters, notes to myself, weird scraps with fragmented thoughts whose contexts have been long lost. I've decided to post some of them here, to indulge my absurd impulse to preserve some of this nonsense, while still satisfying my overwhelming need to get rid of most everything.

"I don't jump into puddles anymore and there's no one that I'd like to splash with. Most people don't appreciate it. We threw leaves at each other in the park. That was almost similar."

"Tradescantia. Zebrina. Purpusii."

This fragment came on two pieces of torn paper that had obviously, at one time, belonged to several other pieces which have disappeared since the shredding. On one piece, only the end of two words were available (...hed ...ars.) but on the other, practically a poem:

"...dark window; on
your namelessness on her tongue and the s...

...still in her hand, while the birds sang softly
in the damp green of the trees."

Actually, now that I think of it, that may have been a draft of a poem. I wonder which one it was??

"I have acquired more bruises in the last week than I can remember having in a long time. My collarbone, purple with the weight of your forearm against me. Pink and yellow fingertips dot my thighs, the backs of my upper arms. The impression of your teeth finally fading from my shoulder, and the sand dollar-sized misfortune on my calf, which I don't recall doing anything to induce. I have been happier than I remember being as well."

"The key is elasticity. That's why humans are great."

"...the days I feel like all I am are the roles I play and I hold my hands up before my face and realize I am becoming transparent."

"...why we allow ourselves to be ruled by things that tick and silly painted lines."

"Don't eat that morning. No liquid after 10:20."

I also found a card from my friend Jeff that died this past January and it had me in tears for a full ten minutes...

And, of course, I've also been rifling through assorted class notes on Foucault, Lacan, Eliot's Prufrock, and pictures, cards, grocery lists, receipts, half-filled notebooks, numerous recipes, books and film suggestions, documents, letters of recommendation and rejection, strange foreign coins, and a single Costa Rican pejavilla (?) or palm kernel.

I'll leave you with this scrap I unearthed with this quote from Albert Camus: "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."

home | homelessness

As many of you know, I have been largely unemployed since graduation (thank you for the copy editing work, Matt!!) and also worried about what I jokingly, yet fearfully referred to as my impending homelessness, since I've got to move off-campus in less than a month. Well, I am still jobless, but it seems I will not be homeless after all.

The word is intriguing to me: homelessness. It conjures up such an abstract melange of imagery. It suggests a lack of something, not rooted, necessarily, but certainly something deeper and more meaningful than the mere presence of a house. A home is a space in which to flourish, or retreat-- a space in which to do any number of things really, but chief among them involves this sense of home. More than a possession, or dwelling, a home represents a space where one belongs and can feel at ease with being one's self.

Considering I recently overheard another woman being attacked within earshot of my bedroom windows (that's two consecutive summers now, for anyone keeping count) I am really looking forward to living with R and to feeling more at ease in the space I have chosen to reside. Plus, my new landlord is also a writer, with the same degrees as I have, and seems like a pretty decent fellow. And with that, half my stress has just melted away. I have a plan, a place to put my things without building a fort from my books underneath a bridge. My kitties will get to run around outside again.

And, while I still won't have a gas stove (beggars can't be choosers, the saying goes) I do have a nice expanse of hardwoods, just blocks away from an urban winery, a park, a liberal arts college, plenty of new slacklining trees, and a rhododendron garden.

optimomentusm... or something

So, I did it. I came to the end of the path I'd chosen over four years ago when I quit my corporate job (first, and probably last) at which I made more money than I've ever made (though, having worked a lot in bookstores, certainly isn't saying much) to return to school full time.

I now have two degrees that I didn't have back then, three in total: an A.A. in Liberal Arts - Multidisciplinary Studies (too liberal with my arts to get a proper liberal arts degree); a B.A. in English with a minor in writing; and finally a M.A. in Writing (primarily for poetry, but I've dabbled in fiction and nonfiction writing, though, perhaps regrettably, not technical writing, which is, it seems, where all the paying jobs are).

I was graduated with honors. I was optimistic. I'd planned on using the momentum from my recent experiences to propel me back into the working world and into a new apartment (since, as a recent graduate, I get the boot from my campus housing in 30 days) where I'd start to work on all the art projects I've been thinking of, revising my thesis into a fully-fleshed manuscript, and actually spend time cooking elaborate meals again.

I put out of my mind all of the upsets and difficulties these past two years have shown me. 2008 was supposed to be good; this is was I had told myself initially. And, I thought that perhaps the trials were over and I could relax into something good, something hard-won and richly deserved.

Apparently, I have some unpaid karmic debt left. I've been unemployed since June, applying to every job under the sun, including those that pay a third less than I was making at my last full time job, before my two recent degrees, and while I am qualified (and in many instances over-qualified) I can't seem to get a break. Now, imagine this as your platform from which to sell yourself to prospective landlords.

"No, really, I've been entrusted with teaching university students, I swear I will pay my rent. This is a transition. This is a brief post-graduate school obstacle. Trust me. TRUST me. Wait, where are you going?"

So, this is a shout out to the universe. I didn't mean it when I said to give me your best shot. That was hubris. A joke. Surely, you can forgive that little transgression? I've been humbled.

Oh, and I've also realized that if I am ever in a position to hire new employees, I'm going to call the over-qualified candidates first to tell them I appreciate their smarts and while I may not be able to pay them what they're worth, I certainly won't toss them aside because I'm afraid their passions may reside outside the workplace. Likewise for rental units. I aim to let common sense rule out over so-called "business sense" every time.

Now, hopefully I haven't irritated any potential employers/landlords with my ranting. It's a frustrating road. I trust they will understand. And so now my friends, I ask you, do you have any friends or relatives hiring or renting in Portland? No, seriously.

from a dark field

My short story (very short. 500 words short.) is online at The Smoking Poet. TSP is a cool little labor of love from some very interesting folks and covers poetry, short fiction, book reviews and interviews. It also, as the title might suggest, reviews cigars and features writing about the joy of smoke. Since I don't smoke, I doubt I'll have any pieces up in that section any time soon, but if you'd like to read my story you can go directly to it here. But I'd encourage you to look around the rest of the site too.

flash fiction accepted

I've just gotten confirmation that a piece of flash fiction I wrote has been accepted for publication in the online literary journal The Smoking Poet. It should be appearing in the summer issue and is titled "From A Dark Field." I will, of course, link to it here once it's up on their site.

it's over...

Well, it's all over but the paperwork anyway. I have officially completed my master's degree and must begin panicking about finding work. After all, I am competing with PhDs for the same job I've been doing as a so-called graduate "assistant." Ah, the life of an adjunct. I haven't yet found the market for me to simply get paid for doing whatever I please. If you know where one exists, do tell. For now, though, cleaning and probably packing and certainly nap-taking are in my future. Oh, yes, and reading books solely for pleasure. I can't wait!

this made me smile

So, I randomly came across this on the PSU website. It is a profile of a former and fabulous student of mine and if you read it you'll know why I smiled. And this on a day already full of smile-worthy moments.