The NYCW changed my mind completely. I went to Maryhouse on the Lower East Side on Tuesday, arrived at the lunch rush. I fell in love.
I stayed in Martha's room (a granddaughter of Dorothy Day, the one who has a farm in Vermont) on the third floor. I met just about all the people that Sheila told me about, and felt as if I had known them all along, like we were friends long before. It was easy, fitting myself into Maryhouse.
I retreated to my room for a nap, ended up sleeping through dinner but waking up just in time for mass happening at Josephhouse. Oh sigh. And then I had all sorts of crazy ideas about staying at least til the end of the week. After mass I sat with Carla (who is fabulous, who reads like a Mack truck) we watched TV and later I walked with Ted (Ted, who reminded me a bit of a future Tyler) to the small grocery on 4th Street. We got Ben & Jerry's and other snacks, walked home and vegged out. Carla and Ted and Tanya (who had just arrived) and me, this girl suddenly finding herself in no hurry to leave New York, if it means leaving the Worker eating ice cream watching the news.
I went to bed woke up in the morning and then Eugene and I went to the Bean for coffee and Internet. Eugene granting me tenure, saying I should stay stay stay. We went back to Maryhouse, and I took a walk to put out some mail then came back to help with lunch. It was such a fun afternoon, rescuing a pasta salad from over salting, washing dishes, sweating, reading Rilke in German and English more eloquently, trying to arrange a switch with Clare (who is there for the summer, who will come and hang with the SBCW soon) to send her back to South Bend in my stead.
Ted escorted me to the Port Authority, we took the F train to the A train and then I was all set. We agreed that I should come back next summer, be on kitchen duty, bake pies and the like. I'm so there.
So New York (and this is probably true of most any place I guess) was generally overwhelming. But New York with the Worker: somewhere I want to get to know. Community makes everything better, because then there are precocious children who make Lego films and hilarious girls who tell the silliest jokes and take all the credit for the pasta salad. People to talk your ears right off your head and to tell you that the world needs your smile. I guess I could love New York after all.
But I think I will be quite pleased to be home. Nine and a half more hours, keep your fingers crossed.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
7.05.2011
Sunday in NYC: huddled with the puddles
I'm not a quitter. I was determined to see more of the city than the subway and that was that. So I left with Caroline in the morning and caught the PATH to World Trade Center. It was raining and humid, but I had a colorful polka dotted umbrella and I was ready. Caroline walked me past the famous St. Peter's graveyard and church, down to the subway to catch the 4 train.
We parted and I rode to 51st street and walked to St. Patrick's Cathedral for mass. I decided that it was the quieter holy places that I would love in New York. Mass was a great way to start the day and I ate strawberries as I walked back to the subway to head to the Frick. It was full of obnoxious tourists who just stood in the middle of the rooms blocking the natural flow of traffic through the collection. The magazine I read told me the Frick was great for romantics. I'm one of those, I thought. I enjoyed it. I spent three hours there at least gazing into art that I had only seen in my art history books. I was most excited to see Bellini's St. Francis in the Desert. I love that painting and there it was right in front of my eyes. I mean, I can't explain it, being in the same room with that painting. My other favorites were the Turners and The Lake by Corot.
Exiting the Frick I planned to walk down to the Met and I noticed across 5th Avenue a bunch of trees, not realizing that it was Central Park and also that Central Park was that big. I meandered through the Park, saw the water reserve and the Alice in Wonderland statue. Walked under the bridge and then out to the Met. I felt like I had walked into a remake of Alfred Hitchcock's Birds, but instead of Birds the title could have been People. There were as many people inside the Met as sitting outside on the steps, and the museum was closing in an hour so I left to meet Caroline, downtown near her job.
I boarded the 6 train. Sitting across from me was a man, obviously high out of his mind. He didn't seem to have control over his body at all, his head whenever the train jerked forward would slam against the wall of the car. One stop away from my destination he started masturbating.
When we got home Caroline fed me homemade chocolates and champagne.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
We parted and I rode to 51st street and walked to St. Patrick's Cathedral for mass. I decided that it was the quieter holy places that I would love in New York. Mass was a great way to start the day and I ate strawberries as I walked back to the subway to head to the Frick. It was full of obnoxious tourists who just stood in the middle of the rooms blocking the natural flow of traffic through the collection. The magazine I read told me the Frick was great for romantics. I'm one of those, I thought. I enjoyed it. I spent three hours there at least gazing into art that I had only seen in my art history books. I was most excited to see Bellini's St. Francis in the Desert. I love that painting and there it was right in front of my eyes. I mean, I can't explain it, being in the same room with that painting. My other favorites were the Turners and The Lake by Corot.
Exiting the Frick I planned to walk down to the Met and I noticed across 5th Avenue a bunch of trees, not realizing that it was Central Park and also that Central Park was that big. I meandered through the Park, saw the water reserve and the Alice in Wonderland statue. Walked under the bridge and then out to the Met. I felt like I had walked into a remake of Alfred Hitchcock's Birds, but instead of Birds the title could have been People. There were as many people inside the Met as sitting outside on the steps, and the museum was closing in an hour so I left to meet Caroline, downtown near her job.
I boarded the 6 train. Sitting across from me was a man, obviously high out of his mind. He didn't seem to have control over his body at all, his head whenever the train jerked forward would slam against the wall of the car. One stop away from my destination he started masturbating.
When we got home Caroline fed me homemade chocolates and champagne.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Saturday in NYC: if you can make it here...
I went into the kitchen smoked a cigarette, singing the lord's prayer and a hail Mary with wisps of smoke. I took an acetaminophen with a swallow of water from the icebox. In the bathroom I wet a cloth cool and wandered into Caroline's bedroom to rest.
I lost my nerve in Union Station. It was rush hour perhaps so many people moving in and out like tides of the ocean I wanted to be so close too. I didn't know where I was going there was a bucket drummer and two guys playing jazz on competing platforms wearing alien masks. And I told myself I wasn't going to cry but I did. The frustration was condensating in my bones and I just hoped that I was as invisible and faceless as I felt. On the PATH back to Caroline's apartment I boarded with a beautiful girl. She was tall and her skin was flawless. I sat in the corner of the car and she flashed a smile at me. I smiled back. She noticed me crying and she slid closer to ask why. I mumbled something about just wanting to go home and she said me too. Her name was Joy, she had just moved to the city for art school from Atlanta. She missed her friends, wasn't used to the city, felt like she hadn't met anyone who was just kind and laid back. She had been on her way to a gallery opening but standing in the line, started crying and decided to retreat to her apartment. She felt so alone. I listened and nodded. "You're the nicest person I've met so far." You too, Joy, you too.
I am not a tough cookie, say perhaps a ginger snap. I am a soft boiled egg out of the shell, I am a bleeding heart pumping in your hand. I am not weak, no this is not what I am saying. I know I am strong, but my strength is not the kind of strength that is brash or physical or maybe even all that useful. It is as variable as light or water. I use it in my ears to catch your words, spoken and silent. In my eyes as I read your face your skin. It's in my voice when I recite a poem or sing a song. In my diaphragm laboring over laughter. In my hands when I massage your neck, back and feet. In my arms and back when I lift you off the ground for a spinning glee filled hug.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
I lost my nerve in Union Station. It was rush hour perhaps so many people moving in and out like tides of the ocean I wanted to be so close too. I didn't know where I was going there was a bucket drummer and two guys playing jazz on competing platforms wearing alien masks. And I told myself I wasn't going to cry but I did. The frustration was condensating in my bones and I just hoped that I was as invisible and faceless as I felt. On the PATH back to Caroline's apartment I boarded with a beautiful girl. She was tall and her skin was flawless. I sat in the corner of the car and she flashed a smile at me. I smiled back. She noticed me crying and she slid closer to ask why. I mumbled something about just wanting to go home and she said me too. Her name was Joy, she had just moved to the city for art school from Atlanta. She missed her friends, wasn't used to the city, felt like she hadn't met anyone who was just kind and laid back. She had been on her way to a gallery opening but standing in the line, started crying and decided to retreat to her apartment. She felt so alone. I listened and nodded. "You're the nicest person I've met so far." You too, Joy, you too.
I am not a tough cookie, say perhaps a ginger snap. I am a soft boiled egg out of the shell, I am a bleeding heart pumping in your hand. I am not weak, no this is not what I am saying. I know I am strong, but my strength is not the kind of strength that is brash or physical or maybe even all that useful. It is as variable as light or water. I use it in my ears to catch your words, spoken and silent. In my eyes as I read your face your skin. It's in my voice when I recite a poem or sing a song. In my diaphragm laboring over laughter. In my hands when I massage your neck, back and feet. In my arms and back when I lift you off the ground for a spinning glee filled hug.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
7.01.2011
In which the poet emerges as a gorgeous butterfly [and was it ever about time]
I'm not sure how to start really. Tomorrow morning I leave Johnson for New York City. I will be traveling with the dear Caroline and then the even more dear Mara will be fetching me like a well worn bone back to those who own my heart of hearts. Can you imagine that it has really been two months since my loving acquired family had flung me from South Bend and into the world with all the confidence that I would experience adventure like I have never dreamed? Now I will be on my way home. I can't wipe away this smile because I am thinking of dinner at the Worker, and Brendan and Karl, Claire's laugh and Kathy's sweetness, Bert's quirkiness, going to mass with people I love, the prospect of seeing one Mike Thomas, making granola for the co-op, Artpost, Grant and Kari. I really can't wait.
But the bittersweet. A list of things I will miss perhaps:
Bacon and raisins for breakfast, Saturday night Karaoke, art everywhere, artists everywhere, the genuine cool of Justin and Harlan, their smiles, sweet dogs, that haughty orange cat, the Gihon River, David's sharp observations and sincerity, standing and singing on the bridge, cool rainy days, fresh baked bread at lunch and dinner, ginger ale all the time, Adam's wit, Mike's eye rolls, everything about Susan, being a big kid, bedazzled vaginas, the hair trigger on the hot water in the shower, the nicknames, the dance parties, the cemetery, the gentle teasing, the goodness, being a sweetheart really, being a delicate flower, lighting up David's life... I will probably miss most everything.
I might be able to carry some of these things with me. If I didn't get a chance to write to you I apologize, but the summer is still young and I will write you from South Bend even if you are also in South Bend.
Yesterday Kathy asked me who I had just fallen in love with. I had a hard time thinking of one specific person, so many of the people I have met here have been amazingly formative to my growth as an artist and a person. I have a true abiding affection for these people and this place. I hope to know and love them for a worthwhile. If I'm allowed to say so though, I think the person I have most fallen in love with is Sade. People have been telling me about her for years, but I never really saw it... I see it now like I've never seen it before. As I was telling the Summer Lover earlier today, I even find myself loving, and if not loving then completely owning those things that drive me batshit crazy about myself, those things that feel unbearable to bear and to bare.
Enough about me though. This morning after breakfast I went on a walk with Lily. We walked to and through a cemetery at the top of a steep hill. We talked about various topics, noticing the names and dates and words printed on the headstones, their shapes and what they were made of. We laughed among the dead, we spoke their names, calculated the years they had lived. I thought I would like to have a headstone that read only "laugh" when we wondered what it would be like if the cause of death was chiseled in stone instead of the family name. I told her how I wanted to have my cremains planted with a tree seed and for lovers to carve their initials into my bark. We found a marker that read "Ruth Green Mould, Artist--Lady" and we decided to end our walked there and turn back, sensing that we wouldn't encounter anything that read that perfectly. To be remembered as an artist and a lady, how grand.
So maybe you are curious about my foray into summer love. I've decided that until I tire of it the summer is the only time I will ever allow myself to fall in love. As someone who falls in love practically every other day I think this is fitting. Summer love in its very name implies brevity and is seasonal. And when I say "fall in love" I mean this in a completely frivolous manner. I have the rest of my life to take myself too seriously, if that is what I choose to do. But I will only be in my twenties for five more summers after this one. So I got rid of the secret wedding playlist I've been compiling for over a year. And the Summer Lover has suggested that we write to each other, seeing that I love to write, I have agreed and addresses have been exchanged. Beyond that I don't foresee romance, but I was excited by the experience, the candidness it inspired.
My writing this month. I came with a plan to plow through the manuscript, his & Hers. I hope you won't be disappointed to hear that the month took me in a different direction completely. I'm working largely on a series of poems I call Dream Machines. So far I have three sets, at about six or seven prose poems each. They captivate my attention because I am loosed and playful writing them, I play with the sound the meanings of the words, manipulating images, finding poems in conversation, in dreams mostly, in what is in front of my eyes and shoved in my ears. But I haven't abandoned Jean Davide and Salvador, I spent time researching the minute details, sketching their character, eavesdropping on their conversations.
When I told David my precious pilgrim that I had been nicknamed Caterpillar, he agreed citing my fear and dislike of change and love of smoking. But now I think this Caterpillar is well on her way to morphing into a butterfly.
"And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?"
Mary, yes, yes, and I'd like to think so.
But the bittersweet. A list of things I will miss perhaps:
Bacon and raisins for breakfast, Saturday night Karaoke, art everywhere, artists everywhere, the genuine cool of Justin and Harlan, their smiles, sweet dogs, that haughty orange cat, the Gihon River, David's sharp observations and sincerity, standing and singing on the bridge, cool rainy days, fresh baked bread at lunch and dinner, ginger ale all the time, Adam's wit, Mike's eye rolls, everything about Susan, being a big kid, bedazzled vaginas, the hair trigger on the hot water in the shower, the nicknames, the dance parties, the cemetery, the gentle teasing, the goodness, being a sweetheart really, being a delicate flower, lighting up David's life... I will probably miss most everything.
I might be able to carry some of these things with me. If I didn't get a chance to write to you I apologize, but the summer is still young and I will write you from South Bend even if you are also in South Bend.
Yesterday Kathy asked me who I had just fallen in love with. I had a hard time thinking of one specific person, so many of the people I have met here have been amazingly formative to my growth as an artist and a person. I have a true abiding affection for these people and this place. I hope to know and love them for a worthwhile. If I'm allowed to say so though, I think the person I have most fallen in love with is Sade. People have been telling me about her for years, but I never really saw it... I see it now like I've never seen it before. As I was telling the Summer Lover earlier today, I even find myself loving, and if not loving then completely owning those things that drive me batshit crazy about myself, those things that feel unbearable to bear and to bare.
Enough about me though. This morning after breakfast I went on a walk with Lily. We walked to and through a cemetery at the top of a steep hill. We talked about various topics, noticing the names and dates and words printed on the headstones, their shapes and what they were made of. We laughed among the dead, we spoke their names, calculated the years they had lived. I thought I would like to have a headstone that read only "laugh" when we wondered what it would be like if the cause of death was chiseled in stone instead of the family name. I told her how I wanted to have my cremains planted with a tree seed and for lovers to carve their initials into my bark. We found a marker that read "Ruth Green Mould, Artist--Lady" and we decided to end our walked there and turn back, sensing that we wouldn't encounter anything that read that perfectly. To be remembered as an artist and a lady, how grand.
So maybe you are curious about my foray into summer love. I've decided that until I tire of it the summer is the only time I will ever allow myself to fall in love. As someone who falls in love practically every other day I think this is fitting. Summer love in its very name implies brevity and is seasonal. And when I say "fall in love" I mean this in a completely frivolous manner. I have the rest of my life to take myself too seriously, if that is what I choose to do. But I will only be in my twenties for five more summers after this one. So I got rid of the secret wedding playlist I've been compiling for over a year. And the Summer Lover has suggested that we write to each other, seeing that I love to write, I have agreed and addresses have been exchanged. Beyond that I don't foresee romance, but I was excited by the experience, the candidness it inspired.
My writing this month. I came with a plan to plow through the manuscript, his & Hers. I hope you won't be disappointed to hear that the month took me in a different direction completely. I'm working largely on a series of poems I call Dream Machines. So far I have three sets, at about six or seven prose poems each. They captivate my attention because I am loosed and playful writing them, I play with the sound the meanings of the words, manipulating images, finding poems in conversation, in dreams mostly, in what is in front of my eyes and shoved in my ears. But I haven't abandoned Jean Davide and Salvador, I spent time researching the minute details, sketching their character, eavesdropping on their conversations.
When I told David my precious pilgrim that I had been nicknamed Caterpillar, he agreed citing my fear and dislike of change and love of smoking. But now I think this Caterpillar is well on her way to morphing into a butterfly.
"And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?"
Mary, yes, yes, and I'd like to think so.
Location:Pearl St,Johnson,United States
6.27.2011
The penultimate Johnson blog post (dedicated to Claire)
This morning at breakfast I told my friend David that I was really excited to return to the loving embrace of all my friends in South Bend but I was also concerned for them. He laughed. It's like the feeling you get after you've been abducted by aliens, you try to go back to your real life but you're just weird now in ways that really freak out your loved ones. Anyway what I'm saying is that I hope you all still love Sade P.V. (post VT) as much as you loved Sade P.V. (pre VT). See they're already essentially the same.
I'm not saying that I've Jekylled out on y'all but I feel like a geode turned inside out. As far as expression goes there's more blatant sparkle and glint. That's just my perception. Yours may differ. It doesn't matter right now, because I'm going to tell you how Vermont has rocked my face off in the past week. My face is okay don't worry it only sustained maximum awesomeness. Highlight reel!
Arnold Kemp's lecture and everything about him. So let me try to be intelligent and intelligible about this. Meeting this artist (who sculpts, and writes, and paints, and draws) and sharing my work with him colored my week amazing. It has been an integral part of my formation as a poet in Vermont. I enjoy his work, hearing him talk about his work, the sense of self revelation hand in hand with cloaking and masking the self. It inspires reflection. He has a series of photographs of his aura taken by a psychic over the course of twelve weeks. I just don't have words for how cool he is. We sat at the Lovin' Cup Friday and I shared my poetry with him, in his feedback he reminds me of Cornelius: generous and able to lead me within the words I have chosen or not chose, always providing reference and bibliography to other poets I can learn from.
Thursday's Excursion to the Snowflake Museum Can I just ring in the gospel of snowflakes? Will you think I have lost my mind? The Snowflake Museum is in Jericho, VT. So it was Shannon who suggested this field trip and because I possess such a can do attitude I had to make it happen. I made plans to borrow Annie's car, a cute scion and Shannon secured the directions. I wrangled other people into joining us. Arnold, Caroline, and David (who was released from his office duties just to join us). I drove us. I was nervous because I'm self conscious about my driving having never driven above a speed limit of 40 or 45 mph. The speed limit was 50 which isn't too much of a difference. Driving in Vermont is a breathtaking experience, everything is green. Trees rising up in rows on either side of the road for stretches and the mountains appearing after a dip or curve. We rolled into Jericho and walked past the rushing river gorge to the Old Red Mill, a national historic site. We walked in anxious to view the magical snowflake museum, the Bentley Exhibit. Wilson Bentley photographed snowflakes. He would set up his equipment outside catch the snowflakes on a black wooden tray, then place each snowflake under a microscope to decide if it was worthy of photography shooting it with his camera if it was. This is a big deal. Well it is to me. I felt overwhelmed in the two small rooms that housed the exhibit. His gloves resting on his camera, the microscope he used, the collages of photographed snowflakes. I stood up close to them, because I love standing close to art. There was an air of impermanence. As if, if I stood to close, breathing on them too long they would melt. In the photographs you could see they were an instant from just that. I didn't want to leave I was concerned that once I turned to go they would dissipate under the heat of forgetting. But they are frozen in my mind and forever. They are almost immortal or at least notorious. For the endless configurations of frozen water falling from the sky, Wilson Bentley photographed over a thousand snowflakes. It made me feel very alive, and very appreciative to be alive and I never really expected that from snowflakes.
B Sides and Karaoke. There was a more casual resident organized reading scheduled for Saturday. Some of the visual artist read poetry, the visual art showcased was impressive as always. I read things I had worked on since Tuesday's reading. After the reading it was time for Karaoke! I had been waiting for it all week! In order the songs were:
Crimson and Clover: Joan Jett
Helter Skelter: the Beatles
Can't Take My Eyes Off of You: Lauryn Hill
Don't you Want Me: Human League (in a duet with local Dave)
Unforgettable: Nat King Cole
Happiness is a Warm Gun: the Beatles
It was epic. Best part of the night was Shannon saying "oh Sade you're totally legit" and "don't you forget it motherfucker." I was still awake when the sun came up. I slept a couple of hours before brunch. And have been pretty useless most of the day.
Sunday's encounter with the "possible" Summer Lover. What's his deal right? Le sigh, that's his deal. What a dark broody baby. Not baby in a diaper but baby in a Beatles' song. Anyway I always happen upon him unexpectedly at (of all places) the Lovin' Cup (the Lula's of Johnson). He swaggers in with a book bag to do homework or sometimes I swagger up to get a change of scenery, to write outside my studio, to smell coffee. I walked over to the cafe after grabbing Chinese with Justin for lunch and there he was sitting on the porch doing math homework. I provided a welcome distraction. After he finished his homework we moved inside and I read him poetry. He is from Ohio. He's studying creative writing at Johnson State College. Did a two week residency at VSC but we never talked while he was here but through email when I was organizing workshop. He flirted (or flirts) with me at the Hub. And because I didn't really believe it, I had to get outside confirmation. Vanessa who I've made friends with and who works at the bookstore confirmed. So this is not imaginary flirting. I just wanted to make that clear. He quotes Shakespearean sonnets from memory. He's a writer: plays, fiction, essays. He says the first time reading my poetry he thought "this woman should be writing fiction." Obviously I have never thought that about myself a day of my life-- I mean I only ever want to write about adventure that's all. So this is adventure. "Sexy as hell," he's talking about my poetry, of course. Also not my general response but okay. He is brazen, shameless. He, uh, could know his way around a pair of lips. He wants to be pen pals after I leave Johnson. He is intriguing. He could be a sheepish wolf or a fox about to break the neck of a hen. And for once I am in no way interested with the trajectory, where this is going to end, slightly curious but with detached interest. What things mean, the dissection of every feeling: boring, exhausting. Whatever happens. Focus on fun not expectation. To quote Rebecca Black, "fun fun fun fun fun fun fun fun!" It's amusing, bemusing to meet someone more cloudy and mysterious than myself (I am not mysterious at all and a giggly sunbeam next to this slightly melancholy, albeit mischievous, baby). I am ever the skeptic, unsure whether I should believe a word he says, not because he's a liar but... you know. We have plans to hang out this week, so we'll see.
A Note on Tattoos. The tattoo isn't real. I'm sure it will wash off in a couple of days. I got it from the cutest little boy in the bookstore. I assume his name is Dylan. He had a stack of them and one matching mine on his right arm.
It's the summer great? Honestly I can't believe it's been so amazing. I will miss this.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
I'm not saying that I've Jekylled out on y'all but I feel like a geode turned inside out. As far as expression goes there's more blatant sparkle and glint. That's just my perception. Yours may differ. It doesn't matter right now, because I'm going to tell you how Vermont has rocked my face off in the past week. My face is okay don't worry it only sustained maximum awesomeness. Highlight reel!
Arnold Kemp's lecture and everything about him. So let me try to be intelligent and intelligible about this. Meeting this artist (who sculpts, and writes, and paints, and draws) and sharing my work with him colored my week amazing. It has been an integral part of my formation as a poet in Vermont. I enjoy his work, hearing him talk about his work, the sense of self revelation hand in hand with cloaking and masking the self. It inspires reflection. He has a series of photographs of his aura taken by a psychic over the course of twelve weeks. I just don't have words for how cool he is. We sat at the Lovin' Cup Friday and I shared my poetry with him, in his feedback he reminds me of Cornelius: generous and able to lead me within the words I have chosen or not chose, always providing reference and bibliography to other poets I can learn from.
Thursday's Excursion to the Snowflake Museum Can I just ring in the gospel of snowflakes? Will you think I have lost my mind? The Snowflake Museum is in Jericho, VT. So it was Shannon who suggested this field trip and because I possess such a can do attitude I had to make it happen. I made plans to borrow Annie's car, a cute scion and Shannon secured the directions. I wrangled other people into joining us. Arnold, Caroline, and David (who was released from his office duties just to join us). I drove us. I was nervous because I'm self conscious about my driving having never driven above a speed limit of 40 or 45 mph. The speed limit was 50 which isn't too much of a difference. Driving in Vermont is a breathtaking experience, everything is green. Trees rising up in rows on either side of the road for stretches and the mountains appearing after a dip or curve. We rolled into Jericho and walked past the rushing river gorge to the Old Red Mill, a national historic site. We walked in anxious to view the magical snowflake museum, the Bentley Exhibit. Wilson Bentley photographed snowflakes. He would set up his equipment outside catch the snowflakes on a black wooden tray, then place each snowflake under a microscope to decide if it was worthy of photography shooting it with his camera if it was. This is a big deal. Well it is to me. I felt overwhelmed in the two small rooms that housed the exhibit. His gloves resting on his camera, the microscope he used, the collages of photographed snowflakes. I stood up close to them, because I love standing close to art. There was an air of impermanence. As if, if I stood to close, breathing on them too long they would melt. In the photographs you could see they were an instant from just that. I didn't want to leave I was concerned that once I turned to go they would dissipate under the heat of forgetting. But they are frozen in my mind and forever. They are almost immortal or at least notorious. For the endless configurations of frozen water falling from the sky, Wilson Bentley photographed over a thousand snowflakes. It made me feel very alive, and very appreciative to be alive and I never really expected that from snowflakes.
B Sides and Karaoke. There was a more casual resident organized reading scheduled for Saturday. Some of the visual artist read poetry, the visual art showcased was impressive as always. I read things I had worked on since Tuesday's reading. After the reading it was time for Karaoke! I had been waiting for it all week! In order the songs were:
Crimson and Clover: Joan Jett
Helter Skelter: the Beatles
Can't Take My Eyes Off of You: Lauryn Hill
Don't you Want Me: Human League (in a duet with local Dave)
Unforgettable: Nat King Cole
Happiness is a Warm Gun: the Beatles
It was epic. Best part of the night was Shannon saying "oh Sade you're totally legit" and "don't you forget it motherfucker." I was still awake when the sun came up. I slept a couple of hours before brunch. And have been pretty useless most of the day.
Sunday's encounter with the "possible" Summer Lover. What's his deal right? Le sigh, that's his deal. What a dark broody baby. Not baby in a diaper but baby in a Beatles' song. Anyway I always happen upon him unexpectedly at (of all places) the Lovin' Cup (the Lula's of Johnson). He swaggers in with a book bag to do homework or sometimes I swagger up to get a change of scenery, to write outside my studio, to smell coffee. I walked over to the cafe after grabbing Chinese with Justin for lunch and there he was sitting on the porch doing math homework. I provided a welcome distraction. After he finished his homework we moved inside and I read him poetry. He is from Ohio. He's studying creative writing at Johnson State College. Did a two week residency at VSC but we never talked while he was here but through email when I was organizing workshop. He flirted (or flirts) with me at the Hub. And because I didn't really believe it, I had to get outside confirmation. Vanessa who I've made friends with and who works at the bookstore confirmed. So this is not imaginary flirting. I just wanted to make that clear. He quotes Shakespearean sonnets from memory. He's a writer: plays, fiction, essays. He says the first time reading my poetry he thought "this woman should be writing fiction." Obviously I have never thought that about myself a day of my life-- I mean I only ever want to write about adventure that's all. So this is adventure. "Sexy as hell," he's talking about my poetry, of course. Also not my general response but okay. He is brazen, shameless. He, uh, could know his way around a pair of lips. He wants to be pen pals after I leave Johnson. He is intriguing. He could be a sheepish wolf or a fox about to break the neck of a hen. And for once I am in no way interested with the trajectory, where this is going to end, slightly curious but with detached interest. What things mean, the dissection of every feeling: boring, exhausting. Whatever happens. Focus on fun not expectation. To quote Rebecca Black, "fun fun fun fun fun fun fun fun!" It's amusing, bemusing to meet someone more cloudy and mysterious than myself (I am not mysterious at all and a giggly sunbeam next to this slightly melancholy, albeit mischievous, baby). I am ever the skeptic, unsure whether I should believe a word he says, not because he's a liar but... you know. We have plans to hang out this week, so we'll see.
A Note on Tattoos. The tattoo isn't real. I'm sure it will wash off in a couple of days. I got it from the cutest little boy in the bookstore. I assume his name is Dylan. He had a stack of them and one matching mine on his right arm.
It's the summer great? Honestly I can't believe it's been so amazing. I will miss this.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
6.22.2011
"Monsters or some bullshit"
In the glaring morning sunlight, freshly showered I felt myself having a major epiphany. But self reflection is boring so all I'm going to say is this: I am such a monster (sometimes, but to say sometimes is a little too generous). And I'm thinking about ways that I could change this, like maybe stop calling myself a monster or maybe stop being so monstrous or like I don't know you tell me. But this is boring right?
Forget I even said anything. In fact just close this window and walk away from your device.
I read yesterday for the second residents' reading. I enjoyed everyone's readings (but my own) so many of their words are still floating around in my head. Had a beer at the Hub, dance party, whatever.
I keep scratching myself raw. There's a huge sore on my ankle the shape of some country or continent. It hurts and I always seem to forget that when I'm scratching. It feels good then but it hurts so much more than it felt good later.
There may or may not be a potential summer lover. I just wanted to throw that out there because I did promise you romance and I feel like I'm dropping the ball a little.
This is a departure, the current poetry is a departure, the extreme extroversion is a departure and I feel weird in my own voice and in my own writing, like I've somehow strayed from the things that mean Sade to things that might still mean Sade but not necessarily. I can't tell whether this is good or bad or something that was just going to happen anyway.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Forget I even said anything. In fact just close this window and walk away from your device.
I read yesterday for the second residents' reading. I enjoyed everyone's readings (but my own) so many of their words are still floating around in my head. Had a beer at the Hub, dance party, whatever.
I keep scratching myself raw. There's a huge sore on my ankle the shape of some country or continent. It hurts and I always seem to forget that when I'm scratching. It feels good then but it hurts so much more than it felt good later.
There may or may not be a potential summer lover. I just wanted to throw that out there because I did promise you romance and I feel like I'm dropping the ball a little.
This is a departure, the current poetry is a departure, the extreme extroversion is a departure and I feel weird in my own voice and in my own writing, like I've somehow strayed from the things that mean Sade to things that might still mean Sade but not necessarily. I can't tell whether this is good or bad or something that was just going to happen anyway.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
6.20.2011
In Which the Poet [choose your own adventure]
After checking the sign up sheet this morning, I felt like throwing up, but instead I skipped breakfast and went into my studio. I might still throw up.
If you know me you know I love, no I can't open my mouth without reading poetry. My own poetry, the poetry of beloved poets, poems for every occasion. It's probably my favorite thing, other than feeding people and hosting parties and it would be a dream if someone would pay me to only read poetry.
I don't want to read tomorrow though, I feel intimidated I feel out of my league. Like my poetry is juvenile and mawkish. Like I don't know why I ever thought I'd be good at this.
Now yesterday I was full of determination. Forget about these other writers, this is not a competition. Why do I have to hold myself against the standards of others? All I have to do is read my work, it was enough to get me here so surely it is good enough to read aloud to these other artists. Now today I am imaging all sorts of ways to avoid this exposure of myself and the possibility that my voice will shake under scrutiny. I look at my poems on paper and they seem so naked, so pale by comparison. Like a house with the foundations and wiring exposed. Like a house held together by paint.
So I grabbed Swan by Mary Oliver sat outside in the sun and read several of the poems out loud. Competing with the ever babbling river. I came back to my studio. And I'm thinking today I will just sit outside in the sun and read poetry out loud. To myself to the river to anyone overhearing it. And I will read my own and time my readings and prepare for this reading, which is much more of a big deal in my head, the way I prepare of all readings.
Because isn't this the year where I learn to follow through? Where I stop avoiding things and stop running away when the pressure builds? Where I get to the point, finally and it doesn't feel so comforting to sabotage myself? You can't move anyone if you are paralyzed by fear.
I promise there will be another post later this week, in which the poet will describe all the ways in which she has adventured out of her cautious and doubting self, tales of weekly Karaoke and the slightest hint of romance... so much revelry you won't be able to stand it.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
If you know me you know I love, no I can't open my mouth without reading poetry. My own poetry, the poetry of beloved poets, poems for every occasion. It's probably my favorite thing, other than feeding people and hosting parties and it would be a dream if someone would pay me to only read poetry.
I don't want to read tomorrow though, I feel intimidated I feel out of my league. Like my poetry is juvenile and mawkish. Like I don't know why I ever thought I'd be good at this.
Now yesterday I was full of determination. Forget about these other writers, this is not a competition. Why do I have to hold myself against the standards of others? All I have to do is read my work, it was enough to get me here so surely it is good enough to read aloud to these other artists. Now today I am imaging all sorts of ways to avoid this exposure of myself and the possibility that my voice will shake under scrutiny. I look at my poems on paper and they seem so naked, so pale by comparison. Like a house with the foundations and wiring exposed. Like a house held together by paint.
So I grabbed Swan by Mary Oliver sat outside in the sun and read several of the poems out loud. Competing with the ever babbling river. I came back to my studio. And I'm thinking today I will just sit outside in the sun and read poetry out loud. To myself to the river to anyone overhearing it. And I will read my own and time my readings and prepare for this reading, which is much more of a big deal in my head, the way I prepare of all readings.
Because isn't this the year where I learn to follow through? Where I stop avoiding things and stop running away when the pressure builds? Where I get to the point, finally and it doesn't feel so comforting to sabotage myself? You can't move anyone if you are paralyzed by fear.
I promise there will be another post later this week, in which the poet will describe all the ways in which she has adventured out of her cautious and doubting self, tales of weekly Karaoke and the slightest hint of romance... so much revelry you won't be able to stand it.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
6.14.2011
With enough pressure to hold you together
Yesterday I woke up on the wrong side of my twin sized bed. My head hurt as I worried about the dirty laundry piling up, the anticipated mail, my apparent lackfulness, the manuscripts, the unkempt ends of my hair. I dressed and brushed my hair, trying to smile like the Mona Lisa, letting my bangs lay in my eyes so that my hair became a cloak.
In my studio I read Live From the Homesick Jamboree and couldn't stay awake, lullabied by the rushing river outside my window. I hadn't expected to feel homesick because I'd been having so much fun the way I hadn't expected to be awoken by a vacuum rattling in the hallway. I stumbled over to lunch, where the sweet potato stew with chick peas and apricots and Israel couscous from the night before was magically transformed. I kept thinking of the pictures I'd seen on Facebook some friends at the Indy pride parade. One was wearing a rainbow shirt advertising free hugs. I desperately imagined it would come to that, I'd have to stand outside of the Red Mill with a sign inviting people to hold and be held.
In my haze I bumped into one of the founders of VSC. He noticed that my hair was down as opposed to the first few days I was here and asked if that meant I was letting loose. I confided that I was trying to hide, while I coped with a sudden case of homesickness. I assured him that I was having a good time though. He made a reassuring sound and gave me a great hug. Letting go he asked what I missed. I told him hugs. The embrace of familiar limbs and torsos, the ability to hear a heart beat, lungs to fill and empty. He smiled and opened his arms to give me another hug. Welcome to the necessary comforting hug. We talked about Thich Nhat Hahn and his hugging meditation, the proper way to hug and be hugged, none of this willy-nilly patting and petting. Breathing in and breathing out then letting go. He suggested we create a signal for whenever we need a hug in the future, a little nose tap or ear tug. Though it is more likely that we will just hug whenever we see each other at meals, almost as if a hug were a vitamin or dose of medication to be taken with food or a glass of milk.
The rest of the day, overcast as it was, swam along. Today is grand. One nickname the other artists have bestowed on me is The Party Planner. I've organized a Girl Talk dance party for tonight after we have drinks at The Hub. The sun is out, I have clean laundry, clipped ends, and a bright postcard from Mara on my cork board. I met with the visiting poet today after lunch received very constructive feedback on his & Hers. If this isn't nice I don't know what is y'all. Though I think I might still make that sign.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
In my studio I read Live From the Homesick Jamboree and couldn't stay awake, lullabied by the rushing river outside my window. I hadn't expected to feel homesick because I'd been having so much fun the way I hadn't expected to be awoken by a vacuum rattling in the hallway. I stumbled over to lunch, where the sweet potato stew with chick peas and apricots and Israel couscous from the night before was magically transformed. I kept thinking of the pictures I'd seen on Facebook some friends at the Indy pride parade. One was wearing a rainbow shirt advertising free hugs. I desperately imagined it would come to that, I'd have to stand outside of the Red Mill with a sign inviting people to hold and be held.
In my haze I bumped into one of the founders of VSC. He noticed that my hair was down as opposed to the first few days I was here and asked if that meant I was letting loose. I confided that I was trying to hide, while I coped with a sudden case of homesickness. I assured him that I was having a good time though. He made a reassuring sound and gave me a great hug. Letting go he asked what I missed. I told him hugs. The embrace of familiar limbs and torsos, the ability to hear a heart beat, lungs to fill and empty. He smiled and opened his arms to give me another hug. Welcome to the necessary comforting hug. We talked about Thich Nhat Hahn and his hugging meditation, the proper way to hug and be hugged, none of this willy-nilly patting and petting. Breathing in and breathing out then letting go. He suggested we create a signal for whenever we need a hug in the future, a little nose tap or ear tug. Though it is more likely that we will just hug whenever we see each other at meals, almost as if a hug were a vitamin or dose of medication to be taken with food or a glass of milk.
The rest of the day, overcast as it was, swam along. Today is grand. One nickname the other artists have bestowed on me is The Party Planner. I've organized a Girl Talk dance party for tonight after we have drinks at The Hub. The sun is out, I have clean laundry, clipped ends, and a bright postcard from Mara on my cork board. I met with the visiting poet today after lunch received very constructive feedback on his & Hers. If this isn't nice I don't know what is y'all. Though I think I might still make that sign.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Location:Pearl St,Johnson,United States
6.08.2011
The air is an opiate
After roughly 90 hours of "traveling" on the Guantanamo Bay of Transportation, a handful of panic attacks and a two liter of tears shed from the frustration, one Timequake later, I made it to Vermont.
I'm enamored. I mostly walk around in a daze unable to believe that such a place exists and that I am experiencing it. In my studio it's hard mot to just spend all day staring down at the river, devising plans to be in it. And perhaps it's just that for four days I had limited access to fresh air but I swear that the air here is laced with sweetness, I can taste flowers if I breathe in through my month.
I am a fool. But you know that.
Today is my first full day here. I like everything. The tree covered mountains, the white noise of the river, the amicable temperature, the friendly and humorous artists I've been meeting.
And the peace that is radiating and filling me because I'm here. I had so much worry so much anxiety while in Houston and definitely while I was traveling that I became shortsighted, short of breath, of patience and love. And in the back of my mind there are still all sorts of nagging creatures, but wouldn't it be criminal to ignore the sound of the river beckoning? I really have to practice being more faithful. It's hard because I want to prove I can take care of myself and that I'm not weak. And I hate asking for help, would rather bite the dust than admit that I'm struggling or that I need something. And just when I start to think I'm so much closer to getting there, that ideal range of achievement and personal growth I have to learn these lessons again:
1. I am human
2. It's okay to ask for help, and most of the time it would be foolish not to
3. Sometimes things go horribly wrong even when you've done your best
And I feel like an idiot for having to relearn these things but then I have to laugh at myself and love myself too. Because at the moment when everything is too overwhelming to handle and I'm ready to disappear or worse, give up I hear the thing that everybody needs to hear, "I'm glad you're here". The universe has been quite consistent in this message and if that isn't nice, I don't know what is.
Ting-a-ling.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
I'm enamored. I mostly walk around in a daze unable to believe that such a place exists and that I am experiencing it. In my studio it's hard mot to just spend all day staring down at the river, devising plans to be in it. And perhaps it's just that for four days I had limited access to fresh air but I swear that the air here is laced with sweetness, I can taste flowers if I breathe in through my month.
I am a fool. But you know that.
Today is my first full day here. I like everything. The tree covered mountains, the white noise of the river, the amicable temperature, the friendly and humorous artists I've been meeting.
And the peace that is radiating and filling me because I'm here. I had so much worry so much anxiety while in Houston and definitely while I was traveling that I became shortsighted, short of breath, of patience and love. And in the back of my mind there are still all sorts of nagging creatures, but wouldn't it be criminal to ignore the sound of the river beckoning? I really have to practice being more faithful. It's hard because I want to prove I can take care of myself and that I'm not weak. And I hate asking for help, would rather bite the dust than admit that I'm struggling or that I need something. And just when I start to think I'm so much closer to getting there, that ideal range of achievement and personal growth I have to learn these lessons again:
1. I am human
2. It's okay to ask for help, and most of the time it would be foolish not to
3. Sometimes things go horribly wrong even when you've done your best
And I feel like an idiot for having to relearn these things but then I have to laugh at myself and love myself too. Because at the moment when everything is too overwhelming to handle and I'm ready to disappear or worse, give up I hear the thing that everybody needs to hear, "I'm glad you're here". The universe has been quite consistent in this message and if that isn't nice, I don't know what is.
Ting-a-ling.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Location:Pearl St,Johnson,United States
6.03.2011
To or not to
So I think I might sell my iPad. And break off my Facebook engagement. And mail a copy of my chapbook to Oprah. And let go of this ideal that I'll ever have a real/storybook perfect relationship with any blood relative.
I was watching OWN yesterday. At the Darden's house, while James and Dennis were at some beach house. I watched two episodes of her Master Class series where she was speaking about her childhood and the Oprah show. I thought it was odd, just the day before several different friends asked me why I hadn't sent my chapbook to Oprah yet, "She can't read it if you don't send it to her."
the above was started on Tuesday, it is now Friday.
I still think I might need to sell my iPad. That's a possibility I'm okay with. Last night I broke off my Facebook engagement. Broke off the friendship period. And I notice this flaw, well tendency in myself: the willingness to sever a tie or avoid a relationship that in my mind has become irreparable. I'm not going to hash this out here. But I think it's fair to note that I have spent most of my life unable and unwilling to sever connections that were detrimental, taking all the blame when things didn't work, essentially throwing myself under the bus.
And don't we have to end up letting go of things in all the ways we never wanted to. People who snatch themselves out of your arms, or even who withhold themselves and then refuse to understand why you close yourself and walk away even once they decide to continually thrust themselves into you face haphazardly. Things we try to push on ourselves simply because we want or need to prove something. Anything to anyone.
Mon Dieu, I just don't ever want to be selfish. Mostly because I am aware that I need a lot. And since I know I'm not alone in that, I'd somehow like to contribute when other people need.
So I guess maybe a recap of Houston is in order. I only saw my mom once. I didn't ever get to the catholic worker here or any of the art museums I wanted to visit, not for lack of trying. I did make it to mass every week, except the first Sunday I was here. I have plans to see Brit and my uncle before I leave. I hung out with Stacy, Kim, Sylvia and Oliver finally, got to see Guy twice. Was able to give those people chapbooks. I haven't mailed one letter or made one book but something tells me that I'll get that done right after I get to Vermont. I didn't get to walk Rei, I feel like I barely ate enough vegetables, I probably have scurvy. I didn't finish any books, though I did get through twenty chapters of Timequake yesterday. I watched four movies I'd never seen before. I permed my hair. I did laundry twice. I probably smoked at least fifty cigarettes. I only found out a thimbleful of info on my grandmothers.
I'm going to Vermont!
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
I was watching OWN yesterday. At the Darden's house, while James and Dennis were at some beach house. I watched two episodes of her Master Class series where she was speaking about her childhood and the Oprah show. I thought it was odd, just the day before several different friends asked me why I hadn't sent my chapbook to Oprah yet, "She can't read it if you don't send it to her."
the above was started on Tuesday, it is now Friday.
I still think I might need to sell my iPad. That's a possibility I'm okay with. Last night I broke off my Facebook engagement. Broke off the friendship period. And I notice this flaw, well tendency in myself: the willingness to sever a tie or avoid a relationship that in my mind has become irreparable. I'm not going to hash this out here. But I think it's fair to note that I have spent most of my life unable and unwilling to sever connections that were detrimental, taking all the blame when things didn't work, essentially throwing myself under the bus.
And don't we have to end up letting go of things in all the ways we never wanted to. People who snatch themselves out of your arms, or even who withhold themselves and then refuse to understand why you close yourself and walk away even once they decide to continually thrust themselves into you face haphazardly. Things we try to push on ourselves simply because we want or need to prove something. Anything to anyone.
Mon Dieu, I just don't ever want to be selfish. Mostly because I am aware that I need a lot. And since I know I'm not alone in that, I'd somehow like to contribute when other people need.
So I guess maybe a recap of Houston is in order. I only saw my mom once. I didn't ever get to the catholic worker here or any of the art museums I wanted to visit, not for lack of trying. I did make it to mass every week, except the first Sunday I was here. I have plans to see Brit and my uncle before I leave. I hung out with Stacy, Kim, Sylvia and Oliver finally, got to see Guy twice. Was able to give those people chapbooks. I haven't mailed one letter or made one book but something tells me that I'll get that done right after I get to Vermont. I didn't get to walk Rei, I feel like I barely ate enough vegetables, I probably have scurvy. I didn't finish any books, though I did get through twenty chapters of Timequake yesterday. I watched four movies I'd never seen before. I permed my hair. I did laundry twice. I probably smoked at least fifty cigarettes. I only found out a thimbleful of info on my grandmothers.
I'm going to Vermont!
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Location:Wisteria St,Bellaire,United States
5.31.2011
Couching Potato
I have a pint of Ben & Jerry's Red Velvet ice-cream in the freezer right now. I'm waiting for the right time to savor it. Maybe the moment when I'm feeling stressed out by Dennis or James or when I'm trying to motivate myself to pack or after mass on Saturday or in the midst of ninety degree temperatures which are enough to provoke the worst whining.
This isn't quite the time I had imagined to be spending in Houston. Sitting around planning when to devour the ice-cream I've been anxious to taste since I found out about its existence. Being marooned in a city that's too big for anyone's good. Feeling dehydrated of all energy, just wanting a cool dark rock to disappear under.
I'm shedding a skin here in Houston. Or at least in the process of beginning to grow a new one. Houston has been a great desert for reflection. It has been a vast lonely hell in which to weep and gnash my teeth. Somewhere between a retreat and the laziest I've felt in a while.
I'm listening to Death Cab's new single You Are a Tourist. It sums up how I feel sweetly. In particular:
This week I feel like I've had some meaningful correspondences with a few people. I called Bren earlier this week and I spilled out all the thoughts I'd been having vocation-wise. Over the weekend I had written to David a very long lamenting email (appropriate for the supposed end of the world) and received a reply from him today. Every day I read Kathy's blog wishing I was there to bask in her awesome insightfulness. It all makes me miss South Bend, where no one is trying to argue that the over digitized fluff on the radio is real music, or that modeling is meaningful, or that the Catholic church is perverse and evil, or that community is some impossible ideal.
I've never felt so aware of what an idealist I am. So much so that my ideals have become my reality. Here I hear people talk about saving up to buy condos so that they can live luxuriously alone. My friends in South Bend always talk about buying houses that they can use to build community and offer hospitality in. You know, when I first moved into the Worker I was really nervous, so nervous I put off showering for a couple of days. Insert something about being laid bare within a community. But I remember the day I took my first shower there. I might have even washed my hair. At the time the second floor bathroom had an amazing shower head that made you feel like you were showering in a rainforest or under a waterfall. And from that point showers became part of my litmus test for the homeyness of a place.
Jess's shower was great for singing. The Peace House shower had that great world map shower curtain. Mara's shower featured body wash from Trader Joe's. Suzanne's shower has the most amazing shower head, several settings. But sometimes I have to take two showers a day here and it doesn't ever feel like home. Warm showers, more likely cold showers, singing, not singing. Nothing. Oh well.
In a semi related vein, apart from the holy spirit that dwells in each of us, I don't think there is anything more perfect than water. We went swimming in James's parents' pool last week. And it was incredible. I'm found of telling Stacy "I just want to be in the water!" I love the ethereal weightless feeling you get from being in the water. And I think Sheila should start an aqua yoga class. And I really can't wait to possibly be dipped into the Atlantic Ocean. I think the thing I love most about water is its immense symbolism. In the Tao te Ching, the analogy of stone being eroded or smoothed by a stream is used as an example of how the soft overcomes the hard. Water is essential liturgically.
This has rambled on enough.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
This isn't quite the time I had imagined to be spending in Houston. Sitting around planning when to devour the ice-cream I've been anxious to taste since I found out about its existence. Being marooned in a city that's too big for anyone's good. Feeling dehydrated of all energy, just wanting a cool dark rock to disappear under.
I'm shedding a skin here in Houston. Or at least in the process of beginning to grow a new one. Houston has been a great desert for reflection. It has been a vast lonely hell in which to weep and gnash my teeth. Somewhere between a retreat and the laziest I've felt in a while.
I'm listening to Death Cab's new single You Are a Tourist. It sums up how I feel sweetly. In particular:
and if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born Then it's time to go And define your destination There's so many different place to call home
This week I feel like I've had some meaningful correspondences with a few people. I called Bren earlier this week and I spilled out all the thoughts I'd been having vocation-wise. Over the weekend I had written to David a very long lamenting email (appropriate for the supposed end of the world) and received a reply from him today. Every day I read Kathy's blog wishing I was there to bask in her awesome insightfulness. It all makes me miss South Bend, where no one is trying to argue that the over digitized fluff on the radio is real music, or that modeling is meaningful, or that the Catholic church is perverse and evil, or that community is some impossible ideal.
I've never felt so aware of what an idealist I am. So much so that my ideals have become my reality. Here I hear people talk about saving up to buy condos so that they can live luxuriously alone. My friends in South Bend always talk about buying houses that they can use to build community and offer hospitality in. You know, when I first moved into the Worker I was really nervous, so nervous I put off showering for a couple of days. Insert something about being laid bare within a community. But I remember the day I took my first shower there. I might have even washed my hair. At the time the second floor bathroom had an amazing shower head that made you feel like you were showering in a rainforest or under a waterfall. And from that point showers became part of my litmus test for the homeyness of a place.
Jess's shower was great for singing. The Peace House shower had that great world map shower curtain. Mara's shower featured body wash from Trader Joe's. Suzanne's shower has the most amazing shower head, several settings. But sometimes I have to take two showers a day here and it doesn't ever feel like home. Warm showers, more likely cold showers, singing, not singing. Nothing. Oh well.
In a semi related vein, apart from the holy spirit that dwells in each of us, I don't think there is anything more perfect than water. We went swimming in James's parents' pool last week. And it was incredible. I'm found of telling Stacy "I just want to be in the water!" I love the ethereal weightless feeling you get from being in the water. And I think Sheila should start an aqua yoga class. And I really can't wait to possibly be dipped into the Atlantic Ocean. I think the thing I love most about water is its immense symbolism. In the Tao te Ching, the analogy of stone being eroded or smoothed by a stream is used as an example of how the soft overcomes the hard. Water is essential liturgically.
This has rambled on enough.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Location:Wisteria St,Bellaire,United States
5.18.2011
Wednesday is my day
Look at the joy on those faces. Isn't it one of the best things you've seen today. I know it's one of the best things I've felt. What is better? Meet Stacy. She's my saucy mama. Today we went out for lunch at Ninfa's (which we had a very difficult time finding and I think that we drove around in a circle before we actually happened upon it). After lunch we went to visit Guy at PPBC sat and talked for maybe an hour. On the way back into town I took this picture of the skyline.
And while we were in the Museum of Natural Science I took this picture.
So let me tell you about the MoNS. It completely exceeded my expectations. I saw fossils and dinosaurs. I walked through the galleries for chemistry and energy. There was a lot of information on the drilling of oil, or "Texas tea" as it's called. Stacy and I rode in a simulated geovator. We saw an awesome pendulum that was knocking down wooden blocks. And with fifteen minutes left before the museum closed we walked through the gem vault and the hall of minerals.
I've never really appreciated science. Being of the artsy fartsy variety I have greatly neglected becoming acquainted with the sciences. But today some of the science I saw was just as awesome as art. Maybe more awesome. Those gems and minerals. The periodic elements. The malacology.
Anyway what was better than appreciating science was the fun I had with Stacy. It never fails that we have a great time when I'm in town and I can always talk to her about what's on my mind without fear of judgement or misunderstanding. She's going to be a great social worker, like some other people I know.
So far this has been my favorite part of being in Houston spending time with Stacy (and Guy and Sylvia). And the fact that there will be more times, that's the icing on the cake.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Location:Wisteria St,Bellaire,United States
5.13.2011
The word of the day is zeitgeist
Being a rock star is not easy.
James has a wii. He also has guitar hero and band hero. I'm not really into video games but I am into performing. So I started my own progression on band hero and started out singing but then felt a tug to take a more rhythmic route. So I got out the drum set. I play on easy.
Finding your own rhythm is not easy. This world will not encourage you to follow your own instincts, it will try to drown out your intuition. But what about your friends? The last thing you want to do is step on toes when you're trying to find the beat. I feel incredibly clumsy when it comes this.
It is easy to butt heads when you're trying to find your own rhythm. Early this week James and I had a "huge" fight. It was hilarious to me when I woke up the next morning to think that we had been near strangling each other, the fact that we're so similarly tempered at times our anger flaring up like a gasoline soaked matchbook.
After yelling, storming off, succumbing to some poor coping mechanisms (I bought a pack of American Spirits and smoked about three of them instantly) our fevers broke we actually listened and were able to act like the pseudo adults we are. It was a complete fulfillment of James' prediction on mother's day about how my visit would be. He said, "It'll be both really amazing and really terrible, but it will never just be mediocre."
This is all too true. And as someone whose personality and moods dwell so often in extremes it seems a sort of indictment be phenomenal or be horrible but never ever ordinary. Heaven knows I can't be and am often not awesome all the time, being a rock star is not easy. And while it would be easy at first to be awful, to never try... Eventually that becomes difficult too.
And speaking of extremes how about making peace with extreme weather. My first few days in Houston were filled with the regret that comes with leaving a cool place for a sweltering sweaty one. I wasn't sure I would survive. The heat, the humidity, the lack of breezes. It was like living in a closed mouth. I hated sweating and then a shift: I love sweating. If I'm sweating my body is obviously doing its job. My brain is receiving info from my skin, neurons are firing, perspiration is occurring, core temperature is decreasing. Voila, ladies and gents. The more I can realize what a rock star my body is the less the heat is an issue.
Do you know what I mean? The more that I appreciate our twelve year friendship, the less I want to punch James in the face when he gets on my nerves. But seriously. The less important these minor frustrations become. The more important it is to accept and love.
Anyhow today is James' birthday. There will be good food, errands to run, mimosas for breakfast, party time, gifts. And I am wacky about birthdays and this is the first one of our birthdays that James and I have spent together probably since 8th grade. So happy birthday to my "hey baybee" James. Lord knows he deserves all contentment and love.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
James has a wii. He also has guitar hero and band hero. I'm not really into video games but I am into performing. So I started my own progression on band hero and started out singing but then felt a tug to take a more rhythmic route. So I got out the drum set. I play on easy.
Finding your own rhythm is not easy. This world will not encourage you to follow your own instincts, it will try to drown out your intuition. But what about your friends? The last thing you want to do is step on toes when you're trying to find the beat. I feel incredibly clumsy when it comes this.
It is easy to butt heads when you're trying to find your own rhythm. Early this week James and I had a "huge" fight. It was hilarious to me when I woke up the next morning to think that we had been near strangling each other, the fact that we're so similarly tempered at times our anger flaring up like a gasoline soaked matchbook.
After yelling, storming off, succumbing to some poor coping mechanisms (I bought a pack of American Spirits and smoked about three of them instantly) our fevers broke we actually listened and were able to act like the pseudo adults we are. It was a complete fulfillment of James' prediction on mother's day about how my visit would be. He said, "It'll be both really amazing and really terrible, but it will never just be mediocre."
This is all too true. And as someone whose personality and moods dwell so often in extremes it seems a sort of indictment be phenomenal or be horrible but never ever ordinary. Heaven knows I can't be and am often not awesome all the time, being a rock star is not easy. And while it would be easy at first to be awful, to never try... Eventually that becomes difficult too.
And speaking of extremes how about making peace with extreme weather. My first few days in Houston were filled with the regret that comes with leaving a cool place for a sweltering sweaty one. I wasn't sure I would survive. The heat, the humidity, the lack of breezes. It was like living in a closed mouth. I hated sweating and then a shift: I love sweating. If I'm sweating my body is obviously doing its job. My brain is receiving info from my skin, neurons are firing, perspiration is occurring, core temperature is decreasing. Voila, ladies and gents. The more I can realize what a rock star my body is the less the heat is an issue.
Do you know what I mean? The more that I appreciate our twelve year friendship, the less I want to punch James in the face when he gets on my nerves. But seriously. The less important these minor frustrations become. The more important it is to accept and love.
Anyhow today is James' birthday. There will be good food, errands to run, mimosas for breakfast, party time, gifts. And I am wacky about birthdays and this is the first one of our birthdays that James and I have spent together probably since 8th grade. So happy birthday to my "hey baybee" James. Lord knows he deserves all contentment and love.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
5.09.2011
This is the first day of my summer
Sunday & Monday mornings
I'm in Houston! This is happening and I am here. Brian Fair always asks me what does the M stand for? My daily wear glasses have M's on either side. The M stands for:
Mosquitoes. I have a bite on my wrist the size of a strawberry.
Muggy and moist. I'm sweating.
Mimosas. Are you surprised?
Mother's Day. Gotta buy my momma a gift.
Mara. As I was unpacking some things, I thought to myself maybe I packed too much... I don't think I'm going to read all these books. Oh well.
My send off was fabulous. Sheila, Mara, and Kathy sent me off in the grandest fashion drumming singing and laughing the whole time. We did yoga and ate buckwheat banana pancakes, mangos and perfectly seasoned eggs for breakfast. At the airport I checked my bags breezed right through security had some Ben & Jerry's to calm my nerves since I'm really determined to quit smoking this summer and waited to board my flight.
There's nothing like flying after years of not flying to make you feel like a baby. My ears popped a lot. They were sore by the time we landed. Having paid the extra ten bucks for early bird boarding I boarded the plane and snagged the window seat in row one.
Here are snippets from a draft of the poem I started on the plane:
Why are clouds so queer?
Sometimes mountains
or the heads of infant elephants
or Chinese new year dragons
Then bodies of water lacking depth stretching from a bosom of blue
& how does the earth feel about all this
the sporadic simultaneous lifting off &
redistribution of skins & slick spleened souls
across her body?
A squirrel trembles in the doorway. But the great Dane watching it from the couch won't pounce. James and I bought a fan yesterday so that I don't wilt in the heat of the day. Saturday evening we sprawled out on the front lawn and despite suffering several bug bites enjoyed the cool that came with sundown. The moon hung in the sky like the Cheshire cat's smile.
I am focusing on being here now. Creating an effective routine of my days. I woke up this morning at 6 and took Rei on our first walk. James and I had a little breakfast and then he left for work. I unpacked all my clothes, listening to NPR... catching up on my favorite blogs, writing this dear blog.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
I'm in Houston! This is happening and I am here. Brian Fair always asks me what does the M stand for? My daily wear glasses have M's on either side. The M stands for:
Mosquitoes. I have a bite on my wrist the size of a strawberry.
Muggy and moist. I'm sweating.
Mimosas. Are you surprised?
Mother's Day. Gotta buy my momma a gift.
Mara. As I was unpacking some things, I thought to myself maybe I packed too much... I don't think I'm going to read all these books. Oh well.
My send off was fabulous. Sheila, Mara, and Kathy sent me off in the grandest fashion drumming singing and laughing the whole time. We did yoga and ate buckwheat banana pancakes, mangos and perfectly seasoned eggs for breakfast. At the airport I checked my bags breezed right through security had some Ben & Jerry's to calm my nerves since I'm really determined to quit smoking this summer and waited to board my flight.
There's nothing like flying after years of not flying to make you feel like a baby. My ears popped a lot. They were sore by the time we landed. Having paid the extra ten bucks for early bird boarding I boarded the plane and snagged the window seat in row one.
Here are snippets from a draft of the poem I started on the plane:
Why are clouds so queer?
Sometimes mountains
or the heads of infant elephants
or Chinese new year dragons
Then bodies of water lacking depth stretching from a bosom of blue
& how does the earth feel about all this
the sporadic simultaneous lifting off &
redistribution of skins & slick spleened souls
across her body?
A squirrel trembles in the doorway. But the great Dane watching it from the couch won't pounce. James and I bought a fan yesterday so that I don't wilt in the heat of the day. Saturday evening we sprawled out on the front lawn and despite suffering several bug bites enjoyed the cool that came with sundown. The moon hung in the sky like the Cheshire cat's smile.
I am focusing on being here now. Creating an effective routine of my days. I woke up this morning at 6 and took Rei on our first walk. James and I had a little breakfast and then he left for work. I unpacked all my clothes, listening to NPR... catching up on my favorite blogs, writing this dear blog.
"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence
Location:Wisteria St,Bellaire,United States
4.27.2011
Day Minus 9
Welcome to the silly comforting blog post.
Ten days away from departure and sometimes I feel I am more my compulsive self than ever and sometimes I feel that I have really grown. I am frantically chipping away at all the things that need to be done over the next week and a half in slow motion. That's how I roll. A PO Box has been obtained, the checkbook has been balanced, plane and bus tickets purchased, a suitcase acquired, and yet still there are things that must be attended to. Items that taunt me from lists that have been scribbled and rescribbled. Everyday is a new chance to play deadline roulette. The payoff a wave of adrenaline I can ride for days following the completion of a task. I'm wishing there was time to visit St. Gregory's Abbey before leaving for Houston. Take a breather from the go-go. But I'm sure there will be time for that in Houston. Maybe I'll look up retreat centers in the area.
Everything is "awesome". I'm planning to ban that word from my vocabulary for a couple of weeks. Maybe even a whole six months. I remember when my vocabulary seemed to be exponentially increasing. What happened to the time when I used to finish a book a week at least.
The rest of the week will be me free falling through various circles of business:
Quilt deadline, wanting to play rock band, talking to the ND BOT spouses at SMH, baking granola for the co-op, Take Back the Night Vigil and Speak Out, TYLER!, therapy, silk creations, MFA Thesis Reading, possible Augustana concert, co-op market day, packing, storage, packing, shipping, packing, bookmaking before it's too late. with lots of sighing and talking to myself.
Okay I'm done with this. I need to do some gratuitous book shopping.
2.22.2011
Top Ten Tuesday: Book to Film Adaptations
1. The Joy Luck Club. I think this will always be my favorite adaptation even though it's been years since I've seen the movie or read the book it was definitely the first movie I enjoyed more than the book.
2. The Color Purple. I love this book and I love this movie. They are both so rich, I remember my best friend's father asking me in 8th grade what my favorite movie was and my answer was The Color Purple. It made me weird then and I'm sure it makes me weird now.
3. Gone With the Wind. An oldie and a goodie. It's just exciting to watch Scarlett and Rhett and their convoluted romance come alive in this film.
4. Pride and Prejudice. I love the BBC adaptation with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy as well as the most recent movie version with Keira Knightly as Elizabeth. They really make Jane Austen sexy. I also enjoy that the premise of Pride and Prejudice has been woven into other popular films.
5. Like Water for Chocolate. Didn't see this film until last summer and I loved it so much I probably watched it over three times in one week. One of my favorite parts was after the quail dinner when Gertrudis lights the shower on fire and is stolen riding off completely naked On horseback.
6. To Kill a Mockingbird. Another oldie. Love Gregory Peck and all the courtroom scenes.
7. The Secret Life of Bees. I liked what they did with this adaptation even with the changes.
8. Precious. The movie adaptation of Sapphire's book Push. A difficult book to read and a difficult movie to watch but I feel it deserves a spot on my list even though it dug up a lot of PTSD nightmares for me.
9. The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now I've not actually read the book or books of the same title but I loved what Wes Anderson did with this story.
10. Matilda. One of my favorites from childhood, I often felt like Matilda growing up.
And these are just adaptations of books I've been wanting to see: Brideshead Revisited (the eleven hour miniseries not the recent film), Persepolis, The Road, The House of Mirth, and Where the Wild Things Are.
2. The Color Purple. I love this book and I love this movie. They are both so rich, I remember my best friend's father asking me in 8th grade what my favorite movie was and my answer was The Color Purple. It made me weird then and I'm sure it makes me weird now.
3. Gone With the Wind. An oldie and a goodie. It's just exciting to watch Scarlett and Rhett and their convoluted romance come alive in this film.
4. Pride and Prejudice. I love the BBC adaptation with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy as well as the most recent movie version with Keira Knightly as Elizabeth. They really make Jane Austen sexy. I also enjoy that the premise of Pride and Prejudice has been woven into other popular films.
5. Like Water for Chocolate. Didn't see this film until last summer and I loved it so much I probably watched it over three times in one week. One of my favorite parts was after the quail dinner when Gertrudis lights the shower on fire and is stolen riding off completely naked On horseback.
6. To Kill a Mockingbird. Another oldie. Love Gregory Peck and all the courtroom scenes.
7. The Secret Life of Bees. I liked what they did with this adaptation even with the changes.
8. Precious. The movie adaptation of Sapphire's book Push. A difficult book to read and a difficult movie to watch but I feel it deserves a spot on my list even though it dug up a lot of PTSD nightmares for me.
9. The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now I've not actually read the book or books of the same title but I loved what Wes Anderson did with this story.
10. Matilda. One of my favorites from childhood, I often felt like Matilda growing up.
And these are just adaptations of books I've been wanting to see: Brideshead Revisited (the eleven hour miniseries not the recent film), Persepolis, The Road, The House of Mirth, and Where the Wild Things Are.
2.15.2011
it's still Tuesday in Texas: my top ten love stories
Now that I've finally got some time to think here's my list for today.
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. This was a favorite summer read of mine and I consider this book to be a magical literary drug/candy. It's not a traditional choice but it gets a spot on my list as the protagonist spends the entire novel falling in and out of love and ultimately meets his end because of his risky affair with some thug's girlfriend. Besides that it's a great display of the intricate love within families.
The Color Purple. Again not a traditional choice I guess but the love and relationships that blossom between the characters throughout the narrative earn it a place on the list. Celie and Shug, Harpo and Sofia (once they work past the domestic abuse) and even Nettie and Samuel.
Le Petit Prince. A dear prince and his dear rose. I love the part where the prince is talking to all the roses he meets on earth after he has tamed the fox and realizes that his rose is distinct from all of their simply because she is his rose.
Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre. Of course! I'd have to be ill not to include these they're just too essential. I loved reading these books in high school and rooted for both heroines to get their guy in the end.
Like Water for Chocolate. I really enjoyed this book and I'm a sucker for dramatic love triangles.
The End of the Affair and Brideshead Revisted. A coincidence that both Maurice and Charles lose out to God in their romances? I think not.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles and The House of Mirth. Because romance is tragic.
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. This was a favorite summer read of mine and I consider this book to be a magical literary drug/candy. It's not a traditional choice but it gets a spot on my list as the protagonist spends the entire novel falling in and out of love and ultimately meets his end because of his risky affair with some thug's girlfriend. Besides that it's a great display of the intricate love within families.
The Color Purple. Again not a traditional choice I guess but the love and relationships that blossom between the characters throughout the narrative earn it a place on the list. Celie and Shug, Harpo and Sofia (once they work past the domestic abuse) and even Nettie and Samuel.
Le Petit Prince. A dear prince and his dear rose. I love the part where the prince is talking to all the roses he meets on earth after he has tamed the fox and realizes that his rose is distinct from all of their simply because she is his rose.
Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre. Of course! I'd have to be ill not to include these they're just too essential. I loved reading these books in high school and rooted for both heroines to get their guy in the end.
Like Water for Chocolate. I really enjoyed this book and I'm a sucker for dramatic love triangles.
The End of the Affair and Brideshead Revisted. A coincidence that both Maurice and Charles lose out to God in their romances? I think not.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles and The House of Mirth. Because romance is tragic.
2.08.2011
top ten names of literary characters/figures I would bestow upon my children (if I didn't already have the names picked out)
Elizabeth. Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite romances and I have always loved the sassy Elizabeth Bennett. My grandmother's name was Elizabeth which is another appeal.
Lucille. For the poet Lucille Clifton and the fact that I'm a sucker for names with "light" in the etymology.
June. For the poet June Jordan and June Boatright of The Secret Life of Bees (even though Miss Boatright can be stubborn and guarded, she is also incredibly talented and fiercely protective of those she loves).
Lily. Lily Bart, a tragic and unfortunate character but there's warm well lit corner in my heart for the poor girl.
Sophia. Of Alice Walker's The Color Purple. A strong woman.
Bastian. The Never-ending Story. Enough said.
Nick. Of the Nick Adams Stories written by Ernest Hemingway, some of my favorite prose.
Alyosha. In honor of the Russians. Alexsi Karamazov of Dostoyevsky and Alyosha the Pot by Tolstoy.
Dante. Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise.
Phineas. From A Separate Peace and only because it's a better name than Gene.
Lucille. For the poet Lucille Clifton and the fact that I'm a sucker for names with "light" in the etymology.
June. For the poet June Jordan and June Boatright of The Secret Life of Bees (even though Miss Boatright can be stubborn and guarded, she is also incredibly talented and fiercely protective of those she loves).
Lily. Lily Bart, a tragic and unfortunate character but there's warm well lit corner in my heart for the poor girl.
Sophia. Of Alice Walker's The Color Purple. A strong woman.
Bastian. The Never-ending Story. Enough said.
Nick. Of the Nick Adams Stories written by Ernest Hemingway, some of my favorite prose.
Alyosha. In honor of the Russians. Alexsi Karamazov of Dostoyevsky and Alyosha the Pot by Tolstoy.
Dante. Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise.
Phineas. From A Separate Peace and only because it's a better name than Gene.
making new
in an attempt to make writing part of my daily life I've decided to start blogging again. probably just weekly at first then hopefully more frequently. I'll definitely be participating in top ten tuesdays. and since it's Tuesday I had better get started.
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