is it wrong . . .

. . . to be so amused by Reno 911? Because I am. Deliciously so.

i had always suspected as much . . .

. . . this just in: scientists now believe that the velociraptor had feathers. Well, anyone who knows my darling birds, Buddha and Phoebe, can attest to the fact that "terrible lizard" should have been "terrible bird" instead. I feel strangely vindicated. For what, I can't say. Perhaps Buddha's feather picking is an attempt to show his more macho, reptilian side. (Actually, he is letting the feathers on his epaulets grow back, which is a miracle in itself since they've been missing for years.)

Still trying to finish Owen Meany. Will try to do it today. It is such a good book, and somehow I managed to get sidetracked by school and other things. But I have a whole stack (or three) of books to read that are in no way related to school. I have three unread New Yorkers sitting on my desk. Still haven't finished the latest P&W. Although, I did read the Edwidge Danticat article, and I was quite horrified by the treatment of her uncle. Americans simply do not realize how foreigners of any color not white are treated. It is shameful. Immigration is the worst run government office. Imagine the DMV, with lines five times as long, officials behind counters who move as though they are underwater and haven't cracked a smile in ten years, and then magnify the paperwork twentyfold, and add to that the glare of security cameras, and security guards who are hopped up on espresso. It isn't the most friendly of places. I blame lack of training, lack of bilingual staff, lack of care on the part of the government. How did I get on this subject? I can soapbox all day long on this sad state of affairs. I must stop though. The birds/raptors want their breakfast.

rhin . . .

. . . itis. It finally floored me today. I now have some sort of medication that the pharmacist assured me would work. In a week. A week without breathing. Somewhere in that there is a poem.

Now reading Fire and Flower by Linda Kasischke. Her other book, the one I am supposed to be reading, Housekeeping in a Dream, is going for $100 on Amazon. And only on Amazon. So if you have a copy, won't you let me read it? I'd be ever so much obliged.

I am also on the prowl for more music. Musical suggestions. I don't listen to the radio. Why? Because all DJs are dumb. Because all radio commercials suck. Because I can listen to exactly what I want on the net, without DJs or commercials. Technology is amazing. But I'd still rather vote on paper.

Speaking of voting, local elections are almost here. I am sort of amused at the bickering that goes on between council persons. This can't be a Wilmy only problem because Chatty has it too. People are funny sometimes. Predictable. Ultimately, always predictable.

randomness. . .

. . . busy week. Thinking a lot about religion. Haven't had the time to be able to dip back into The History of God. I do have another book of poetry that I will start tonight. A lot of things going on in my mind, but nothing I can yet articulate. A theme with me recently.

why . . .

. . . does my profile pic keep disappearing? I am being electronically erased, and I am taking it as an ominous sign.

Reading a plethora of 16th century poetry, and that damn iambic pentameter of English verse is making me think in that meter. It won't get out of my head. (Must think unrhythmical thoughts.)

So I hear James Frey has a book deal. A fiction book deal. I am delighted. I haven't read his other books - but considering the amount of controversy surrounding them, I find it nice that a talented writer can find a book deal despite such a spotty background. It is like politics, but with a better vocabulary, and less sex.

I am starting to be enticed by poetry once again. This is for several reasons, but also includes the book of poetry I am currently reading, which I think every person who has a heartbeat should read: The Book of Orgasms, by Nin Andrews. Amazing prose poems. Daring, lusty, and all around fabulous. I completely love this book. Book of the year. Well, at least book of the week. I am also doing this thing on Shakespeare's Sonnet 144, which is my all-time favorite sonnet of his, and I think he would highly approve of Andrews' book. (For the uninitiated, Sonnet 144 is all about venereal disease. You have to love Shakespeare. What a sport.)

and . . .

. . . home now. Things are slowly unwinding.

everything is . . .

. . . amped up. There is a tension in the air. At home, right now, Buddha is screaming his ear-shattering I HATE THIS WORLD scream, which translates into the Oh my god, my neighbors are going to complain and I will be forced to move out tension. Then there is the tension that seems to be permeating around others that I can't quite figure out but it translates into the Am I experiencing more or less stress than the person next to me type of tension. Then there are these allergies, which I have never had before in my life and I hate them and want to whine about the two options they present: take some antihistamines and have a vague idea of what is going on around, or the second option of not breathing. Both are less than desirable.

I have class soon for which I am woefully under prepared. Or I am too well prepared and am just too much of an overachiever to understand what that really means.

The weekend was a bust. A terrible bust of wasted time, lack of rain, and moldy bread. I cleaned. Again. I have these great big piles of trash bags sitting by the front door waiting for me to take them out when I leave. I am in no mood for class. I am cranky, stubborn, and tired of people. I should wear a sign that says "Touchy. Subject Should Be Handled Gently."

I am sure I will be over this bout of whatever it is the moment that fourth cup of coffee kicks in. Maybe this is all just sleep deprivation.

is it, or isn't it . . .

. . . going to be a hurricane? So much for my theory that hurricanes are less stressful in that you have plenty of notice whether or not they are coming. This system sitting on the ocean at the moment is irritating me with its non-committal attitude. Figure it out already.

I have finished grading papers. Which means my weekend is suddenly a lot brighter. (If the above would figure itself out it could be even better.)

Rearranged my furniture last night. I don't know why I like to do this so often. I have been a chronic furniture-rearranger since I was a kid. The couch is always better on the other side of the room. I may keep it like this for a while. It works well. The birds like it.

Cryptic news: I am brooding over something. And the duck flies at midnight. Okay, that was bull. But the first part was true.

I am . . .

. . . in that restless mood where I want to write something, but I am not sure what. I think this is sort of like jungle fever for writers. I have been journaling for the past hour or so, and all that I have accomplished is to run out of things to say to myself. So here I am. Trying vainly to find some sort of newsworthy or entertaining morsel to tempt the blogger gods.

I have been meaning to talk about grey hair. I have had this post in mind for a while, and so why not espouse on the topic of follicles? To begin, I have decided I like my grey hairs. They are not grey, per se, but more silvery white. This seems reasonable. It is also inevitable, so why not enjoy it? There seems to be this dichotomy of social thought on grey hair. On one hand you have the growing number of women who are shunning chemicals to alter their color. On the other hand, you have my all time favorite commercial: Just for Men.

Now, my grandmother used to use Just for Men in a shade of brown, so clearly, it is mislabeled. But I can forgive them this for the simple fact that I find their current commercial unbelievably entertaining. This is the one with the two sportscasters (former players in some sport that apparently did not set them up well enough with retirement which led to their participation in said commercial) in the bar. Anonymous guy with grey beard approaches snotty woman with blonde hair. The sports guys, in unison: "RE-JECTED!" And then, the ultimate in rhyming reason: "No play for mister grey!"

How can you not love that? Especially since mister grey goes into the bathroom (where there is an apparent abundance of Just for Men hair products) and emerges, newly browned, to approach snotty blonde. This time - yes, this time! - she practically mauls him on the spot. Score!

Yes, I love this commercial. It never fails to please me. I laugh every single time. And I like my own silver follicles that are competing with the dark brown. They add some bling.

And that is all I have people. I teach tomorrow, which means a seven am wake up call.

Gunn. Tim Gunn.

. . . just when I was going to get really irritated at Tim Gunn for having his own show and neglecting his ardent fans of Project Runway, I can finally relax. Seems Tim has been busy doing both his own show and Project Runway 4. Which means those of us who have been watching Top Chef to get our fashion fix with Padma Lakshi can now get that fix the old fashioned way. By watching Heidi, Nina, and Michael berate and torment a new cast of contestants all vying to be more engaging than their predecessors.

This is a load off my mind. Seriously. There is a huge poet following of Project Runway. I swear.

So what am I doing this holiday weekend? You guessed it. Researching the correct usage of the comma, colon, and semi-colon. Strictly for fun. And to reiterate my own understanding so that when I mark my students' papers I can be certain I didn't impose my own grammatical inaccuracies on them. When 80% use the comma incorrectly, you know there is some sort of deficiency in the high school system. And when I was able to graduate with my bachelor's in English without ever once being required to take a grammar course, well, the problem becomes apparent. Catch-22.

Not to harp on the Tim Gunn thing, but I really hope his show doesn't suck. It looks like it could. One reason we all like Tim so much is for his sparse appearances with a truly verbose vocabulary. An entire half hour of those pinstripes might make me change my mind. Think I'll hold out for PR4.

books! . . .

. . . I ordered have arrived. I am giddy with the smell of print. Let's see, what did I order? Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje, The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving, which I started reading last night.

i have to say . . .

. . . that so far the semester is going really well. My students are great, their classes coalescing and morphing into these mini-think tanks of creative writing. My own classes are supremely satisfying, more so than any previous semester. Most of this has to do with me and not necessarily the classes I took previously. I feel more grounded this year, more in control of my surroundings and committed to the writing. And I really just love being in school. The phd is starting to sound really tempting again, although I feel it would back-burner my writing.

Speaking of the writing, I need to get some discipline in terms of making regular hours to sit down and face the computer. I don't have writer's block - I have writer's aversion.

But I am very stoked about teaching.

it is officially stupid . . .

. . . driver day. I don't even want to get into the details, I just want to have a chauffeur.

I have been considering expanding the menagerie by one. I think that another rodent would do fabulously in the house, and am jonesing after a hairless rat. They are my favorite, with the soft skin and the delicate features. Alas, I would prefer to rescue (believe it or not but rat rescues do exist mostly from unwanted litters or from health issues or behavior issues) but there are no local rescues. And the pet stores (which I shudder to think of buying from, but it may come to that) don't carry hairless rats. At any rate, I'm on the lookout if anyone comes across one.

I finally have things to be doing; papers to be grading, poems to be writing and reading, and other various projects. This transition into the school year has been rough on Buddha, who wants me there all day. He was rather ornery this morning with me since I left him most of the day yesterday. Mondays are my busy days. There is no way to explain this to him, of course.

Off to teach in fifteen.

reality check . . .

. . . Alberto Gonzales is gone. Bush said his name was dragged through the mud. That poor, mistreated man. I feel sorry for him. Oh wait. No I don't.

Another misguided soul, Michael Vick, says he rejects dogfighting and is sorry. Yeah, sorry his ass was caught. I am also a but perturbed at the NAACP, an organization I think very highly of, is coming to Vick's defense. Whatever. That is a sign that the organization needs to rethink their priorities. Defending an animal killer/abuser/exploiter is not one of them.

Sometimes this world is too much. I have been thinking of my carbon print lately, ways to reduce it. Funny how little things snowball on you. It starts with one thing, organic shampoo, and moves on to organic flour. The range of healthy products is astounding. Car companies are starting to figure it out. Homeowners too. But still...there is too much waste. Recycling needs to be mandatory. Think of the resources we waste.

Okay, enough. I am just in one of those funky moods where I find that the last three things I bought at Target were made in China and it bothers me. Big question day here at the blog.

First classes that I am actually taking start today. Now that will be good. I really do love school.

today is a lazy day . . .

. . . complete with a really bad night's sleep. All my pets are in great moods though and you can't beat that. It is also rainy, which is fabulous.

I am reading this really interesting book on religion by Karen Armstrong called A History of God. So far I am quite impressed. There is so much I do not know.

yesterday . . .

. . . I gave in and went to Best Buy and bought a new laptop. I consider it an investment in my writing. (Because, apparently, I am a very high maintenance poet who needs a really big hard drive in order to compose my usual 25 line poem.) Normally I would have been very excited about such a purchase and ripped into that box immediately. Didn't happen. Too much stuff to do. At about 10pm I was ready to set it up. I opened the box, admired the shiny new casing, the smooth design, the lightness; I wondered over the bizarre 12 cell battery which protruded from the bottom to give the laptop 'lift' and then I turned that sucker on.

Yes.

And then I noticed it was the wrong computer. The number on the computer didn't match the box. It figures. So that (lower performance) laptop will be going back today.

Other news: not really any. Class this morning. Best Buy this afternoon. Rain dance later in the day.

needless to say . . .

. . . but the seven a.m. wake-up call did not last.

seven . . .

. . . in the morning. This is when I have been waking up the past two days. Mostly I have this idea about creating some self discipline and doing at least an hour of writing in the morning. The first day worked out pretty well. Today my computer acted up on me, refusing to open Word. Is this a sign? Do I need a new computer? Do I need to ignore the morning hours? Hmmm.

Classes start Wednesday.

I have been missing my dogs. A lot. Below is a picture of Gizelle. I hear she helped herself to some freshly cooked food on the counter the other day. Lol. Now that's my girl.

the war czar . . .

. . . sounds like a great title for a book, no? Well, in actuality, we have a war czar, and this war czar has apparently advised that Bush guy that we should consider reinstilling the draft. Yes, the draft.

But it's okay. Really. Because Bush, in his usual manner of being dead-on in his reasoning and rational and ultimately, his policy, has said that he doesn't think we need the draft. Phew. Load off my mind.

In other not so new news - it is hot. The heat 'broke' today and is just going to be 90 degrees. Yesterday, traveling on Oleander, the bank's temperature sign said it was 100 degrees. I believe it.

In the paper today there was a story about a new hang out spot for Emirates in Dubai. It is basically a freezer, where everything is made of ice. Everything. You pay your money, get a parka and some real shoes, and then you get to sit around on blocks of ice and enjoy the freezing temperatures. This is from the same city that brought snow to the Middle East. I cannot even begin to explain the enigma that Dubai is. It is this rushing amalgam of people, all different kinds, existing together in a hot desert. Nothing is hidden. It is all there to be seen. The buildings, the people, the wealth, the poverty. It is basically insane, and I want to go back, and stay for a while. There is a story there, I can feel it. (Of course, I think this about everything. Ah, the grocery store. Bet there's something interesting going on!)

the devil came on horseback . . .

. . . I went to the free screening at UNCW's Lumina Theatre last night, and I was glad I did. The genocide in Darfur is happening today. It was happening yesterday, and will continue tomorrow.

One of the things I am leery about whenever I get involved in some sort of community activism, is the overwhelming nature of the problems that we create for ourselves. I watched this movie, the pictures of the dead bodies, little girls burned alive, whole villages annihilated, the janjaweed (the Khartoum funded Arab militias sent to do the killing, paid in looting rights) admitting to their role openly, and I wonder, Well fuck. What am I supposed to do about it?

So it isn't an easy thing to deal with. Once you have seen these pictures, once you know that right now someone is being killed with no chance of protection (because this is a systematic killing, earning the name of genocide, and absolutely requiring our government's intervention), once you know all of this, you can't ever go back to not knowing. And therein lies the hopelessness. What can I do? I have no power. I cannot simply pack up, move to Darfur, buy a gun, and sit entry at the villages.

But what I can do is to tell people about it. I can tell my elected officials that this matters very much to me. I can write letters to three people: my representative Mike McIntyre, and my two senators, Elizabeth Dole and Richard Burr. Yes, they are both Republicans, but in my experience with government, political affiliation means absolutely dick when it comes to listening to their constituents. The noisier you are, the more response you get.

I could stop there, with three letters, but why? Let's face it: elections are coming up. I haven't heard anything about Darfur so far from the candidates. I have heard a lot about Iraq though. Last I checked the Iraqis were not hell bent on genocide. Last I checked both sides were well equipped with guns. And the truth is, we don't really know who the bad guy is over there, because there really is not one. We can blame it on the insurgency, but the insurgency is both Sunni and Shiite.

I am digressing here, but the point is, no one seems to know what is really going on in the world, and this irritates me. We elect our leaders based on whether they think abortion is wrong or not. In what moral world does abortion trump the mass killing of an entire people? I am sick of playing games with rhetoric people. Republicans are too greedy and conservative to act ethically at home and abroad, and Democrats are too busy playing the rhetoric game to find their balls and take some action. Everyone wants to hold on to their power, or get more power than they currently have.

So I am writing my letters. And next time I register to vote, I am registering as an Independent. I don't need a party line to tell me what I should think is an important issue. And to you, who read this whole thing (thank you), don't believe for a minute that your opinion doesn't matter. We are lucky to live in this flawed country, and yet I can feel no pride in being American, while my government ignores the genocide. We swore to Always Remember, didn't we? What fools. We should have sworn to Always Act.

Save Darfur.

i (heart) charles simic. . .

. . . so it is fairly lovely news that he is to be the new Poet Laureate. Simic's poetry is influential to me, in that I feel his verse is profound in both the lyricism/imagery and the political ideology, whether one wants to call it ideology or not - perhaps humanity is a better word. Either way, he makes me want to be a better poet, and because I believe that being a poet is more than just writing, it is a way of looking at life, of engaging in life, of being aware in all the senses, I am excited to see that perhaps the discussion of modern poetry can perhaps be refocused to poetry itself, and not the same old boring po-biz discussions of who has what money and bringing poetry to the masses as it used to be in the good old days (and what days were these, I ask) and finally, to look beyond one's own petty agenda that puts the biz in po-biz in the first place. Who the hell cares? I just want to read some good poetry and theory. I am tired of the publishing end of things, and the brouhaha over Academia: Devil Poetry, or Devil-May-Care Poetry?

And yada yada yada.

the most awesome . . .

. . . museum in Florence. Yes, the Uffizi is nice too. But sometimes you just want to see dead animals and giant, scary bugs. This was a highlight of my trip this year, and I highly recommend it. I can't get the giant rhino out of my head, and sadly, the website does not show him. I'll take pictures next time.

hairspray. . .

. . . was pretty cute. Fabulous casting, including some appearances by original cast members from the first movie. It is always hard to see a remake of a movie you absolutely love, so I was glad to see that while the musical played tribute to the original, it definitely went in its own direction. I still prefer the original - but the musical is pretty rockin' too.

let the battery run down. . .

. . . well, it is getting closer to the start of another school year. Less than a month. I have a vague idea of how I am going to orchestrate my classes. Other than that, it will just be nice to be back in the classroom. I always look forward to the first day of class, even when I was a kid. There is just something exciting about having a list of knowledge and assignments to wade through in a timely manner. I do well with guidelines. Which is one reason I am thrilled to have a working outline of my book. I never thought I would like to write that way, with a goal in mind, and in poetry, you don't write that way. At least, you are discouraged to. Poems are more acts of discovery towards meaning, and literature seems to be a more guided tour with acts of connections along the way. Structure seems to be something that is helpful to me at this moment, even as I crave change constantly.

Yummy! . . .

. . . is doing great after his minor lumpectomy. Excellent news. I couldn't be more pleased. He is such a great little guy.

Also met this fabulous child at the pool today who informed me that her Barbie dolls were recovering from a drug and gambling addiction respectively. They were both former cheerleaders. I don't judge. (Except, as far as I know, my Barbies were never into such illicit acts, other than feeling up the Ken doll, and believe me, that wasn't really satisfying for Barbie.)

no spoilers, promise . . .

. . . but I simply have to say that the seventh Harry Potter book was damn good. Yes, that's right. Damn good. Apparently I am a fan of magical realism. Kid books too. The His Dark Materials trilogy (coming soon to theater near you with Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman) were great also. So what else should I read?

I did have to finish the Pessl book first before committing to Harry. And it was worth it, because after the first three hundred pages or so, the book gets good. Not just, oh, yeah, well I guess it was worth reading it, but more like, holy crap, didn't see that coming, or that, uh huh, oooo, it all makes sense now. But you have to delve through 300 pages to get there! Longest book foreplay ever.

Taking Yummy to the vet. I think he may have a scent gland tumor. Male gerbils have scent glands on their tummies, and they are susceptible to cancer. So, hopefully, Yummy will be a good candidate for surgery. Fingers crossed. He really is the cutest little shit.

if it were easy, everyone would do it. . .

. . . I haven't been blogging about the progress of my "novel project" in a while. I had run into a plot snafu, which, after some incredibly slow contemplation, a solution may have presented itself. Not completely thought out, but on its way. One thing this means is doing some research, which once upon a time would have been considered an extreme hassle. Now, I am looking forward to it. Items to research? The NHL, and Greek mythology. I am not sure about the mythological aspect just yet, but it merits a glance, particularly with my opening scene.

I haven't written a lick of poetry since I have been back from Europe. Although I have some ideas percolating on that too. All these ideas and nothing written.

I am still bogged down in the Pessl book. It is incredibly dense with language and scene. At times I find it incredibly clever, and at others I get frustrated with its slow movement and extraneous scenes. In thinking about this today, I wondered at what point my personal criticism diverges from being critical of the piece on its own merits, and being critical of how I would have done it differently. This sort of bothers me in some respects, because ultimately, I want to respect the intention of a writer, and on the other hand, I want to be able to discern when a piece works and when it doesn't, and have that be based on some concrete concept. Thinking this way all the time can hinder my enjoyment of a book. My expectations for literature are high. Let downs are easy. On the other hand, I totally chilled with a Dan Brown book the other day as a nice break from Pessl. I haven't made up my mind about her yet - we'll see when I finish. But I didn't expect anything from Brown other than some entertainment.

Other news...well, there is no other news. A month from now, new MFA orientation. The birds are adjusting well to their new cage. Phoebes got into Buddha's side tonight and snuggled up before becoming evil. I had to separate them. Yummy, the gerbil, may be sick. He will be finding a vet tomorrow. Sigh. He is such a cute little guy.

i need a verberizer. . .

. . . because this word is still bugging me: condensation. How do you turn this word into a verb? Is it condenscencing? Ah, the pitfalls of the English tongue. I managed to get through an entire education without once having been taught grammar. I mean from day one. Right through college. Amazing that even as an English major I was not subject to having to understand the basic fundamentals of my language and thereby enhancing my own understanding of what I was reading. So I learned grammar the way everyone does - by reading.

But now this has become problematic. Because the ideas of strict writing are out the window. Sentences no longer must be carefully constructed with a direct object, a verb, a noun, or whatever else sentences must have. I don't do sentence diagramming. Never have. (Isn't this kind of funny though? Imagine me teaching people how to write and I have never dissected a sentence. Should I make the obvious surgeon joke? No. That would be trite.)

Any grammar I do know I picked up off the street or in my required French classes. Trying to figure out the equivalent to French grammar in English grammar made those classes twice as hard. My point?

Well my fridge is (where's my verberizer?) condenscencingationing on the outside. And I am reading Marisha Pessl's Calamity Physics, which has a main character who's vocabulary and reading background is pretty damn hot for her age. She even indulges in a bit of ranting on a teacher who uses the dangling preposition. Which does make me chuckle, sure. Until I come across a huge glaring misspelling/typo/editing faux pas that made me laugh. It wasn't intended to be there either - Pessly does misuse grammar upon occasion when it serves her purposes.

So where am I going with all of this?

Nowhere. I'm just ranting. And for no good reason. I like Pessl's book thus far, the fridge will be fixed. The birds will stop yelling. All will be good.

a package . . .

. . . in the mail from my mother! Very exciting to get unexpected stuff. In this case, organic food. The birds are big fans of the gingersnap cookies. So yea for motherly love!

The heat is getting to me. I haven't been outside in two days, and each morning I read the UV index and then I wonder about America's love of creating codes of alarm. Soon, you will ask someone how they are, and instead of the stock answer "Fine," you will get "Oh, I'm a code orange today, and you?" "Code yellow." "Excellent."

So anyway, I am heading out in a bit. Surely a movie is in order. We'll see. It beats listening to C-SPAN and the congress debating the Iraq War Troop Withdrawal Bill. Although I do like listening to government in progress. I am always amazed at how passionate some of them are when they get up to speak, and by the orderliness of Robert's Rules or whatever protocol they use. It is also distressing to know that the vast majority never read the bills they vote on, surely not thoroughly. I still remember watching the debates when they impeached Clinton, and Robert Wexler, a Democrat (Florida I think), get up and rail on the floor - he was so preacheresque. And young. He definitely made an impression. I forget whether he was for or against impeachment, but he was spirited either way. I miss the Clinton days. It will take a full eight years of another presidency to fix what this current idiot has wrought. I personally think that we should exile him, but who the heck would take him?

I finished reading The Buffalo Soldiers last night, and it was very good. One of those 'sad' and 'depressing' but ultimately 'uplifting' books I was railing about the other day. But in a good way. It was a page turner towards the end especially, and I love how Bohjalian was able to make you root for all the characters, and then make you almost hate one particular character, and then root for him in the end despite his flaws. I want to read his other novel, Trans-Sister Radio. As a writer he reminds me of Nicholas Evans. Both in tone, subject matter, and plot development.

And by the way, one of the things I read on some lit blog when I got back from Europe that irritated me, was about how there are no real blogs that do book reviews or in depth analysis. This isn't exactly true to begin with, and secondly, why should bloggers spend all their time writing reviews of books? I can't speak for others, but for myself, I don't write essays. I am not a strong reviewer. I either like something or don't, for a variety of reasons, and I see no point in trying to articulate my own ideas in a way that will make it a high brow review for a personal blog. No one cares. You like the book or you don't, and you move on. If I don't like something, I will say it. But to bash lit blogs or po blogs for not being what they aren't seems ridiculous.

Now I am ranting. It's over. Swear. Off to the day.

and so it begins . . .

. . . the Pottermania! I pre-ordered my book. I had planned on waiting, but to be honest, there is just no way to avoid finding out whether Harry dies or not because this is going to be everywhere. All the newscasts; local, national, international, galactic. I fully expect random relatives to call and express their outrage/glee; strangers asking in the street if I could believe Rowling's gall/genius; spam in my inbox asking if I want to join the Thank God Harry Died/Lived Club!; and so on and so forth. So, from the date of release, to the point when I get the book and read the book, I will be out of commission. I am unhooking. I want no spoilers, no impingements upon my joy of reading a story where I am so engrossed that nothing else in the world matters. If Wilmington happens to have a hurricane while I am reading this, so be it. I have a flashlight. Extra batteries.

The movie I am willing to wait for a bit, until the crowds thin out a bit. I have read the book so no chance of spoilers, just the chance that the director screws up royally and cuts important things. They've all done it. But, who gives a shit. Harry Potter would have been my favorite books as a child, and are among my tops as an adult. I know. And I don't care. Escapism is a great function of fiction and especially magical realism.

it is hot . . .

. . . and muggy. My cats have melted on the tile floor. I don't know how they managed to spread themselves so flat. I feel a bit guilty, not running the a/c, but the birds hate it. They love the humidity and the heat. Poor kits.

Saw Waitress last night. I really liked it, and was most impressed by Keri Russell more so than the story. It is incredibly predictable, but what keeps it from being just another movie is the incredible performances. Although I personally felt Andy Griffith could have been a bit more curmudgeonly. But whatever.

Finished reading Eudora Welty's One Writer's Beginnings. It was not what I expected, but once I got into it, I fell for her rhythms and incredibly keen eye. She doesn't talk about writing overtly, or even how she got started. It is very subtle, but powerful. Onto William Carlos Williams next.

I still have not ordered my books for Fall. I suppose I should if I want them on time. I have a list of things that still haven't been done, but the list of things I have done that didn't need to be done continues to grow. Irony.

Speaking of which, I have scrapped all the pages of the book I had thus far. There was no irony. I am not going to write another 'sad' and 'depressing' but ultimately 'lesson learned' and 'enlightening' book. What fun is that?

Sending out poetry. Will let you know of success. You can count on the rejection!

yes, this is a great way to spend . . .

. . . taxpayer money! The US is so behind on their views on sexuality. I have said it before, and I will say it again - my kids are not going to watch anything but French film. None of this American crap.

Well, reruns of Project Runway are on, gotta go.

Happy Fourth!

away . . .

. . . I have been sick, which isn't fair. It is summer. There is unseasonably cool weather to be enjoyed. Which I did today. Eighty degrees, no real humidity. Awesome weather.

So I found out this week that it is my ten year high school reunion. That totally snuck up on me. For one, I didn't realize it had been ten years. Secondly, I went to a really small school with a graduating class of about 30. A friend who is trying to convince me to go told me that a lot of people are going - around 100. I didn't think to ask where the heck we were scrounging up the extra 70 people. And as far as I know, this will be the first reunion in, say, forever.

Okay, okay. I am being cynical. I am sure other graduating classes are going. It was (and likely still is) a total student body of 500. K-12. Yes. All of us on this tiny campus, bungalow style classrooms, hippie murals on the walls with John Lennon. We celebrated Peace Day once a year. We tye-dyed t-shirts and made homemade vegetarian chili. I shit you not. Yes, this was in California. Yes, I am aware of those connotations. Yes, there was a pot-bellied pig named Bumper who walked around campus.

Thinking back has made me nostalgic. Somewhat. Then again, it is also a major flashback to icky high school memories. And a complete chance for both self acrimony and self validation. The thing is, I am so over high school, that I wonder what the point is in going. College does a pretty good job of wiping out high school. Grad school does a really great job of wiping out undergrad. It is like trading up, and the higher I go, the more I like school. I am finally going for me.

So the question is twofold: 1) will nostalgia win over a healthy sense of self? and 2) can this ridiculous post get any longer?

more . . .

. . . links coming soon. Blogger has come a long way since I last complained. (Thank you Blogger!)

If you know of a great (or outrageous) link, let me know about it. I am aiming for something akin to Lime Tree's plethora of places to spend time procrastinating on the web. It is awesome.

I also spent some time catching up on the literary world, and as usual I found stuff of great interest. More on this later.

Writing Report Card: today was a very productive day.

no conures, no more . . .

. . . I have conures. Two of them. And, yes, they are loud. I should have gotten doves.

But I didn't. I have a nanday (notoriously the most destructive and vocal bird ever) and a green cheek (notoriously a biter). They both live up to their reputations.

I have come to the conclusion that I am not overreacting or being overly sensitive to their behavior. They are just obnoxious. This must be what it is like to have teenagers. (I say this tongue in cheek by the way. I love teenagers! They go so well with a balsamic vinaigrette.)

No, I am not comparing my birds to teenagers to food. I would never jest.

All I am getting at is that I am not the one with the problem here. The birds are just annoying. What an amazing (and seven year long) revelation!

***Here at poethussy, we strive for a balanced reporting of life, and delight in the small won battles/revelations.

there is this old john wayne movie . . .

. . . called Donovan's Reef which is what I am thinking of at the moment for the glorious scene where Elizabeth Allen's character goes in search of a swimsuit. If you've seen it, you know where I am coming from, and if you haven't, get thee to a movie rental!

tidbit. . .

. . . which I found interesting, and surprising, coming from the local dot com news feed. Naturally it is in the opinion section, and maybe ten people will read it, but still, the fact that it is there at all was pleasant. (Also I have looked, and have no idea who this person is responding to, but if I can find it, will link that too.)

Op-Ed.

and holy cow, how did i miss this????

Okay, a wee bit of being star struck, as I just found the following comment about my original Natasha Trethewey post.

So, Ms. Trethewey, the pleasure was mine!

total score . . .

at the used bookstore:

Joy Williams: Taking Care, Breaking & Entering

Clyde Edgerton: Walking Across Egypt, Killer Diller

Chad Prevost: Snapshots of the Perishing World

Nathanael West: Miss Lonely Hearts & The Day of the Locust

William Carlos Williams: In the American Grain

James Cummins and David Lehman: Jim and Dave Defend the Masked Man

Arundhati Roy: The God of Small Things

Stephen Dobyns: The Church of Dead Girls

Eudora Welty: One Writer's Beginnings

Chris Bohjalian: The Buffalo Soldier

Brigit Pegeen Kelly: The Orchard

Saul Bellow: Ravelstein

E.L. Doctorow: Lives of the Poets

All for under $50. I had to pull myself out of there. But I am super excited about these books. The Prevost one in particular because he is a local Chattanooga author with no connections to the writing workshops at UTC, which makes him a strange and curious anomaly - and he is talented to boot. He did come read at a Meacham, last year maybe? Hmm. Anyway, the other that I am super excited about it the Cummins, Lehman book which comes complete with these amazing illustrations by Archie Rand. I have a feeling this book will be called into play this upcoming semester when tackling poetry in the intro creative writing class. And it just pleases me to no end.

amazingly enough . . .

. . . this time in Europe, I only came across one squatter toilet. It is always fun watching first timers encounter these mysteriously low porcelain holes in the ground. Or the entire experience of trying to figure out how to flush the loo, or the even odder experience of having to pay someone to use the bathroom because that person is in charge of cleaning the bathroom. (This doesn't always mean they do.)

But, having just come across this little gem of how-to info for the world traveler who may be encountering bidets and the like, I thought I would post the link here, because, well, it amused me enough to read the whole thing and I have never gotten a more satisfactory answer.

May it come in handy for someone.

yesterday . . .

. . . I washed all my dogs. All six of them, from smallest to biggest. They took it as a personal affront with sad doggy eyes, and the house smelled like wet dog for hours.

I am slowly percolating some thoughts in my head about this novel which, for better or worse, will have a rough draft out by end of summer. I say this despite having not written a word of it yet (not technically true, but it feels true). I say this because when one is a writer, one must embrace writerhooddom (word??) and say fuck it, and be brash and belligerent with the reticent piece of work. I say this because I am stubborn, and when one is stubborn, one must stick to what one has said until the very last minute when all options have been exhausted and then stubbornness gives way to impossibility and moderate accomplishment. I say this because someone said it was impossible, and so I must naturally prove them wrong.

But really, there are connections being made. This is exciting shit.

i just heard . . .

. . . a fabulous quote from children's poet Jack Prelutsky: "Children are not stupid; they're just short."

How sweet is that? He was talking about his use of big grown up 50 dollar words in his poetry, like gelatinous. This makes complete sense to me, as I can still remember when I encountered some of those big $5o words for the first time as a child.

Kudos for Mr. P, who is creating future poetry lovers even as we speak!

last night . . .

. . . I watched Little Miss Sunshine. Loved it. The dialogue is beyond incredible. You just can't write that shit. (Although, obviously someone did.) I put this movie into the category of others like Wonder Boys, The Royal Tenenbaums, Tadpole, Secretary, Something's Gotta Give, etc.

I tried to read Donna Tartt's novel The Secret History, and after the first chapter I had to put it down. It feels highly over written to me, and the characterization not compelling enough to actually draw me into the story with the fact that she sets it up in a way that I already know the ending. That seems to me a really hard trick to do. This character dies, I am telling you right off, then putting my story in first person, including way too much unconvincing backstory of the main character, and completely esoteric random Latin phrases into the mix. Lol. I mean, it is quite a tall order, and I don't think she pulls it off, but since I couldn't get past the first chapter, I may be way off. Perhaps it gets better. Perhaps. I may try it again later, when I feel less snarky towards it. I really wanted to like it. I did. Swear.

I have managed to do some more revising on some recent poems. So the writing is there. Moderately so. Other things are in the works though while I am in Chattanooga, which include mostly expensive vet trips (impacted teeth seem to be the trend with my dogs at the moment), and house and yard improvements. The downside to that is of course that when you paint the new front door a fresh new color, suddenly the trim needs to be painted. I won't even get started on the other pitfalls of home improvement. But things are slowly getting done.

hibiscus flowers . . .

. . . in your curry vegetable dish, are super awesome.

books read . . .

. . . while in Europe: The Road by Cormac McCarthy, which was pretty fantastic; The Final Solution by Michael Chabon, which I read straight through and need to reread, because it is so short that it works more like an extended short story and I feel like I missed some nuances of the story. Also Book of My Nights by Li-Young Lee: pretty damn awesome stuff.

Listening to Bob Dylan, Modern Times, which I am digging. He really is lyrically gifted, undeniably so. What would the world have been like if Bob were a poet? Is he already? Hmmm. Everything is ultimately connected somehow. I am thinking of that rhino again.

so...

...I am back, Stateside. Spent most of yesterday sleeping, trying to ward off the jet lag and to make up for lack of sleep while abroad. So much amazing and awesome stuff happened on the trip, the best of which simply has to be the sheer amount of material I now have for my writing. Ten poems written while there; many new titles or ideas of poems to write in future; possible plot details for the novel, although that is still sketchy.

I must also allow that most of the material I gathered had more to do with moments of insight or basic embarrassment or whatnot...and the other half of that coin I mostly owe to the dead bodies of animals, which there were aplenty. There is something about seeing a stuffed rhino at eye level, with a thin sheet of glass between you that puts things into perspective. I don't think I have ever felt so diminutive.

a small gem . . .

. . . before I leave. Mark Doty is my hero. And I am in love with his absolutely amazing poem "A Display of Mackerel."

on the eve

So, Sarkozy won (which I knew he would), and Paris Hilton is going to jail. There is no end to the newsworthy.

I had to be ruthless in paring down the books I could take with me. I won't mention who didn't make the cut because then I will change my mind and try to figure it out all over again. But enough is enough. The bag is packed, the notebook and pencil are primed.

I've been entrusted with leading a workshop in Switzerland for some high school students, and in doing so have been revisiting some poems I haven't looked at in a while. Akhmatova in particular. Early on in my undergraduate poetry workshop career (four years in the same workshop counts as a career I think), we looked at her poems, and went into a lot of the detailing, the subtlety that made them work. I feel like the poetry I have been reading lately is a lot more layered, but a lot less intense. The moments that Akhmatova captures are the crux of her poems. There is also some emotional layering, political undercurrents, social constructs, etc., but the truly amazing thing about her poetry is how simple it is. Not in a deceptively simple way either, like, say, William Carlos Williams, who I have also been revisiting.

What I love about this is how differently I feel each time I re-read a book of poetry, especially if it has been a while. There is a rekindling of feeling. A newer and more observant bond. With fiction I don't tend to get this reaction. Books I have reread over and over again inevitably illicit the same emotional/intellectual response they did the first time, which is why I reread certain books over and over. I have read Little Women over a hundred times, and that is a conservative estimate. At least once a year now, sometimes more, and as a child/teenager I would reread it incessantly. I have grown up with this book, read it at all different stages of my life. I change, but the book doesn't. I do start to notice things about the book though, places that are not as strong as others, and there are chapters I prefer, and I still get mad when Amy burns up Jo's book, but these are things I enjoy so much that each time the book is always satisfying.

I had a point here, I think. Ah, yes. Poetry. A bird of a different feather. I could never choose between them. They do different things. Obviously. I do think though, that if Harry Potter had been around when I was a kid, I may have passed over Little Women. I can't be certain of course. But it is possible. I have read all six books a fair few times and there are so many holes and unexplained things in the stories, that if they were not so engaging and such a great tale of good vs evil, I would be mad. J.K. should have sent them to me for proofreading. I'd have happily pointed out her problems. I may do that in a later post anyway. But I still love the books, love the movies.

And this time tomorrow I will be boarding a plane. I love to travel, and I miss the days when the terminals were open to people picking up and dropping off. The bustle. People watching. Insanely overpriced bottles of water and chocolate bars. Luggage. Waiting. All of that is the good part. Being stuck on the plane is not as much fun. But still. Travel is good. I am not sure if I will be able to post much (if at all), but I will definitely once I return State-side. And we do have a saying about these trips: what happens in Munich, stays in Munich. Thank god!

quick post

In Chattanooga, doing all the last minute things travel requires. I cannot wait to get on the plane, to land in Munich. From there we travel to Switzerland, then Italy, then Slovenia and finally back to Munich. It will be insanely awesome.

Just saw this thing on PBS about the French elections. I find it amusing that Sarkozy has a reputation for being rather anti-US, or perhaps, anti-current-administration, and yet the policies he wants to implement are so American. So capitalistic. Truly Mssr. Sarkozy, don't lose the things that make you French. A 35 hour work week is infinitely better than overtime pay.

packing woes

What books should I take to Europe? Now that summer is here, and I have time to READ, I want to sit down and read everything. I went to the bookstore today and had to peel myself away. I did get Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I can't wait to read it. I have heard incredibly good things about it. Definitely taking that, and possibly these:

Ted Kooser's Poetry Home Repair Manual
Li-Young Lee's Book of My Nights
Heather McHugh's Shades
Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood, Everything That Rises Must Converge, The Violent Bear It Away
Robin Behn's (ed.) The Practice of Poetry
Sylvia Plath's restored edition Ariel
Michael Chabon's The Final Solution
the latest edition of Poets&Writers

And um, well, anything else I can stick in my bag last minute. Too much? I also want to take Edward P. Jones' The Unknown World. Sigh. So many books, so little space in my suitcase. Some books I just had to leave out because they are too big. Salmon Rushdie's Satanic Verses will have to wait. So will Robert Anthony Siegel's All Will Be Revealed.

There is just no way to fit all those books, is there? Woe.

PSA

For those who missed it the moral lesson from this past week's Grey's Anatomy is to not pee in the Amazon River.

sometimes there are those. . .

. . . commercials that break the barrier of taste and achieve humor. Last night I caught the end of a commercial for pregnancy tests. (Sorry, didn't catch the brand.) It seemed a normal commercial until the announcer informs the audience that "it is the most advanced piece of technology you will ever pee on."

Which got me to thinking. And then, perhaps, it is best I leave this post now, before it goes places it shouldn't.

Talent abounds at the . . .

. . . thesis reading tonight. Seven graduating students gave readings from their theses, and it was a display of some serious talent. I was duly impressed all around. It actually got me to think about language (an abundance of poets read), and excited for my own future projects. The other really stunning thing was how much there was a shared admiration for these students from the faculty. I have seen a lot of introductions over the years to writers, and nothing topped the glowing reviews of tonight.

It also gives me a glimpse at what I need to strive for in my own writing. I have tentatively been thinking about my own thesis, and what sort of poetry I want to write. I am lucky in that I already have a tone...there is usually little doubt but that my poems are written by me. But subject, holding that tone throughout an entire manuscript...it is a lot to ask for, and I am not entirely sure that I have the scope of such a project yet.

I am going to be scratching my fiction itch this summer though. The fiction presents no problem in that way. I can think in terms of the novel with a vague idea of balance and interconnections, but the poetry has yet to present itself that way to me. It is a more cantankerous relationship. Tempestuous.

are you a fictoirist?

The other day we (a bunch of fellow mfa-ers) were chatting about creating a new term for a genre that blends the truth with fiction - you know, the same old discussion we must keep having after the Giant James Frey Incident. And now, with Dave Eggers' book What is the What, the conversation is certainly still relevant. Dave Eggers may not know it, but he is a fictiorist. This is the term that spontaneously erupted from our conversation that I feel very proud of, and no doubt, surely, someone out there has already coined it.

So what is a fictiorist? And how do you say it? Well, firstly, with attitude. But for those who want the phonetics of the word: fick-shwar-ist. I liken it to Amy Lowell being coined an 'imagiste' but without the fanfare. A fictiorist is a writer of fictoir: fiction + memoir, in which the rules and expectations of truth are bent to create a wholly pleasing and mostly accurate account that may or may not be true, depending on what tenets of truth the fictiorist deems important.

I feel a sort of lawyerly litigation lust coming out here. Think of the loopholes! The contracts! The lawsuits!

It is truly rife with possibility.

oh, and

another thing: BOOKS! I am going to start keeping track of every book I read here. . . for better or worse. Warts and all. I seriously want to get my book on this summer. So lots of books. Ah, books.

So here is the thing: I have been contemplating the use of a blog, and this one, and particularly with regards to writing. What use is it if I am not going to use it? And how can I keep things on the topic of poetry? Well, it isn't possible, because poetry and fiction do not exist in a vacuum. And so I think I am going to start ranting and raving, and basically soap boxing my self all over the place. In good form of course. There just is no real way to talk about writing without talking about life, etc., so there you have it.

One thing I will mention immediately in my soap box format, is that in this age of technology and personalization, I cannot believe how limited the selection of formats is that blogger provides. It is positively Stone Age. Glad I got that out.

Other things of various levels of importance: I bought wine at the Harris Teeter last night and I wasn't carded, despite the sign in the wine selection that says something about carding if you look under 30. I read in the paper this morning that Bush was thrilled with Alberto Gonzales' testimony, and that he felt it was clear and reinforced his confidence in Gonzales. All I can say is Bush sure makes it easy for Jon Stewart. Speaking of news people, my new crush (which doesn't really replace my former, Russ Mitchell, but since he is not on all that much anymore....) is Steve Hartman, who has this really sweet older Tobey Macguire sensitivity about him. Very hot. Apparently, at my advanced age that requires I not be carded at the grocery store, Steve Hartman is more suitable than Tobey Macguire.

So, there we are, as of tonight. I am heading to Europe soon on a fantastic trip that I will be blogging about as things take shape. I just got the itinerary today, and I am stoked. But tonight I am too tired. . .

native guard

It is kind of hard not to be excited that Natasha Trethewey won the Pulitzer, especially since I raved over her book last summer. It really is worth a read, and then another and another. . .

Poetry Galore

It is National Poetry Month, which means absolutely nothing to anyone who isn't greatly interested in poetry. But I have to admit I feel a bit of glee at reading all the po-blogs and po-sites that are celebrating. It is like being the wallflower who suddenly is asked to dance. A lovely feeling.

If only I could transcend that feeling into my own poetry.

As the weather perks up into the 80s, so does my mood. I want to plant green things in the ground. Make iced tea. Or frozen orange juice pops. I'd even take a mint julep.

a truly terminal degree, pun intended.

This time last year I had already made my decision on what MFA program to attend. I was addicted to the chat boards where a bunch of anonymous hopefuls all obsessed over the ins and outs of every aspect of every program. The minute I made my decision though, I didn't need that instant fix of checking to see what my fellow hopefuls were obsessing over at any given moment.

And now my sympathy goes to those who are as racked with nerves as I was. But I am also questioning the value of an MFA degree. This isn't a case of I came, I saw, I fretted. I've been fretting over this ever since I knew an MFA was a possibility. And the fret grows to new areas of fret when I read the high minded essays currently circulating the po-world over the pursuit of a degree in poetry. A fellow student compared the MFA opportunity to a conservatory of music, a comparison which I truly admire and feel encompasses the spirit of my particular program. We are here to read and write and have good conversation with other writers. It isn't something particularly academic. Which, if it were, would pose a huge problem to many students. We don't do "academic papers." I can imagine the sense of panic that would ensue if we were suddenly expected to treat poetry and fiction like we were pursuing an MA degree.

I still fret over it though. This is something that once you have, you can't suddenly get rid of. I will never be a poet who didn't graduate from an MFA. I will be held to standards in keeping with that, whether the expectations are higher or lower. There is no other decision I would have made, even though sometimes I do think romantically back on my days as a secretary, when I had loads of time to simply write. Wallace Stevens would have approved of that I think.

lost chicken eggs. damn.

Does another poem about loss ever need to be written after Elizabeth Bishop so aptly handles it in her poem? Do other poems become redundant? If the point of poetry is to elucidate the human experience, how many ways do we need to explore what a particular aspect of humanity is like before we throw in the towel and retire the jersey number?

Obviously, I have been thinking about loss.

About being omitted from the lives of others.

What exactly is it about loss that humans fear? Perhaps it is the loss of control (already another loss), or the idea that loss is irreversible. Maybe then, every poem is inherently about loss, whereas previously (and while in a better mood) I had contemplated that every poem was fueled by the concept of love. Intense love for life, powered by the (ta-dum) loss of it. A chicken and egg quandary. Every art should have one.

the seventh sense

I am settled, and must extol fervently on the wonderful city of Wilmington. It is truly amazing. I love the water, and being in a town with rivers, lakes, marshes, and the ocean is heavenly.

I am rereading a book that I have read several times merely to become immersed in the setting. The book is Belinda, by Anne Rice, back when she was writing as Anne Rampling. This time around I am noticing things I never did in my previous reads (and to think that there are those who scoff at the idea of rereading a book). Particularly in how Rice develops as a writer. The sense of place in her books is always central - to the way she writes, to the way the characters interact with each other and their surroundings, to the development of the story itself. Before I moved, when all my books were packed, I picked up a spare copy of Interview With the Vampire. In thinking about these two books, and the way setting is central, and keeping in mind my favorite book she's written to date (The Witching Hour), it suddenly became clear to me how Rice took those early elements and fully implemented them into The Witching Hour. New Orleans culminates in that book, breathing heavy fire, and smelling like a salty whiskey drink. In short, she doesn't just create a city, she invocates it into living in her pages. Considering New Orleans today, those books may wind up being more important than Rice or any of her readers ever dreamed they would be. Perhaps one could even say her books would preserve the fundamentals of the old New Orleans the way Fitzgerald is often credited for saving a fraction of the 20's with The Great Gatsby.

Sense of place...It is more important than it is given credit for. In books, in life. There is a sense in this city of vitality, and health. Of the way a clear glass of water can taste of the earth when all other senses are stilled.

one week

This time one week from now I will be in my new town, in my new place, utterly exhausted from driving and unpacking the rental truck. The very yellow rental truck.

I already have a deadline for a piece of writing, and the deadline is very soon. I am rather apprehensive about it actually. I thought that I would have more time to contemplate what I wanted to write...I don't actually write nonfiction...But apparently my time has come.

I am slightly worried. As in, freaking out.

The house looks strange with all my pictures off the walls, the mounds of boxes tucked into corners, and a half arranged furniture design that screams "garage sale refugee."

I have work tomorrow. I am ready for the summer to be over.

beirut

A few days ago I came across this blog, Beirut Update, which is written by a young woman in Beirut. She started it when the hostilities between Israel and Hezbollah began. I can only imagine that for her it is a way to vent, to express what she sees that the media cannot, and to give the perspective from an artist's point of view. Since launching it, she has become the receptor of loads of comments, from encouraging ones to hateful ones. Most Americans who post apologize profoundly for the actions, or lack thereof, of the US government, as well as acknowledging that most Americans have no real idea what goes on in that particular region of the Middle East, or the history of it.

I have a very good friend who lives in the UAE, and he tells me about the sorts of things they see on their news coverage. (I should also tell you that, in the UAE at least, they do have CNN, CBS, and BBC in addition to local channels from Jordan, Turkey, etc...) While our news coverage is plastered with the atrocities of the bombs dropping unguided in Israel, his news is plastered with stories of Israeli children kissing bombs before they are sent to kill Lebanese children.

How are we to form opinions of who is right and who is wrong when the media does it for us?

How can there even be a right or wrong when both sides are killing?

Doesn't that lead straight to determining which ideology is right or wrong?

How can you tell someone that the fundamentals of their beliefs are inherently wrong?

Because people do. They fight over the 'rightness' of their particular belief, nevermind that by killing in the name of that belief the action renders the belief invalid in some ways. In all ways. Like hitting your kid to teach them that hitting other children is wrong. No logic. No heart. No belief.

I have a feeling that this time, this conflict will be the catalyst to something bigger. The US has no idea or compassion for warfare fought in the backyard. We are a fat and complacent country with our hands in too many cookie jars. The higher a country is, the harder it will fall when it finally does fall. (Roman Empire ring a bell?)

How many of us will be writing blogs then, with the sound of bombs hitting our neighbor's home, and empty grocery store shelves, nothing to feed our families or pets but canned beans, and the daily routine of living becomes a crap shoot? What would we be saying?

Where would we put the blame?

How can I renounce my citizensip of one country and become a citizen of the world? Somehow, if you are on everybody's side, it seems you can finally have an objective viewpoint......

a packing note

While packing today I came across a shelf full of old spiral notebooks and other writings from as far back as my senior year in high school. While I am happy to report that I did write prolifically, I won't ever be divulging the contents of that writing.

It is too [insert your adjective here].

I have more boxes than I thought possible. It appears that what I lack in furniture I clearly make up in books and other decorative items.

terms

It's been a while between posts, and in keeping this sort of online running dialogue, I wonder at times what is the best stuff to post? Which occurrences during my days warrant rendering here? The other night on the news it was mentioned that the majority of bloggers are under thirty, and most tended to blog about their personal lives. I'm not actually sure what all I am willing to give up here, what I find fit for public consumption, and what would even interest others. Which is sort of comical considering writing is what I do, what I've always wanted.

I stumbled into poetry by accident; a friend suggested I take a workshop and I did. It was an immediate and irrevocable addiction. Poetry makes so much sense that it is hard to recall a time when I didn't revolve my life around it. I'm not a disciplined writer by any means though. I don't have a set time to write, and when I do make time I wind up staring at a blank screen. I write prolifically when I am busy with ten other important things to do. The best lines come to me when I am driving. When I first started workshop I was still working full time as a secretary, doing school part time. I wrote furiously during work hours, managing phone lines and all the other myriad distractions with gusto. It was intoxicating.

I leave in 17 days to begin an MFA program. I am excited at the thought of once again being busy, but this time, on my own turf. No more heinous math courses or dealing with a truly wonderful but hopelessly misguided environmental science professor who wanted to "put the math back in science" (doesn't he know that we major/minor in environmental science precisely to avoid the math?!?!?!), or useless classes that make one want to fall asleep.

I am slowly coming to terms with leaving. I find myself with attachments all over the place though, even new ones, and it is hard to actually envision the morning when I will wake up at an obscenely early hour, and head to the rented truck, and take off. I'll have eight hours to negotiate deals with myself about my mood and give in to the calling I have let so much in my personal life suffer for. And it's fine actually.

At this moment it is everything I need.

Snafus

26 days left! I can barely stand it. The weather has finally turned extremely humid, although I think there is some sort of statute of limitations on how much complaining one can do about 90 degree weather when one's best friend lives in the Middle East, and 90 feels like fall weather.

Packing still going on. It is an odd sort of dance, since I am also sorting through the items that are mine, and the stuff that is my mother's. We went through the books and cd's without bloodshed, but the dvd's are up next and already I can feel the battle brewing. Naturally this also takes more time, because packing involves heated discussions over who bought what and where. My fresher age leads to better memory, but also can lead to wheedling, I have discovered. So far I have scored a Macy Gray cd, Gone With the Wind, and Dune. Also a baking sheet. Small, but important, victories.

I've packed ten boxes of books so far. I still have one bookcase left to go, plus about twenty or so books lying around. (Okay, thirty. Forty. Whatever.) I still do not understand how everyone tells me I should just leave them behind. As though I won't need them! Admittedly, I did go through quite a Stephen King phase. I probably won't be rereading all of those. Or my Michael Crighton phase. (I didn't say I went through extremely literary phases.) And I likely will not be revisiting my Nancy Drew series. But the point is, all those books are important. I remember a really great detail with each book: where it was bought, what was going on when I read it, the impact it had on me. Well, these are memories I guess. And I can't just discard them.

I have run into one tiny snafu. (Besides just catching my wily alpha female dog Gizelle in the pantry, eating the cat food, which required her to maneuver around a baker's rack, over a high back chair, and past an opening to the counter.....grrrrrrrr.) Okay, anyway, my snafu originates with the inability of an entire industry to be able to design a gerbil cage. Seriously people. Gerbils are not hamsters. Gerbils chew plastic. Gerbils chew anything and everything that they can. Why, oh why, are all the cages made of plastic in hideous primary colors? Gerbils also like to dig. Profusely. With gusto. So why are all the cages not made of plastic, made of metal bars that allow all the shavings/bedding to drift ever so carelessly to the floor when the gerbils dig? I may have already mentioned the chewing thing, right? So why the hell are all the glass aquariums sealed with toxic glue??? I am sensing an anti-gerbil barrier in the pet kingdom. I never would have agreed to let my cat have a gerbil if I knew this would be such an issue. All I can say is that it is a damn good thing Yummy (Dakota's gerbil) is cute. Because the little bastard is messy.

optional stop lights

Yesterday, to my extreme horror, I witnessed an act of, well, lawlessness. My mother very kindly offered to drive me to the health department so I can get those required shots for UNCW (apparently a disease free campus), and on the way back, as we were in the left turn lane, despite the clear fact that the light was RED, not green, but RED, for some unknown reason my mother decides to execute a turn. I was horrified. After years of ribbing about her safe driving record (is it considered safe when the driver turns the steering wheel every time they turn their head, regardless of the straightness of the road?????), I finally had caught her in a totally unlawful act. Hehehehe. I was giddy with glee.

I must call my brother.

So, if any of you saw this, I apologize thoroughly for the old woman's bad driving. And don't worry, she'll be punished. She's never going to hear the end of it. Excuse me, have you met my lawbreaking, reckless driving mother?

still reading. will it ever stop?

Memoirs of a Geisha: A Novel
by Arthur Golden (a native Chattanoogan no less)
Such an inspiring read. Not that it makes one want to run out and become geisha, but because it inspires one to read deeply and to transcend into another version of the world as it could have been. This is Golden's debut novel and it is a book. None of this potential crap - the man can write. (Still reeling from my encounter with Ms. Parkhurst a few entries ago.)

I haven't really intended this blog to become such a laundry list of books I am reading (rereading Beach Music by Pat Conroy right now for the charm of the South as only he can describe it), but books are so essential and vital and I think that the one thing about college that was lacking was the fact that I had almost no time to read for pleasure. There are so many books I've missed. And to make up for it now is marvelously delicious.

This takes me back to the summers of my youth when school was out and I could openly read without the nagging concern for homework always putting a drop of lemony bitterness in my pleasure. From my earliest memories I can still conjure myself lying in bed with a book in the right hand, my left hand lying across my chest in mock flag salute or stomach depending on how high my head was propped by pillows. The other favorite was to lie on the couch with my legs propped on the sofa arm, feet dangling over the edge, book in both hands. To this day, these are my favorite lounging and reading positions. It is as if they were ingrained in my DNA, the way a spider knows how to spin a web without question.

Market Street Bridge, Chattanooga 

lessons in exuberance (and desperation)

In the news this week I came across a story about a man who proposed to his girlfriend. At her balking, he decides to take off his clothes and streak through the street to show her that risk taking is a marvelous thing. However, this idea turns out to be rather bad, because naked proposer ends up hiding in a bush when some people walk by, and one of those people spots him, takes out a gun, and begins to fire. Naked proposer runs for his life. Yes, yes, risks are good! Not all end in gunfire! The story neglects to mention whether or not still-fully-dressed girlfriend accepts.

Also read this in my new issue of the Smithsonian on their Last Page section, where they are touting other recent discoveries that bring new light to commonly accepted ideas (prompted by the discovery of the Gospels of Judas):

"Henry David Thoreau's woodsy 19th century journey of self-discovery yielded Walden, which championed moderation in all things and a harmonious relationship between man and the environment. But then, more pages, written in his hand, were found nailed to a rafter in his cabin. 'If I am bitten by one more damned mosquito, I am going to burn down the whole forest. And another thing. It's cold out here. And lonely. Very lonely. My best friend is a piece of tree bark that looks like Zachary Taylor's head. Thank God for moonshine. And guns! Pow! Pow! Pow! Blam! Pow! Gimme a life of loud desperation!'"

And finally, the countdown to The Big Move stands at 47 days until. 47 days in which to pack, to throw away stuff I've had for no reason whatsoever (who needs a water bill not in their name that they paid in full four years ago???), 47 days to visit all the places here that I will miss, to come to a reckoning with the loss of friends, the loss of being able to not get lost in a familiar city (at least, not too terribly lost), 47 days in which to spoil my dogs rotten. Or, conversely, 47 days until I live on the coast!

Still reading like a mad woman. . .
. . . last night it was a harrowing emotional journey through Carolyn Parkhurst's debut novel, The Dogs of Babel. The emotion was on my side, as I went from hate to love, annoyance to admiration and finally, why?

The why question stems more from wondering why a publisher would take a novel that is obviously not polished. There was such potential for a truly original piece of work (how many novels deal with a professor of linguistics trying to teach his dog to talk so he can find out how his wife died?), and instead it only showed that Parkhurst has potential. In some later chapters, the more meditative ones, her writing shines through, but on the whole there are just some strange plot twists and unbelievable coincidences that wind up sticking out. The characters are contrived and honestly, well, the wife doesn't act at all like someone who would have given the protagonist peace, which is what he claims in the beginning, and yet the author fails to show.

Why do I rail on this?

Well, let's see. Firstly it seems that a lot of books showing up on the market these days are first books by MFA grads. Likely these are the products of two to three years of intense workshopping, and after that amount of time, naturally the author would want to publish. But sometimes first books should remain unpublished, or given time to ripen with considerable amounts of revisioning. Not editing, but revisioning.

Secondly, who on earth selected this book to be the Today Show's Book Club selection? With all the millions of books out there, they select this one? I find this baffling . . . As far as books go, it is a rather mediocre read, although the author shows promise. She isn't ripe yet.

How do we, as writers, know when we are ripe? I still cannot tell from my own poetry what poem is actually worthwhile and which belongs in the trash. (Okay, sometimes the trash ones are glaringly obvious.) While I was reading this book last night I kept thinking, if only she and I could discuss this point here, and see how she would rewrite this aspect. . . So much potential.

And so I fear writing fiction myself. So much potential, but what if you reach your potential and find it isn't half as good as you'd hoped? So much easier to be a critic. So to Carolyn Parkhurst, wherever you are, keep on keeping on. The next one is the one to shoot for.

on the shelf

The Red Tent, Anita Diamant
Excellent book, just finished at 2 a.m. last night. Had to keep reading it - very compulsive. It sat on my bookshelf for over a year before I had time to consume it, and consume I did.

A Personal Matter, Kenzaburo Oe
Also fairly amazing stuff, but I bet a lot of impact is lost in the translation from Japanese to English. Still it manages to successfully keep the reader at a loss for justifying humanity, wondering what humanity is even out there, and still hoping despite the odds. . . I admit it was also a page turner for me (although it took a few chapters to get really into caring about this character who isn't particularly likeable), and stayed up the previous night in thralls.

The Art of Fiction, John Gardner
This is a reread for me. I am finding it to be interesting the second time around, and just as helpful as it was the first. I have to admit I don't retain this sort of stuff well, and rereading criticism and theory is a must for me. This book was used in the one undergraduate fiction writing workshop I ever took, and it was about the only useful thing to come from the class. More on this below....

Collected Sonnets, Edna St. Vincent Millay
A book so old, it is out of print (although in poetry, shelf life seems to be less than a bag of pork rinds). I am currently still perusing because I find, as I do with all rhyming iambic pentameter, myself speaking and writing in a sing-songish manner, which necessitates reading this in smaller doses. Does anyone ever read an entire book of poetry straight through anymore, or am I the only one who does this? At any rate, with the popularity of the chapbook returning, perhaps there is some sort of trend going on. I am finding these poems to be dated, but one can say that of almost any dead writer I suppose. I want to like these poems more than I do - I feel that there is more to them than I am getting out of them, and I recognize that St. Vincent Millay wrote in the sonnet for the sake of the art form itself, but in places, so many places, she holds back in what could have been a stronger image/phrase/sound, all for the sake of the form. (In some of the sonnets she does manipulate very marginally the form, but since most of her sonnets are series poems, they all have that manipulation, making it still, somehow, restrictive.) In thinking about this, and about how other poets sometimes stay within set limits and manage to do so successfully (although that is a very objective matter), I think that she was also very limiting in the images she used, the language (including very odd syntax to get the rhyme or syllable as the line dictated), and overall arching themes. I guess I just don't see the mastery that I expect from her poems that other sonneteers hadn't already accomplished, making her poetry less exciting, and therefore, moot.

Of course, I may change my mind tomorrow.

The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien
Halfway through. So many things different from the movies. . . and I specifically waited until after seeing all the movies because I know that if I read a book first, the movie never lives up to it. I am starting to wonder if it may have back fired on me this time though.

Workshops, etc...
Well, my schedule for the next semester is set, and I am fairly ecstatic about it. I will be taking a fiction workshop, and here is where the excitement twinges. As mentioned, I had the misfortune of being in one that was horribly disappointing, and soured me on them after that. I know it was 100% the fault of the instructor, and I wonder how on earth this woman ever managed to get herself hired in the first place. (She seemed to have thought out an awful lot about the internet pornography industry in a very small scene in one of my pieces which I am not sure is redemptive or a further sign of her instability.) That aside, I am carrying this ambivalence with me. Fiction has always been the core of my writing desires, but being waylaid by poetry has been the best thing to happen to me in my writing life. I think of writers like Woolf and Faulkner, who I think manage to blend the rhythm and beauty of poetry into prose, and I feel that that is the caliber to aim for.

But I have trouble thinking in terms of short stories. Always have. My mind thinks novel length, always has and always will. (From one extreme to the other here, no chance for middle ground.) I am hoping that this workshop will redeem my earlier experience, or solidify it. We shall see!

As for moving, I did find a place that I am happy about. Living alone. Ah, the sheer loveliness of it all.

a long post

Hmmmmm. The trip to North Carolina was a mixed nut bag. In early preparation for my move to attend UNCW, I thoughtfully arranged a self guided trip to visit my new city and get acquainted with the different areas of town, etc. All the things that anal people do when they are faced with a situation. (I swear, I am going to be stripped of my title as ‘poet’ when the full extent of my need to be thoroughly organized is finally understood. Have you ever met an organized writer? Perhaps this paranoia of mine comes from having spent the past three years under the most, umm, lax, poet mentor ever.) So, highlights of the trip are below, categorized. (I know, I know!)

The actual drive. . .
Is eight hours! Eight! Most people understand how the freeway works, but let’s face it, some have yet to discover what the passing lane is for. Umm, passing? This problem is most prevalent in the stretch from Chattanooga to Atlanta. Since I drive in Chattanooga every day, I can safely assess that it is the Chattanoogans who have the difficulty with this particular issue. Grrrrrrrr.

Wilmington. . .
Also has some road issues. Like, there are only four main roads that span the entire city. This causes traffic. All the time.

But. . .
It’s Wilmington, and it’s really fantastic! I spent 90% of my time trying to figure out where things are and getting lost. I’ve been lost every way it is possible to be lost. Including the exact second I got off the highway into downtown, where the streets have no name, but highway markers. Very confusing to my sensibilities. After almost nine hours in the car I was ready to find my hotel, take a shower, eat something. As I finally conceded I was lost, utterly, I pulled into the parking lot of some steak joint, and a bird crapped on my front window. A huge crap. We are talking the kind of crap where you know that bird hates you, is aiming, and chuckling as it flies away. I felt very welcomed. It was a moment I considered chucking in everything and running away to live life as a secretary again, dreaming of having James Spader as a boss.

UNCW. . .
Is an amazingly gorgeous campus. I can only imagine when it is packed with students. The most striking thing about it is that it is truly an expansive campus, with charming brick buildings and lustrous lawns everywhere. Trees that drip with leaves, and this sense of earthiness that permeates the air. It is also blessedly flat. Anyone who has trekked Cardiac Hill on the campus in Chattanooga will appreciate this statement. However, it is so large that I am betting one would have to drive to make it from one end of campus to another if they had a class.

MFA folk. . .
Are incredible so far. I say ‘so far’ because when things are this amazing you know there must be a catch. Like, in the second week of the program they’ll introduce their tradition of slaughtering young baby lambs and sticking their heads on poles and dancing in the faculty office while wearing togas made from the torn pages of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and listening to Barry Manilow. (I’d be fine until the Manilow, of course.)

Disclaimer. . .
Uh, they don’t really do that. I don’t think. And I am a raging vegetarian. I remove spiders from the tubs, and walk over ants. Swear.

Apartments. . .
Do not allow, in any case, for people like me. Doesn’t matter. In fact, forget even trying to rent a house. There is just no possibility within a reasonable budget to find someplace that will accommodate. I actually knew this going in (same problem at current location which is why I had to buy). However, houses are kinda expensive, and I am not really into collecting them, so I suppose I shall have to make do. My mother, the saint, is going to pet-sit for a few years for me. I consider it a good faith payment on her part for when she becomes in need of elderly care. She is merely ensuring that I won’t dump her off at some government run facility that ensures all residents are equipped with a long stick during meal times so they have a fighting chance against the roaches. Damn her.

The beach. . .
Yes, there is a beach. No, I didn’t get to see it. This is likely a good thing since it would have guaranteed another several hours of being lost, trying to find the road back into town. Sigh.

Speaking of fish. . .
According to the phonebook, there are more fish markets than grocery stores. This is a town that has its priorities straight.

Another disclaimer. . .
By ‘raging vegetarian’ I meant I get enraged when people question my ethics on eating fish. I eat fish. It is a difficult thing to explain the depth of thought that goes into my vegetarianism. At times I am a vegan, at others, I eat fish. This is a wholly different post, at a later date. Promise.

Final thoughts. . .
Include the impending homesickness that I will actually feel upon leaving. Nervousness at teaching. (What were they thinking, letting me do that?!?!?) Guilt at the pet situation. Excitement at being truly on my own. Rapture at being able to write so much.