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.