So things don't seem that great lately. I'm school overworked, and have a bundle of other troubles (small and large) that are likely just part of being a person and living a life. I lost my sweet Evie dog 2 months ago, and that is a grief that deserves it's own post (and will get one, when I can). Suffice it to say after 2-3 weeks of crying and zombie-like existence, I realized I wasn't going to stop crying until I had somewhere to put all that love that Evie created. And so...enter Alice.
Alice is almost 6 months old. She is half German Shepard and half traveling salesman. Honestly, she looks like a miniature German Shepard. Alice is very dainty, so very sweet and affectionate, loves people, but is a bit on the insecure side. I got her from a rescue out in the boonies in Oklahoma; I've had her a little over a month and I adore her for her own sweet little self. She's getting braver slowly; she ventures further out in the yard, wrestles with Ott (my boyfriend's dog), absolutely loves the lake and swims around like crazy, plays with other dogs (as long as they aren't too big and rambunctious). But, she has had a huge problem with the leash. In fact, she would go down on all fours, spread-eagle the minute you gave even the slightest tug on the leash. She was never abused, and was born at the same rescue I got her at where she was well-loved and taken care of. So, it had to be something else.
Meanwhile, I'm taking a heavy load of classes during the summer session, and I haven't had time to really work with her on the leash. My few attempts seemed to result in more negativity, and I ceased them immediately so as not to worsen the issue. And I'm feeling like a failure. I hear Cesar Milan in my head, "You must walk as a pack...you must relate to the dog as calm assertive pack leader...you must give off the right energy...exercise, discipline, affection...otherwise, the dog will never be balanced." I know little Alice needs to get out there, run and walk, and get excited. She will go many places with me in her life, and I know from experience that the way to a happy dog is exercise, exercise, exercise, and socialize, socialize, socialize, and routine, and love, and, and, and...
It's always been so instinctual with me and animals, but now, what if I become a colossal failure as a dog-parent? What if this means I'm a colossal failure in life?
It is clearly becoming bigger than the leash.
And then today, I went out the gate to put some trash out and didn't bother to latch it. Alice has never left the yard of her own volition, so I didn't think I thing about it. Next thing I know, she's pushed herself out of the gate and is wiggling over to me. And I hear Cesar Milan, "You must be in the moment with the dog...dogs live in the moment...use their energy." So, I go all excited with Alice, and we bounce around in the driveway, and I chase her further and further out, and she chases me back, and then I think, her leash is right inside the gate...let's try. I get the leash, she follows me back in the yard, she follows me back into the driveway, we bounce around some more and get all wound-up again, and I put her leash on her while she's getting a belly rub, and then I go. Before she knows it, we're running down the sidewalk, she's sniffing everything, running back and forth in front of me, bouncing here and there like it never occurred to her that it just might be fun. And there I am, in boxers and a t-shirt, no bra, and wearing flip-flops running with little Miss Alice down the street, talking to her like a crazy woman, egging her on in a high-pitched baby voice. (Dear neighbors, I apologize for any trauma caused by this.) We went 3 blocks down and on the way back, Alice was pulling me. In the moment, things were different. In the moment, I didn't realize anything because I was in the moment running with my little dog, and we were having the time of our lives.
Cesar Milan is quiet now. My instincts are in tact. I will know what to do and when to do it. If nothing else is clear, I know I can trust myself.
Thank you for the walk, Alice. :) We'll do it again tomorrow.
And here's today's poem, how appropriate.
To a Friend Whose Work has Come to Triumph
by Anne Sexton
Consider Icarus, pasting those sticky wings on,
testing that strange little tug at his shoulder blade,
and think of that first flawless moment over the lawn
of the labyrinth. Think of the difference it made!
There below are the trees, as awkward as camels;
and here are the shocked starlings pumping past
and think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well:
larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast
of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
Feel the fire at his neck and see how casually
he glances up and is caught, wondrously tunneling
into that hot eye. Who cares that he fell back to the sea?
See him acclaiming the sun and come plunging down
while his sensible daddy goes straight into town.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"is that womyn with a y?...oh, do you have to ask?"
Calypso
I've gathered the women like talismans, one
by one. They first came for tarot card
gossip, mystified
by my hands, by offers
cut with escape. They came
undone in my studio, sailing long eyes, heavy
with smoke and wet
with the force of dream: a vagina
folding mandala-like
out of herself, in full bloom. I used them. I used
the significance
of each card to uphold the dream, soon
they came back with others. I let the bitch
twitch in my lap. I listened. I let the tea steep
till the pot was black. Soon
there was no need for cards. We would use
stills from our daily lives, every woman
a constellation of images, every
portrait each other's chart.
We came together
like months
in a lunar year, measured in nights, dividing
perfectly into female phases. Like women anywhere
living in groups we had synchronous menses. And had
no need of a wound, a puncture, to seal our bond.
--Olga Broumas
Few things to investigate before I comment. Back soon.
I've gathered the women like talismans, one
by one. They first came for tarot card
gossip, mystified
by my hands, by offers
cut with escape. They came
undone in my studio, sailing long eyes, heavy
with smoke and wet
with the force of dream: a vagina
folding mandala-like
out of herself, in full bloom. I used them. I used
the significance
of each card to uphold the dream, soon
they came back with others. I let the bitch
twitch in my lap. I listened. I let the tea steep
till the pot was black. Soon
there was no need for cards. We would use
stills from our daily lives, every woman
a constellation of images, every
portrait each other's chart.
We came together
like months
in a lunar year, measured in nights, dividing
perfectly into female phases. Like women anywhere
living in groups we had synchronous menses. And had
no need of a wound, a puncture, to seal our bond.
--Olga Broumas
Few things to investigate before I comment. Back soon.
Monday, January 25, 2010
twinklings and twinges, wood and water
The Bean Eaters
They eat beans mostly; this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.
Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.
And remembering...
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads
and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.
--Gwendolyn Brooks
Forgive my lack of posting the past few days. There's been some technical difficulties and a massive hangover in the way.
Love, love, love this poem. I remember my mom telling me years ago that the definition of adulthood is deferring gratification. So true. You give up what you want today for what you want to come. Buddhism tells us that the path to contentment is gratitude and acknowledgment of what you already have--not longing for what you don't. I believe that this is mostly what this poem is about. Our old yellow pair isn't resenting beans for dinner; they're taking it casually and grateful for the food that is there. Right now I am a bean eater. Happy for the roof over my head, the food in the fridge, the "Mostly Good" folks in my life. True, I also have a back room full of receipts and bills and uncertainty, but this is not what defines my life. It's the beans on the table in my favorite old bowls, the warm body beside me at night, the friends that make me laugh and give me perspective, the big sweet doggies lounging everywhere, my old cat with her funny expressions and opinions, my kitten who thinks he's a dog and hugs me back when I pick him up, the time to write, the time to think, long baths, and knowing I'm not alone.
One of my favorite zen quotes (I'm embarrassed to say I don't know its origin) is, "Before enlightenment, you chop the wood and carry the water. After enlightenment, you chop the wood and carry the water." Just as our couple keeps putting on their clothes and putting things away, so do I. These little mundane tasks that keep us rooted in this world despite circumstance are a comfort and a constant. This doesn't mean that there aren't "twinklings and twinges" for we must continue to dream and be thankful for the sparkly moments of the past, but they shouldn't haunt us. Chop the wood and carry the water.
Years ago when both me and my brother were undergrads, our dad would always give us a 20 lb. bag of pinto beans for Christmas. It was half a joke at our impoverished student life, but what I hope my dad knows is that it was also a good gift. Those bags of beans were always in the pantry, waiting to be soaked and seasoned and simmered on the stove. I make a mean pot of pinto beans, and I can do it with pretty much whatever I have. Sure, a ham hock, fresh garlic and onions, some tomatoes, and some peppers make them better, but I can also make do and the beans suffer not. I miss those big bags of beans, and the tactile pleasure of diving my hands into the bag, grabbing handfuls, sorting them for little rocks, and knowing that when I came home that evening dinner was there. For these kinds of things I've learned along the way while making-do and surviving, I am grateful. They serve me well.
So, cheers to all our bean eaters, wood choppers, and water carriers...continue on and live our days.
They eat beans mostly; this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.
Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.
And remembering...
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads
and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.
--Gwendolyn Brooks
Forgive my lack of posting the past few days. There's been some technical difficulties and a massive hangover in the way.
Love, love, love this poem. I remember my mom telling me years ago that the definition of adulthood is deferring gratification. So true. You give up what you want today for what you want to come. Buddhism tells us that the path to contentment is gratitude and acknowledgment of what you already have--not longing for what you don't. I believe that this is mostly what this poem is about. Our old yellow pair isn't resenting beans for dinner; they're taking it casually and grateful for the food that is there. Right now I am a bean eater. Happy for the roof over my head, the food in the fridge, the "Mostly Good" folks in my life. True, I also have a back room full of receipts and bills and uncertainty, but this is not what defines my life. It's the beans on the table in my favorite old bowls, the warm body beside me at night, the friends that make me laugh and give me perspective, the big sweet doggies lounging everywhere, my old cat with her funny expressions and opinions, my kitten who thinks he's a dog and hugs me back when I pick him up, the time to write, the time to think, long baths, and knowing I'm not alone.
One of my favorite zen quotes (I'm embarrassed to say I don't know its origin) is, "Before enlightenment, you chop the wood and carry the water. After enlightenment, you chop the wood and carry the water." Just as our couple keeps putting on their clothes and putting things away, so do I. These little mundane tasks that keep us rooted in this world despite circumstance are a comfort and a constant. This doesn't mean that there aren't "twinklings and twinges" for we must continue to dream and be thankful for the sparkly moments of the past, but they shouldn't haunt us. Chop the wood and carry the water.
Years ago when both me and my brother were undergrads, our dad would always give us a 20 lb. bag of pinto beans for Christmas. It was half a joke at our impoverished student life, but what I hope my dad knows is that it was also a good gift. Those bags of beans were always in the pantry, waiting to be soaked and seasoned and simmered on the stove. I make a mean pot of pinto beans, and I can do it with pretty much whatever I have. Sure, a ham hock, fresh garlic and onions, some tomatoes, and some peppers make them better, but I can also make do and the beans suffer not. I miss those big bags of beans, and the tactile pleasure of diving my hands into the bag, grabbing handfuls, sorting them for little rocks, and knowing that when I came home that evening dinner was there. For these kinds of things I've learned along the way while making-do and surviving, I am grateful. They serve me well.
So, cheers to all our bean eaters, wood choppers, and water carriers...continue on and live our days.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
enough to make you happy
Parable of the Gift
My friend gave me
a fuschia plant, expecting
much of me in cold April
judgment not to leave it
overnight in nature, deep
pink in its plastic
basket -- I have
killed my gift, exposed
flowers in a mass of leaves,
mistaking it
for part of nature with
its many stems: what
do I do with you now,
former living thing
that last night still
resembled my friend, abundant
leaves like her fluffy hair
although the leaves had
a reddish cast: I can see her
climbing the stone steps in spring dusk
holding the quivering
present in her hands, with
Eric and Daphne following
close behind, each
bearing a towel of lettuce leaves:
so much, so much to celebrate
tonight, as though she were saying
here is the world, that should be
enough to make you happy.
--Louise Gluck (there's supposed to be an umlat over the "u," drat lack of formatting)
I spent today mostly outside as it was one of those weird very warm January days we sometimes get here in north Texas. I planted wildflower seeds; so many wildflower seeds that if there are no wildflowers this spring (and likely forever more on the property) I cannot fathom what went wrong. Outside, today, the world was enough to make me happy. To make me forget the big and small betrayals and losses as of late--the world (and specifically my backyard) was enough. I forget, but it almost always is enough. I'm dreaming of our summer garden, the hammock, the flowers and vines; I'm seeing it as it will be and I'm ready for warmer days.
So much more going on in the poem, but I'd like to marinate on it for a while. So, just enjoy.
My friend gave me
a fuschia plant, expecting
much of me in cold April
judgment not to leave it
overnight in nature, deep
pink in its plastic
basket -- I have
killed my gift, exposed
flowers in a mass of leaves,
mistaking it
for part of nature with
its many stems: what
do I do with you now,
former living thing
that last night still
resembled my friend, abundant
leaves like her fluffy hair
although the leaves had
a reddish cast: I can see her
climbing the stone steps in spring dusk
holding the quivering
present in her hands, with
Eric and Daphne following
close behind, each
bearing a towel of lettuce leaves:
so much, so much to celebrate
tonight, as though she were saying
here is the world, that should be
enough to make you happy.
--Louise Gluck (there's supposed to be an umlat over the "u," drat lack of formatting)
I spent today mostly outside as it was one of those weird very warm January days we sometimes get here in north Texas. I planted wildflower seeds; so many wildflower seeds that if there are no wildflowers this spring (and likely forever more on the property) I cannot fathom what went wrong. Outside, today, the world was enough to make me happy. To make me forget the big and small betrayals and losses as of late--the world (and specifically my backyard) was enough. I forget, but it almost always is enough. I'm dreaming of our summer garden, the hammock, the flowers and vines; I'm seeing it as it will be and I'm ready for warmer days.
So much more going on in the poem, but I'd like to marinate on it for a while. So, just enjoy.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
oooh baby do you know what that's worth?
The Pope's Penis
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat --- and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
--Sharon Olds
Um, I'm going to have to come back to this a little later. Might be quite late. I shame myself for not posting yesterday, and will make up for it at another date. But see, I lost by more than a 10 point spread at bowling tonight, and well, let's just say the wager was stiff...
Ha! The Pope's penis, indeed. More to follow.
Later...
So, the Pope's penis. Despite the clearly irreverent subject matter there's definitely something here. Ms. Olds has to delight Freud. The poem before this one is titled "Early Images of Heaven" and it is all about penises, the beauty of them, before birth becoming from them, etc. etc. I get it; you like the penis. Maybe you even covet the penis. Nothing wrong with that.
Early on in our friendship, me and my best friend were talking out on her back porch about the years I exclusively dated women. She asked why I went back to men, and my cheeky response was that, "There's nothing like a big, fat, weiner." It's true, and my off-the-cuff remark has become part of our lexicon and a long-running joke. I certainly hope most heterosexual women feel that way about the penis (but, sadly, I know they don't). What I believe Freud gets very, very wrong is that women don't experience penis envy (we don't want one of those; I like my genitalia neatly on the inside, thanks); we experience penis delight and curiosity (in the best circumstances).
Now, our poem takes us to the just plain odd idea of the Pope's penis. I know he has one, but frankly, I hadn't ever thought of it much. Furthermore, I could probably have lived the rest of my days not ever considering the Pope's pubic hair. The images Ms. Olds gives us of the Pope's member (not of the congregation, hee!) are almost of dumbly swaying things, not exactly without purpose--bell won't ring without a clapper, and a fish in the water isn't without a function--but there's something mindless in these metaphors. Ah wait, not mindless but of their own accord. You can't get much more sexless than the Pope, but our poem reminds us that everyone is sexual. It's a biology thing and inescapable. In a Human Sexuality course I took early in my college career the overriding message was that we were all sexual beings from womb to tomb. So, even if (like the Pope) we choose a chaste life, our sexuality remains and it has its own accord. The penis will stand; whether for a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man, or nice summer breeze...the Dude abides. Maybe the Pope's penis really does stand in praise of God, and if so, what is more of a praise than that? It would be whole praise, totally of its own accord.
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat --- and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
--Sharon Olds
Um, I'm going to have to come back to this a little later. Might be quite late. I shame myself for not posting yesterday, and will make up for it at another date. But see, I lost by more than a 10 point spread at bowling tonight, and well, let's just say the wager was stiff...
Ha! The Pope's penis, indeed. More to follow.
Later...
So, the Pope's penis. Despite the clearly irreverent subject matter there's definitely something here. Ms. Olds has to delight Freud. The poem before this one is titled "Early Images of Heaven" and it is all about penises, the beauty of them, before birth becoming from them, etc. etc. I get it; you like the penis. Maybe you even covet the penis. Nothing wrong with that.
Early on in our friendship, me and my best friend were talking out on her back porch about the years I exclusively dated women. She asked why I went back to men, and my cheeky response was that, "There's nothing like a big, fat, weiner." It's true, and my off-the-cuff remark has become part of our lexicon and a long-running joke. I certainly hope most heterosexual women feel that way about the penis (but, sadly, I know they don't). What I believe Freud gets very, very wrong is that women don't experience penis envy (we don't want one of those; I like my genitalia neatly on the inside, thanks); we experience penis delight and curiosity (in the best circumstances).
Now, our poem takes us to the just plain odd idea of the Pope's penis. I know he has one, but frankly, I hadn't ever thought of it much. Furthermore, I could probably have lived the rest of my days not ever considering the Pope's pubic hair. The images Ms. Olds gives us of the Pope's member (not of the congregation, hee!) are almost of dumbly swaying things, not exactly without purpose--bell won't ring without a clapper, and a fish in the water isn't without a function--but there's something mindless in these metaphors. Ah wait, not mindless but of their own accord. You can't get much more sexless than the Pope, but our poem reminds us that everyone is sexual. It's a biology thing and inescapable. In a Human Sexuality course I took early in my college career the overriding message was that we were all sexual beings from womb to tomb. So, even if (like the Pope) we choose a chaste life, our sexuality remains and it has its own accord. The penis will stand; whether for a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man, or nice summer breeze...the Dude abides. Maybe the Pope's penis really does stand in praise of God, and if so, what is more of a praise than that? It would be whole praise, totally of its own accord.
Monday, January 18, 2010
beauty that moves
Viewing the Body
Flowers like a gangster's funeral;
Eyeshadow like a whore.
They all say isn't she beautiful.
She, who never wore
Lipstick or such a dress,
Never got taken out,
Was scarcely looked at, much less
Wanted or talked about;
Who, gray as a mouse, crept
The dark halls at her mother's
Or snuggled, soft, and slept
Alone in the dim bedcovers.
Today at last she holds
All eyes and a place of honor
Till the obscene red folds
Of satin close down on her.
--W. D. Snodgrass
How many funerals have I been to like this? This is why I no longer attend the viewings. There's something obscene in looking at the dead all made-up and stiff; no longer resembling themselves just these empty shells. Even worse when they make the person into something they were not. I too, rarely wear lipstick or a dress like that. And I would prefer that I'm sent off as I am: clean face and in my favorite pajama pants, please. However, what our dear Mr. Snodgrass does not address is if she wanted all eyes on her (even for once). What if she preferred her mousy, quiet existence? Likely, she did or she would've done something about it. And the worst of it all...the murmuring of "isn't she beautiful." Looking nothing like herself...beautiful. Oh, how I hate funerals. They're like red carpet events for normal people. Gawk at the bereaved, wear your best outfit, arrive, press cool hands to others as you make the rounds, and always answer with something appropriate and pithy. Sadly, in my 34 years on this planet I've been to more funerals than weddings.
I always feel a little like the lady in our poem when my dear friend Mary makes me up. Mary is beautiful, glamorous, fashionable, and loves to makeover her girlfriends. Especially, the low-maintenance ones like me and her sister. I'll emerge from her ministrations in the back room: contacts in, hair artfully fixed, my big eyes smudged and hi-lighted, my waist cinched into a little dress, and my friends will stare. Don't get me wrong, the reaction is fun, and much more profound if you aren't a fancy gal on any kind of daily basis. I did a version of Mary recently for an evening out with friends to go to the biggest honky-tonk in Texas and take in a show. My boyfriend just kept saying he wouldn't recognize me when I came out of the bathroom. I look great in the pictures, but in a weird way it was like wearing a costume...me in technicolor.
I wouldn't say I'm mousy; I'm just the girl you end up talking to at the bar who surprises you. I hold your attention sans cleavage. Trust me, I'm not the girl who's ass you noticed first. I got a funny text today that said, "You never came to Lou's" (Lou's being a local bar). I replied with, "Sorry, who is this?" (I never go to Lou's). Here's the rest of the exchange:
Them: Sorry, I guess I have the wrong number
Me: No prob
Them: Just to be clear, you aren't that girl who played foosball in the sparkly shirt?
Me: Ha! No, I'm not that girl.
Them: Okay, sorry then, bye.
I'm not that girl. Never been that girl for more than a night. And if you saw me the next day, you'd likely not recognize me. I'm old-fashioned I guess, and prefer what's beautiful about me to be almost a surprise. Reserved for a few. Not on display at Walmart or the bar for all the male attention I could get.
I'll leave you with a fabulous Ani Difranco quote, "It took me too long to realize that I don't take good pictures 'cuz I've got the kind of beauty that moves..."
Much better; don't you think?
Flowers like a gangster's funeral;
Eyeshadow like a whore.
They all say isn't she beautiful.
She, who never wore
Lipstick or such a dress,
Never got taken out,
Was scarcely looked at, much less
Wanted or talked about;
Who, gray as a mouse, crept
The dark halls at her mother's
Or snuggled, soft, and slept
Alone in the dim bedcovers.
Today at last she holds
All eyes and a place of honor
Till the obscene red folds
Of satin close down on her.
--W. D. Snodgrass
How many funerals have I been to like this? This is why I no longer attend the viewings. There's something obscene in looking at the dead all made-up and stiff; no longer resembling themselves just these empty shells. Even worse when they make the person into something they were not. I too, rarely wear lipstick or a dress like that. And I would prefer that I'm sent off as I am: clean face and in my favorite pajama pants, please. However, what our dear Mr. Snodgrass does not address is if she wanted all eyes on her (even for once). What if she preferred her mousy, quiet existence? Likely, she did or she would've done something about it. And the worst of it all...the murmuring of "isn't she beautiful." Looking nothing like herself...beautiful. Oh, how I hate funerals. They're like red carpet events for normal people. Gawk at the bereaved, wear your best outfit, arrive, press cool hands to others as you make the rounds, and always answer with something appropriate and pithy. Sadly, in my 34 years on this planet I've been to more funerals than weddings.
I always feel a little like the lady in our poem when my dear friend Mary makes me up. Mary is beautiful, glamorous, fashionable, and loves to makeover her girlfriends. Especially, the low-maintenance ones like me and her sister. I'll emerge from her ministrations in the back room: contacts in, hair artfully fixed, my big eyes smudged and hi-lighted, my waist cinched into a little dress, and my friends will stare. Don't get me wrong, the reaction is fun, and much more profound if you aren't a fancy gal on any kind of daily basis. I did a version of Mary recently for an evening out with friends to go to the biggest honky-tonk in Texas and take in a show. My boyfriend just kept saying he wouldn't recognize me when I came out of the bathroom. I look great in the pictures, but in a weird way it was like wearing a costume...me in technicolor.
I wouldn't say I'm mousy; I'm just the girl you end up talking to at the bar who surprises you. I hold your attention sans cleavage. Trust me, I'm not the girl who's ass you noticed first. I got a funny text today that said, "You never came to Lou's" (Lou's being a local bar). I replied with, "Sorry, who is this?" (I never go to Lou's). Here's the rest of the exchange:
Them: Sorry, I guess I have the wrong number
Me: No prob
Them: Just to be clear, you aren't that girl who played foosball in the sparkly shirt?
Me: Ha! No, I'm not that girl.
Them: Okay, sorry then, bye.
I'm not that girl. Never been that girl for more than a night. And if you saw me the next day, you'd likely not recognize me. I'm old-fashioned I guess, and prefer what's beautiful about me to be almost a surprise. Reserved for a few. Not on display at Walmart or the bar for all the male attention I could get.
I'll leave you with a fabulous Ani Difranco quote, "It took me too long to realize that I don't take good pictures 'cuz I've got the kind of beauty that moves..."
Much better; don't you think?
Sunday, January 17, 2010
sara is a sentence
Charles Simic
Charles Simic is a sentence.
A sentence has a beginning and an end.
Is he a simple or compound sentence?
It depends on the weather,
It depends on the stars above.
What is the subject of the sentence?
The subject is your beloved Charles Simic.
How many verbs are there in the sentence?
Eating, sleeping and fucking are some of its verbs.
What is the object of the sentence?
The object, my little ones,
Is not yet in sight.
And who is writing this awkward sentence?
A blackmailer, a girl in love,
And an applicant for a job.
Will they end with a period or a question mark?
They'll end with an exclamation point and an ink spot.
--Charles Simic (clearly)
Today, I am convinced no one will read this. I'm pretty sure my boyfriend hasn't even read it. But that's alright. I truly am doing it for the discipline, the writing, the commitment to something everyday. So, if anyone is out there, do comment, I'd love to know.
I'm making boeuf bourguignon tonight. It's simmering right now and the house smells sinful. So rich it's almost sexual...I'm seducing the entire household. I love to cook. And as time goes on, I'm sure there will be many posts about cooking and gardening. What can I say? I'm a hedonistic girl.
So, on to our poem (that I love, by the way). It's cheeky and irreverent, and absolutely dead on. Ordinarily, I hate question marks in poems, but they work here. This is much my poem right now. A sentence with an object yet to be sight. I am a sentence, the subject with many verbs. Cooking is one of those verbs, as is dreaming, feeding the dogs, taking a shower...and yes, fucking is one of them too. (Perhaps tonight even, sorry Mom.) Our poem is very much what I was trying to get at in an earlier post. The meantime or object of our sentence isn't what's always so important. Just make sure there's some verbs present. And especially make sure that cooking/eating delicious food and fucking are there.
Sunday Hedonist signing out...
Charles Simic is a sentence.
A sentence has a beginning and an end.
Is he a simple or compound sentence?
It depends on the weather,
It depends on the stars above.
What is the subject of the sentence?
The subject is your beloved Charles Simic.
How many verbs are there in the sentence?
Eating, sleeping and fucking are some of its verbs.
What is the object of the sentence?
The object, my little ones,
Is not yet in sight.
And who is writing this awkward sentence?
A blackmailer, a girl in love,
And an applicant for a job.
Will they end with a period or a question mark?
They'll end with an exclamation point and an ink spot.
--Charles Simic (clearly)
Today, I am convinced no one will read this. I'm pretty sure my boyfriend hasn't even read it. But that's alright. I truly am doing it for the discipline, the writing, the commitment to something everyday. So, if anyone is out there, do comment, I'd love to know.
I'm making boeuf bourguignon tonight. It's simmering right now and the house smells sinful. So rich it's almost sexual...I'm seducing the entire household. I love to cook. And as time goes on, I'm sure there will be many posts about cooking and gardening. What can I say? I'm a hedonistic girl.
So, on to our poem (that I love, by the way). It's cheeky and irreverent, and absolutely dead on. Ordinarily, I hate question marks in poems, but they work here. This is much my poem right now. A sentence with an object yet to be sight. I am a sentence, the subject with many verbs. Cooking is one of those verbs, as is dreaming, feeding the dogs, taking a shower...and yes, fucking is one of them too. (Perhaps tonight even, sorry Mom.) Our poem is very much what I was trying to get at in an earlier post. The meantime or object of our sentence isn't what's always so important. Just make sure there's some verbs present. And especially make sure that cooking/eating delicious food and fucking are there.
Sunday Hedonist signing out...
Saturday, January 16, 2010
little domesticities
Our Lady of the Snows
In white,
the unpainted statue of the young girl
on the side altar
made the quality of mercy seem scrupulous and calm.
When my mother was in a hospital drying out,
or drinking at a pace that would put her there soon,
I would slip in the side door,
light an aromatic candle,
and bargain for us both.
Or else I'd stare into the day-moon of that face
and, if I concentrated, fly.
Come down! come down!
she'd call, because I was so high.
Though mostly when I think of myself
at that age, I am standing at my older brother's closet
studying the shirts,
convinced that I could be absolutely transformed
by something I could borrow.
And the days churned by,
navigable sorrow.
--Robert Hass
Have to say that I'm not feeling the sorrow of this poem today. I've been concerned with the little domesticities that can fill a day with much satisfaction. I'm currently taking a break from mopping the floor and letting two rooms dry before moving on. Boyfriend began building a compost pile in our backyard, and is right now hanging out in the bedroom with the two dogs. There will of course be doggie prints on the floor later, but I need to see the smooth boards just for a minute.
I do relate much to the ideas that, "...convinced that I could be absolutely transformed by something I could borrow," and, "bargain for us both." I've thought about that quite a bit of late. In the current legal, employment, and financial cul-de-sac boyfriend and I have found ourselves in I've wondered what I could bargain and how I could be transformed. Transformed in the sense of getting into the big what-I-want. I don't think you can. You certainly can't borrow someone's style because it's still you in it. And all this gets very sticky because, aren't we our dreams too? We'd have to be. And as much as the boy bargained for a sober mother and to be his older brother he wouldn't be, but the dreams were just as much a part of him. Which is why I think these places we find ourselves in life are, "navigable sorrows." Somehow, we get a compass through them by dreaming of something else. Trying to dream, anyhow.
Days like this, it gets closer. A compost pile in preparation for the garden beds to come this spring, a clean house, the smell of laundry, the promise of a shower and a soft bed, dogs and cats lounging everywhere, and boyfriend is cooking dinner. It doesn't look so far off from where I want to be and, "made the quality of mercy seem scrupulous and calm..."
In white,
the unpainted statue of the young girl
on the side altar
made the quality of mercy seem scrupulous and calm.
When my mother was in a hospital drying out,
or drinking at a pace that would put her there soon,
I would slip in the side door,
light an aromatic candle,
and bargain for us both.
Or else I'd stare into the day-moon of that face
and, if I concentrated, fly.
Come down! come down!
she'd call, because I was so high.
Though mostly when I think of myself
at that age, I am standing at my older brother's closet
studying the shirts,
convinced that I could be absolutely transformed
by something I could borrow.
And the days churned by,
navigable sorrow.
--Robert Hass
Have to say that I'm not feeling the sorrow of this poem today. I've been concerned with the little domesticities that can fill a day with much satisfaction. I'm currently taking a break from mopping the floor and letting two rooms dry before moving on. Boyfriend began building a compost pile in our backyard, and is right now hanging out in the bedroom with the two dogs. There will of course be doggie prints on the floor later, but I need to see the smooth boards just for a minute.
I do relate much to the ideas that, "...convinced that I could be absolutely transformed by something I could borrow," and, "bargain for us both." I've thought about that quite a bit of late. In the current legal, employment, and financial cul-de-sac boyfriend and I have found ourselves in I've wondered what I could bargain and how I could be transformed. Transformed in the sense of getting into the big what-I-want. I don't think you can. You certainly can't borrow someone's style because it's still you in it. And all this gets very sticky because, aren't we our dreams too? We'd have to be. And as much as the boy bargained for a sober mother and to be his older brother he wouldn't be, but the dreams were just as much a part of him. Which is why I think these places we find ourselves in life are, "navigable sorrows." Somehow, we get a compass through them by dreaming of something else. Trying to dream, anyhow.
Days like this, it gets closer. A compost pile in preparation for the garden beds to come this spring, a clean house, the smell of laundry, the promise of a shower and a soft bed, dogs and cats lounging everywhere, and boyfriend is cooking dinner. It doesn't look so far off from where I want to be and, "made the quality of mercy seem scrupulous and calm..."
Friday, January 15, 2010
morning
Scorn
She thought of no wilder delicacy than the starling eggs she fed him for
breakfast,
and if he sat and ate like a farmhand and she hated him sometimes,
she knew it didn't matter: that whatever in the din of the argument
was harshly spoken, something else was done, soothed and patted away
When they were young the towering fierceness
of their differences had frightened her even as she longed for physical
release.
Out of their mouths such curses; their hands huge, pointing, stabbing
the air.
How had they not been wounded? And wounded they'd convalesced in
the same rooms
and bed. When at last they knew everything without confiding--fears,
stinks,
boiling hearts--they gave up themselves a little so that they might both
love and scorn
each other, and they ate from each other's hands.
--Carol Frost
I woke up grouchy this morning. During the night, Ted (our adolescent kitten), had AGAIN played the gravity game with my glass of water. Boyfriend was sleeping away next to me, but was sweet enough to lock Ted out of the room and ignore my stomping around. Later, I woke up in a hot sweat: my hair stuck to the back of my neck, clammy on my sternum, the air was brutal when I escaped the covers. Then boyfriend was in our one bathroom this morning; I knocked several times and asked if he was using the bathroom or in the bath (to determine length of holding time). His reply each time was, "Yes." Now that I think about it that was an appropriate response for either question. He was doing one or the other. But the truth was he couldn't hear me, and I was gearing up for a good huff making a big to-do about putting on my clothes and shoes to go outside. (If you have a backyard and one bathroom, you've done it too!) Small things. And I let him leave for work without a kiss and an "I love you."
But, I think that our poem is talking what happens in love/marriage/cohabitation to two people after much time. That what you choose to get past might just be what holds you together. Navigating another person is hard, and the towering differences are what you love and then what you don't. She thought there no more exotic delicacy than serving her husband starling eggs for breakfast. I'm sure they looked lovely on the plate arranged neatly side-by-side accompanied by thick, crusty, buttered bread. And her husband probably thought, These damn eggs are sure small. My boyfriend would put melted Velveeta on my perfectly steamed, blanched, and sea-salted broccoli if it were available. Philistine. I bet the starling eggs were yummy.
My grandparents had a rule in their marriage that they would never go to sleep angry. Now, I know this included more than one all-nighter of sitting in the living room bickering or with arms crossed in stony silence. However, this would certainly separate the small things from the big things I would think. Just what are you willing to fight all night for? Starling eggs, really? Hard to know sometimes what the small from the big is, and harder still to keep the small from becoming big. It's the in-it-together that's the important thing. Everyone sleeps or no one sleeps. Kind of like the Borg.
Ah, and this is it: wounded they'd convalesced in the same and bed...at last they knew everything without confiding--fears, stinks, boiling hearts--they gave up themselves a little so that they might both love and scorn each other, and they ate from each other's hands. Belonging with someone else is a push and pull, and you do give yourself up a little, well, not so much give up as relax your grip on yourself. You hurt each other and watch each other heal without dilution. There's no sympathetic response; you are in it. The duality of the one who hurts you being the one that can ease you is uncomfortable. Something always "soothed and patted away." I don't know quite how to pinpoint it, but there's a relinquishing there.
I dislike the usage of "scorn." I'm not sure it's accurate. Sorry, Ms. Frost, I think it's more the implied choice of resignation than scorn. And of course I texted boyfriend my love, and that which he returned. Big things.
She thought of no wilder delicacy than the starling eggs she fed him for
breakfast,
and if he sat and ate like a farmhand and she hated him sometimes,
she knew it didn't matter: that whatever in the din of the argument
was harshly spoken, something else was done, soothed and patted away
When they were young the towering fierceness
of their differences had frightened her even as she longed for physical
release.
Out of their mouths such curses; their hands huge, pointing, stabbing
the air.
How had they not been wounded? And wounded they'd convalesced in
the same rooms
and bed. When at last they knew everything without confiding--fears,
stinks,
boiling hearts--they gave up themselves a little so that they might both
love and scorn
each other, and they ate from each other's hands.
--Carol Frost
I woke up grouchy this morning. During the night, Ted (our adolescent kitten), had AGAIN played the gravity game with my glass of water. Boyfriend was sleeping away next to me, but was sweet enough to lock Ted out of the room and ignore my stomping around. Later, I woke up in a hot sweat: my hair stuck to the back of my neck, clammy on my sternum, the air was brutal when I escaped the covers. Then boyfriend was in our one bathroom this morning; I knocked several times and asked if he was using the bathroom or in the bath (to determine length of holding time). His reply each time was, "Yes." Now that I think about it that was an appropriate response for either question. He was doing one or the other. But the truth was he couldn't hear me, and I was gearing up for a good huff making a big to-do about putting on my clothes and shoes to go outside. (If you have a backyard and one bathroom, you've done it too!) Small things. And I let him leave for work without a kiss and an "I love you."
But, I think that our poem is talking what happens in love/marriage/cohabitation to two people after much time. That what you choose to get past might just be what holds you together. Navigating another person is hard, and the towering differences are what you love and then what you don't. She thought there no more exotic delicacy than serving her husband starling eggs for breakfast. I'm sure they looked lovely on the plate arranged neatly side-by-side accompanied by thick, crusty, buttered bread. And her husband probably thought, These damn eggs are sure small. My boyfriend would put melted Velveeta on my perfectly steamed, blanched, and sea-salted broccoli if it were available. Philistine. I bet the starling eggs were yummy.
My grandparents had a rule in their marriage that they would never go to sleep angry. Now, I know this included more than one all-nighter of sitting in the living room bickering or with arms crossed in stony silence. However, this would certainly separate the small things from the big things I would think. Just what are you willing to fight all night for? Starling eggs, really? Hard to know sometimes what the small from the big is, and harder still to keep the small from becoming big. It's the in-it-together that's the important thing. Everyone sleeps or no one sleeps. Kind of like the Borg.
Ah, and this is it: wounded they'd convalesced in the same and bed...at last they knew everything without confiding--fears, stinks, boiling hearts--they gave up themselves a little so that they might both love and scorn each other, and they ate from each other's hands. Belonging with someone else is a push and pull, and you do give yourself up a little, well, not so much give up as relax your grip on yourself. You hurt each other and watch each other heal without dilution. There's no sympathetic response; you are in it. The duality of the one who hurts you being the one that can ease you is uncomfortable. Something always "soothed and patted away." I don't know quite how to pinpoint it, but there's a relinquishing there.
I dislike the usage of "scorn." I'm not sure it's accurate. Sorry, Ms. Frost, I think it's more the implied choice of resignation than scorn. And of course I texted boyfriend my love, and that which he returned. Big things.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
prelude
Each year for xmas my mom gives me a poetry-of-the-day calendar. You know the kind; you tear off a page every day, and it sits on your desk, and maybe it's how you begin each workday as you sit down with your coffee cup. Yours might be cartoons, or famous quotations, crossword puzzles, or pictures of kittens. I don't judge. But mine was always poems, and there's always been poems, always. No calendar this year (apparently me and my mom were the only ones buying them). And I find myself at the beginning of this year sans calendar, sans job, sans clear direction, and there are always poems.
As my guidebook of searching I will employ the trusty (at least I hope so) volume Contemporary American Poetry, edited by A. Poulin, Jr. and Michael Waters, 7th edition. I will randomly open the book to a poem each day--eyes closed, no peeking, no repeats allowed. We'll just see what comes up and wander around in it. I certainly wanted to use my beloved Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry but this would hardly be fair...it would spring open to all my favorites and not make me work for a damn thing.
So, to begin, a few words of wisdom from our editor, Michael Waters, "Such changes...reflect the fact that any anthology needs to be flexible and active, edition by edition, in order to remain essential." And what, may I ask, is life but not an anthology of experiences? Furthermore, Mr. Waters, "I felt it incumbent on me to honor predilections as much as possible, while still pressing my own thumb, however lightly, on each page." Very nice, Mr. Waters. Let's shoot for that.
Without further delay, and no kidding, here's today's arrival.
January
After days of putting down my poem
to wipe the chair, I see
the skin of the room is oozing pitch.
Steep as a church, a bishop's hat,
the roof is lined with spruce,
and this close to the stove
the heat has opened the sapline
at each dark flaw, as though it tapped
a living tree. Everyday, a pure emanation,
the syrup bleeds to the surface of the wood.
Now, a length of softwood in its craw,
the stove crackles with resin,
and the room itself
stretches and cracks with heat, cold,
the walls' mediation between them.
There are three pale coins of resin
in the usual place on the arm of the chair.
And the momentary flies,
hatched behind the wallboard
or in the pores of the old beams,
stagger down the window's white page.
If I think I am apart from this, I am a fool.
And if I think the black engine of the stove
can raise in me the same luminous waking,
I am still a fool,
since I am the one who keeps the fire.
--Ellen Bryant Voigt
The last stanza...absolutely killer. I suppose I am still a fool. And the heat will always open the saplines of the darkest flaws. Especially if you are the one keeping the fire. I am not apart from this. I am not observing this. Inertia or no, waiting is just an illusion and it is all right now dripping down. Active and flexible, and press lightly with my thumb on each page...
As my guidebook of searching I will employ the trusty (at least I hope so) volume Contemporary American Poetry, edited by A. Poulin, Jr. and Michael Waters, 7th edition. I will randomly open the book to a poem each day--eyes closed, no peeking, no repeats allowed. We'll just see what comes up and wander around in it. I certainly wanted to use my beloved Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry but this would hardly be fair...it would spring open to all my favorites and not make me work for a damn thing.
So, to begin, a few words of wisdom from our editor, Michael Waters, "Such changes...reflect the fact that any anthology needs to be flexible and active, edition by edition, in order to remain essential." And what, may I ask, is life but not an anthology of experiences? Furthermore, Mr. Waters, "I felt it incumbent on me to honor predilections as much as possible, while still pressing my own thumb, however lightly, on each page." Very nice, Mr. Waters. Let's shoot for that.
Without further delay, and no kidding, here's today's arrival.
January
After days of putting down my poem
to wipe the chair, I see
the skin of the room is oozing pitch.
Steep as a church, a bishop's hat,
the roof is lined with spruce,
and this close to the stove
the heat has opened the sapline
at each dark flaw, as though it tapped
a living tree. Everyday, a pure emanation,
the syrup bleeds to the surface of the wood.
Now, a length of softwood in its craw,
the stove crackles with resin,
and the room itself
stretches and cracks with heat, cold,
the walls' mediation between them.
There are three pale coins of resin
in the usual place on the arm of the chair.
And the momentary flies,
hatched behind the wallboard
or in the pores of the old beams,
stagger down the window's white page.
If I think I am apart from this, I am a fool.
And if I think the black engine of the stove
can raise in me the same luminous waking,
I am still a fool,
since I am the one who keeps the fire.
--Ellen Bryant Voigt
The last stanza...absolutely killer. I suppose I am still a fool. And the heat will always open the saplines of the darkest flaws. Especially if you are the one keeping the fire. I am not apart from this. I am not observing this. Inertia or no, waiting is just an illusion and it is all right now dripping down. Active and flexible, and press lightly with my thumb on each page...
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