gimme gimme:
cinnabar
gibbous moon, waxing
orange bouganvilla
slant rain for the cracked earth
a minor constellation
if you love it, throw it overboard.
that's the only way to make it out alive
so says the seasoned sailor who strayed far from the charted sea
today's rhyme:
chinook wind
river bend
curved spine
strychnine
flying blind
lose my mind
I'm going a little crazy again, but that's okay.
It's what happens when you hit the doldrums.
When I find dry land again I'm going to bury my head in the sand.
background music, played at an extremely loud volume:
and i have no idea what's been going on lately and i just wish you would come over and explain things and i have no idea what's been going on lately and i just wish you would come over and explain things and i have no idea what's been going on
28 June 2007
25 June 2007
might write = quite trite
I got a letter from a publisher last week. It's a sick trick they play, making you send in a self-addressed stamped envelope so that the rejection arrives cloaked in your own familiar script. Earlier that week I'd re-read A Moveable Feast (Paris! Paris! Paris!) and Hemingway's line about writing one true sentence (blah blah blah) was lurking in my brain, setting up roadbloacks everytime I sat down to write. The poem I'd sent in was the most true and the least sentimental thing I've ever written. Now what?
I'd kicked around the idea of being a nurse for awhile, never letting it settle into real consideration until I opened the letter from Poetry Magazine. Well, there goes that. I was all set to apply to nursing school until I mentioned my plan to Squirrel & my father who both scoffed outright. The other people I told about my plan invariably cocked their heads and said really? in the same tone the woman used with me on the bus this morning: Baby, since when is okay to wear stripes and polka dots together. Stripes and polka dots are a winning combination, I say. But I'll defer to those who know me best and say I'd make a terrible nurse -- or that being a nurse would make me terribly unhappy. Squirrel said Why don't you just shut up and write? You love rejection! C'mon!
I'm not quite ready to apply to graduate programs, though I'm starting to see the appeal of rigorous, structured exercises to wring the self-indulgence and solipsism out of my writing. I find myself strung up between two poles, believing on the one hand that I walk around apart and alien from everyone else and, on the other, knowing that there is nothing new under the sun, paralyzed by the inability to paint my new love with same three primary colors given to us all.
So this is what I'm going to do: I found an old book full of creative writing exercises and I'm going to do make myself follow them and post them, no matter how dumb they seem. You can be the critic - as honest as you please. And we shall see, and we shall see where the muses lead.
confession #10
“When routine bites hard, and ambitions are low…”
-Joy Division
I have been at this desk for a year now and it’s getting hard to sit still. Job, relationships, certain street corners – they’ve all lost the sheen of newness and possibility. I’m bored, yes. But more than that, I do not know what to do with the disappointment, like nut grass, that has taken root, thriving on my own failures -- of nerve, will, kindness – and on the failures of others. Last night I sat on the dark steps watching the lightning bugs drift through the air and scheming of ways to move to Paris. I don’t know anyone in Paris; there is no one to hold up a mirror there.
-Joy Division
I have been at this desk for a year now and it’s getting hard to sit still. Job, relationships, certain street corners – they’ve all lost the sheen of newness and possibility. I’m bored, yes. But more than that, I do not know what to do with the disappointment, like nut grass, that has taken root, thriving on my own failures -- of nerve, will, kindness – and on the failures of others. Last night I sat on the dark steps watching the lightning bugs drift through the air and scheming of ways to move to Paris. I don’t know anyone in Paris; there is no one to hold up a mirror there.
In the past I might have pointed to my parents and said “You did this to me,” citing both nature (my Bedouin grandmother, my father’s wanderlust) and nurture’s (Home is where you put up your Christmas tree, kids!) role in shorting my attention span and shoring up the impulse to move on to the next adventure. But that’s not really fair, and I know it. For all their quirks and oddities, my parents are not flakey. They might have taught me how to pack and unpack boxes, how to move and navigate through foreign landscapes. But they never taught me to run away.
Sit tight. Watch and see. It’s going to be okay.
Sit tight. Watch and see. It’s going to be okay.
20 June 2007
someone's been sleeping under my desk
I was crawling under my desk, trying to hook up my new keyboard and I found my cell phone, 3 quarters, a shoe that doesn't belong to me, and a photograph of a black baby who looks like it's about to wail it's head off.
18 June 2007
smart girl
I fell asleep reading under a tree on Saturday and when I woke up, the grass had left a mess of lines on the side of my face. The book was good - one I'd read a long time ago and then forgotten about until I found it for a $1 at the used book store - but it wasn't holding my interest. The grass was cool and newly cut and the sky was that shade of boundless blue that makes me feel a little reckless and a little intimidated.
The night before, in an uncharacteristic fit of optimism, I'd gone on a second date with man and was trying to sort the evening out in my head. I'd ignored the fact that on the first date he wore a LiveStrong bracelet and admitted (bragged?) that he hasn't read a novel since sophomore year of highschool. He had a good vocabulary, though, and claimed he boarded two appaloosas about an hour outside the city. I've never been a girl who swoons over horses, but something about the way he said it made me think of Shell Tucker on the high chapparal and my imagination took off. It was neither here nor there though, because after dinner and two glasses of wine at some downtown bar he leaned across the table, ran his thumb across the back of my hand, and said "I'm not gonna lie. I haven't followed half of what you said tonight. I don't usually date smart girls." At home, unkissed, we'laughed about the whole sorry episode and made fun of things he couldn't help (his horrible last name; the gorilla hair on his arms) but laying in the grass the next morning, it still smarted a bit. I closed my eyes and tried to let the words float away; imagined them disintegrating as they passed through the exosphere into the vaccuum of space.
A spider was inching its way toward my shoulder when I woke up, and like I said, the entire left side of my face was imprinted with blades of grass. The park was filling up with little kids, their birthday parties, and church groups setting out picnic food so it seemed like time to move on. I realized, happily, that no one knew where I was and that, happier still, for the first time in weeks no one was expecting me to be anywhere or do anything all day. I decided to wander down to the museum. In the early spring my boyfriend from college called, leaving one of his signature messages: Hey. It's been awhile. Read in your local rag that Tillmans is throwing some pictures up on a wall near you. Thought you might want to check it out since you were so in to that show in Montreal. Wait...maybe it wasn't Tillmans I'm thinking of. Did we even go to Montreal? Maybe I'm thinking of someone else. Hope your big important job is all that you want it to be. See ya.
It had been me, with a Tillmans in Montreal and the message rankled, even this far out. Even though I have it on good authority that he hasn't shaved in 2 years, looks like a werewolf and that his new girlfriend smokes a lot of pot and never laughs. I decided that Saturday was the day. Smart girls go to museums.
I counted people and things as I walked along the street. 8 dogs, 4 protestors, 1 dad holding the hands of 2 girls with Downs Syndrome. When I ran out of sidewalk, I stood on the corner and waited for the light to change, even though there was no traffic, simply because I had the time. The man standing next to me was also waiting, but he was reading a book, and it struck me as charming and odd, so I must've stared. Next thing I know, he looked up at me and blinked and then said, "What happened to your face?"
"Pardon me?"
"Your face has lines all over it? What happened?"
"Oh. I fell asleep under a tree." I realize how dumb that sounds as I say it.
"That sounds like a good way to spend a morning."
I couldn't tell if he's making fun of me.
"What are you reading?"
"Anna Karenina. It's pretty good. Have you ever read it?"
"Yes. I liked it a lot. Seems like you're having trouble putting it down."
He smiled then and it was a wide, warm smile.
"I'm pretty hooked. Where are you going?"
I paused and he indicated that we should cross the street. He was a couple steps ahead of me and I tried to scan for the tell-tale signs of sociopath. He was wearing pants so I couldn't see if there were any swastika tattoos on his calves. His hands were empty other than the book (a battered up copy -- not the edition from Oprah's book club). A million people surrounded us in every direction and I figured I could probably outrun him so I told the truth.
"The Hirshhorn."
"Me, too." He smiled a little bit.
"No. Not possible."
"Yes, actually. I am."
And he was. We did. We walked there together, walked up the steps and through entrance and all around the building. He turned out to be normal. And smart. And kind. And pretty funny in all the right ways. I didn't fall half-in-love with him, like I'm prone to do in the produce aisle and airports, but I didn't find some reason to excuse myself and scamper off, either. I think the best way to put it is to say that we spoke the same language. I understood what he said, considered it, allowed myself to be impacted by the words coming out of his mouth and the thoughts behind them in a way I usually don't. It wasn't just smiling and nodding.
The museum was ridiculously cold, as though someone'd cranked the air up in anticipation of throngs of sweaty bodies who never showed. After about an hour my teeth were practically chattering out of my head. He, of course, noticed. So we went outside and sat on the steps, watching the minivans of mid-westerns circle the mall, searching for place to park. He told me about his Masters program for a little while (linguistics) and growing up in Brooklyn and I told him about my lately burgeoning crush on Jonathan Letham (he'd read Motherless Brooklyn and loved it) and how I have a hard time talking about things I love. He said he understood and I believed him.
There was no excuse for lying to him and I don't know why I did. I'm a big girl. I know the difference between not volunteering all the information and actively lying to someone; there were ways enough to say No truthfully without saying other, untrue things along with it. Maybe a more pressing question, now that I'm thinking about it is, why did I say No in the first place, and with the added weight and conviction of a committed (if fictitious) relationship? The only defense I can offer is that looking at him, listening to him talk, I saw something worth hanging on to. And then, a split second later, felt the pang of its loss --winced at the thought of this thing growing and growing until it imploded under the weight of its own worth. Messy. Painful.
I guess in the end, I'll I can say is that it seemed safer to keep walking the streets alone. That's the smart thing to do, right? Right?
The night before, in an uncharacteristic fit of optimism, I'd gone on a second date with man and was trying to sort the evening out in my head. I'd ignored the fact that on the first date he wore a LiveStrong bracelet and admitted (bragged?) that he hasn't read a novel since sophomore year of highschool. He had a good vocabulary, though, and claimed he boarded two appaloosas about an hour outside the city. I've never been a girl who swoons over horses, but something about the way he said it made me think of Shell Tucker on the high chapparal and my imagination took off. It was neither here nor there though, because after dinner and two glasses of wine at some downtown bar he leaned across the table, ran his thumb across the back of my hand, and said "I'm not gonna lie. I haven't followed half of what you said tonight. I don't usually date smart girls." At home, unkissed, we'laughed about the whole sorry episode and made fun of things he couldn't help (his horrible last name; the gorilla hair on his arms) but laying in the grass the next morning, it still smarted a bit. I closed my eyes and tried to let the words float away; imagined them disintegrating as they passed through the exosphere into the vaccuum of space.
A spider was inching its way toward my shoulder when I woke up, and like I said, the entire left side of my face was imprinted with blades of grass. The park was filling up with little kids, their birthday parties, and church groups setting out picnic food so it seemed like time to move on. I realized, happily, that no one knew where I was and that, happier still, for the first time in weeks no one was expecting me to be anywhere or do anything all day. I decided to wander down to the museum. In the early spring my boyfriend from college called, leaving one of his signature messages: Hey. It's been awhile. Read in your local rag that Tillmans is throwing some pictures up on a wall near you. Thought you might want to check it out since you were so in to that show in Montreal. Wait...maybe it wasn't Tillmans I'm thinking of. Did we even go to Montreal? Maybe I'm thinking of someone else. Hope your big important job is all that you want it to be. See ya.
It had been me, with a Tillmans in Montreal and the message rankled, even this far out. Even though I have it on good authority that he hasn't shaved in 2 years, looks like a werewolf and that his new girlfriend smokes a lot of pot and never laughs. I decided that Saturday was the day. Smart girls go to museums.
I counted people and things as I walked along the street. 8 dogs, 4 protestors, 1 dad holding the hands of 2 girls with Downs Syndrome. When I ran out of sidewalk, I stood on the corner and waited for the light to change, even though there was no traffic, simply because I had the time. The man standing next to me was also waiting, but he was reading a book, and it struck me as charming and odd, so I must've stared. Next thing I know, he looked up at me and blinked and then said, "What happened to your face?"
"Pardon me?"
"Your face has lines all over it? What happened?"
"Oh. I fell asleep under a tree." I realize how dumb that sounds as I say it.
"That sounds like a good way to spend a morning."
I couldn't tell if he's making fun of me.
"What are you reading?"
"Anna Karenina. It's pretty good. Have you ever read it?"
"Yes. I liked it a lot. Seems like you're having trouble putting it down."
He smiled then and it was a wide, warm smile.
"I'm pretty hooked. Where are you going?"
I paused and he indicated that we should cross the street. He was a couple steps ahead of me and I tried to scan for the tell-tale signs of sociopath. He was wearing pants so I couldn't see if there were any swastika tattoos on his calves. His hands were empty other than the book (a battered up copy -- not the edition from Oprah's book club). A million people surrounded us in every direction and I figured I could probably outrun him so I told the truth.
"The Hirshhorn."
"Me, too." He smiled a little bit.
"No. Not possible."
"Yes, actually. I am."
And he was. We did. We walked there together, walked up the steps and through entrance and all around the building. He turned out to be normal. And smart. And kind. And pretty funny in all the right ways. I didn't fall half-in-love with him, like I'm prone to do in the produce aisle and airports, but I didn't find some reason to excuse myself and scamper off, either. I think the best way to put it is to say that we spoke the same language. I understood what he said, considered it, allowed myself to be impacted by the words coming out of his mouth and the thoughts behind them in a way I usually don't. It wasn't just smiling and nodding.
The museum was ridiculously cold, as though someone'd cranked the air up in anticipation of throngs of sweaty bodies who never showed. After about an hour my teeth were practically chattering out of my head. He, of course, noticed. So we went outside and sat on the steps, watching the minivans of mid-westerns circle the mall, searching for place to park. He told me about his Masters program for a little while (linguistics) and growing up in Brooklyn and I told him about my lately burgeoning crush on Jonathan Letham (he'd read Motherless Brooklyn and loved it) and how I have a hard time talking about things I love. He said he understood and I believed him.
There was no excuse for lying to him and I don't know why I did. I'm a big girl. I know the difference between not volunteering all the information and actively lying to someone; there were ways enough to say No truthfully without saying other, untrue things along with it. Maybe a more pressing question, now that I'm thinking about it is, why did I say No in the first place, and with the added weight and conviction of a committed (if fictitious) relationship? The only defense I can offer is that looking at him, listening to him talk, I saw something worth hanging on to. And then, a split second later, felt the pang of its loss --winced at the thought of this thing growing and growing until it imploded under the weight of its own worth. Messy. Painful.
I guess in the end, I'll I can say is that it seemed safer to keep walking the streets alone. That's the smart thing to do, right? Right?
17 June 2007
13 June 2007
san diego, once upon a time
He rides his bike barefoot and the whole time I think how much I like that and how it would hurt to get a toe caught in the spokes. The day is easy, with buttery light filtering down onto our noses and a lot of people walking up and down the boardwalk. Forward, behind, side to side, just people walking and running and a man on roller blades who obviously wants to join the ice-capades. Sometimes he turns around, looking over his shoulder to tell me a joke or point out a landmark because technically I’m a tourist even though I’m here to see him and maybe a few palm trees as well.
When we stop so I can buy postcards he offers to go get lemonade and I watch his bare feet pad across the cement, small pebbles and sand flying off his heel. Heel-to flick, heel-toe flick, heel-toe flick, until he’s back again with thick styrofoam cups so white that my eyes hurt from their stark sun-light glare. We drink the lemonade gone in a few minutes and chew on the ice and in my head I write out postcards to my friends at home: Having fun! Wish you were here! He’s barefoot and I’m in love! See you in a week!
The sand is hot and soft beneath us when we finally find an empty space in the ocean of people covering the beach. Our towels barely touch and we don’t talk much, just rest up for the ride home and bury our feet so deep that water rushes in to fill the space between our toes. There is no word for the color of the sky and the waves swell and break and swell back up again, then again.
He stands up and I follow him back to our bikes chained to a lamp post. I worry the whole ride home that his toe will get caught between the spokes. But it doesn’t. When we get home, I leave my shoes outside the front door. And when we walk by the dog sleeping on the wide corduroy pillow, we step so softly that she doesn’t even lift her head.
When we stop so I can buy postcards he offers to go get lemonade and I watch his bare feet pad across the cement, small pebbles and sand flying off his heel. Heel-to flick, heel-toe flick, heel-toe flick, until he’s back again with thick styrofoam cups so white that my eyes hurt from their stark sun-light glare. We drink the lemonade gone in a few minutes and chew on the ice and in my head I write out postcards to my friends at home: Having fun! Wish you were here! He’s barefoot and I’m in love! See you in a week!
The sand is hot and soft beneath us when we finally find an empty space in the ocean of people covering the beach. Our towels barely touch and we don’t talk much, just rest up for the ride home and bury our feet so deep that water rushes in to fill the space between our toes. There is no word for the color of the sky and the waves swell and break and swell back up again, then again.
He stands up and I follow him back to our bikes chained to a lamp post. I worry the whole ride home that his toe will get caught between the spokes. But it doesn’t. When we get home, I leave my shoes outside the front door. And when we walk by the dog sleeping on the wide corduroy pillow, we step so softly that she doesn’t even lift her head.
trading
longings(things that remind us that we are going to die):
Well, there's lightning at dusk in the desert to start. And hot feet at night when the breeze won't stir and you can't find a cool side of the pillow. Watching a room go dark? Yeah. And cows standing on Horse Heaven hill in all the sagebrush. Russian Olives down by the river always get me. There is something about their smell, isn't there. Running out of the ocean as it starts to rain and then standing on the front porch, covered in sand and shivering while you wait for everyone else to take their turn in the shower. Ohh. That's a good one. How about laying in the dark, praying that Jesus won't come back til after summer camp. The smell of tomato plants. Train tracks. Falling asleep while my mom vaccuums in the other room. Gramcracker singing cowboy songs. You.
& comforts(things that distract us from the fact that we are going to die):
Tea! Sad songs, strangely enough. A row of apple trees. Finding lipstick in the bottom of my bag. I guess I wouldn't know about that one. No, I guess not. Clean laundry, the way my mother smells. Eating rice out of a bowl with a spoon. Falling asleep on the couch during a movie. Chocolate cake for lunch and wearing your favorite underwear. Blankets made of smooth fabric. The sound of bicycle spokes and orange flowers and words that rhyme. The cinnamon rolls my mom bakes and cold cokes and watermelon and peach pie. Trees with leaves and birds flapping their wings in the dust. Gin and tonic and dancing all night. Green dresses! Cute boys! Cowboy movies, record players and drum sticks. Beautiful girls with yellow hair. You.
Well, there's lightning at dusk in the desert to start. And hot feet at night when the breeze won't stir and you can't find a cool side of the pillow. Watching a room go dark? Yeah. And cows standing on Horse Heaven hill in all the sagebrush. Russian Olives down by the river always get me. There is something about their smell, isn't there. Running out of the ocean as it starts to rain and then standing on the front porch, covered in sand and shivering while you wait for everyone else to take their turn in the shower. Ohh. That's a good one. How about laying in the dark, praying that Jesus won't come back til after summer camp. The smell of tomato plants. Train tracks. Falling asleep while my mom vaccuums in the other room. Gramcracker singing cowboy songs. You.
& comforts(things that distract us from the fact that we are going to die):
Tea! Sad songs, strangely enough. A row of apple trees. Finding lipstick in the bottom of my bag. I guess I wouldn't know about that one. No, I guess not. Clean laundry, the way my mother smells. Eating rice out of a bowl with a spoon. Falling asleep on the couch during a movie. Chocolate cake for lunch and wearing your favorite underwear. Blankets made of smooth fabric. The sound of bicycle spokes and orange flowers and words that rhyme. The cinnamon rolls my mom bakes and cold cokes and watermelon and peach pie. Trees with leaves and birds flapping their wings in the dust. Gin and tonic and dancing all night. Green dresses! Cute boys! Cowboy movies, record players and drum sticks. Beautiful girls with yellow hair. You.
essential
Beverly Rollwagen
She just wants to keep her essential
sorrow. Everyone wants her to
be happy all the time, but she doesn't
want that for them. There is value in
the thread of sadness in each person.
The sobbing child on an airplane,
the unhappy woman waiting by the phone,
a man staring out the window past his wife.
A violin plays through all of them,
one long note held at the beginning and
the end.
She just wants to keep her essential
sorrow. Everyone wants her to
be happy all the time, but she doesn't
want that for them. There is value in
the thread of sadness in each person.
The sobbing child on an airplane,
the unhappy woman waiting by the phone,
a man staring out the window past his wife.
A violin plays through all of them,
one long note held at the beginning and
the end.
08 June 2007
guess what!
Squirrel, that hard-hearted nut, has a crush on a real live boy!
And boy, is he dreamy!
Let's just hope he doesn't say "I find your beauty and brilliance off-putting."
And boy, is he dreamy!
Let's just hope he doesn't say "I find your beauty and brilliance off-putting."
06 June 2007
confessions #4-9
#4. I had to meet a man on the street corner to give him something for my boss. He sort of grunted at me as he took then envelope and then stopped and said You know what? You look like my ex-wife. I think she was wearing that same dress when I picked her up for our first date in 1974 and then we went our separate ways. This interaction, not suprisingly, made me cry.
#5. I'm thinking of moving to Paris. Or maybe Buenos Aires.
#6. When Justice popped the question, AC said that she'd want to date Bono if he were taller and Squirrel said Usher with his shirt off. I said either Sam Beam or Eddie Vedder, depending on the weather.
#7. If I could, I'd erase certain people from my life and memory. And I wouldn't say goodbye.
#8. In 7th grade I pretended to be from Turkmenistan and spoke with a funny accent and only wore the color green. I'm about to pick this up again.
#9. Nostalgia has a strong grip on me already, but summers are particularly bad.
#5. I'm thinking of moving to Paris. Or maybe Buenos Aires.
#6. When Justice popped the question, AC said that she'd want to date Bono if he were taller and Squirrel said Usher with his shirt off. I said either Sam Beam or Eddie Vedder, depending on the weather.
#7. If I could, I'd erase certain people from my life and memory. And I wouldn't say goodbye.
#8. In 7th grade I pretended to be from Turkmenistan and spoke with a funny accent and only wore the color green. I'm about to pick this up again.
#9. Nostalgia has a strong grip on me already, but summers are particularly bad.
Gee, You're So Beautiful that it's Starting to Rain
Richard Brautigan
Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:
Play with Gentle Glass Things A
Computer Magic A
Writing Letter to Those You Love A
Finding out about Fish A
Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty A+!
Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsichord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:
Play with Gentle Glass Things A
Computer Magic A
Writing Letter to Those You Love A
Finding out about Fish A
Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty A+!
05 June 2007
hyperbole casts a long shadow
It took forever to get to work this morning.
I didn't sleep a wink at all last night.
I look like I've been run over by a bus.
It's hotter than the boiling point of tungsten.
I didn't sleep a wink at all last night.
I look like I've been run over by a bus.
It's hotter than the boiling point of tungsten.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
