slowly, like the . . .

. . . last drop in a bottle, the writing is coming along for a project I've been thinking of for months. Perhaps longer. Time seems muddled when you hit thirty. It no longer runs linearly, but categorically. Anyway, the project has a name, is somewhere around 40% written, and contains a general concept of flow. I'm very excited about it. The neatest thing about writing is when you crest that hill from a mere inkling of thought to a viable entity. However, I am also sadly burdened with a terrible lack of commitment to finishing my fiction (doesn't everyone have three dozen starts for three dozen different novels?).

Loving the warm weather too. It seems to encourage writing with the windows open and the fans blowing.

Time to work on a table of contents. . .

parenting by poetry . . .

. . . is something I plan on doing. (Although this does sound like it would require some memorization on my part, and let's face it - you can only quote the red wheelbarrow to your child a few times before the mystique wears off.)

However, this handy little tome may provide other options: Shut Up You're Fine: Instructive Poetry for Very, Very Bad Children. I was delighted to find this title, and even more delighted to find the poems were, well, instructional (read: hysterical). Pick it up.

perfect . . .

packing has begun . . .

. . . in preparation for the move to the new house. This is very exciting. Mostly exciting in the way of dashing from room to room to deal with the baby's needs and the pets' needs while attempting to toss things in boxes in some sort of coherent fashion whereby aforementioned things do not break.

On another note: I have been reading the word "lighted" an awful lot lately. This word irritates me. As far as I know, the correct use of the word in the context I read it in, is "lit." As in, she lit the cigarette. She lighted the cigarette? Hmmmm. It sounds wrong. It sounds as though somewhere the grammar was lost. Not that I am an expert. But if anyone knows the correct way to use the past tense of light, please enlighten me. (Then would I be enlit?)

Two new links to report on, by fellow MFAers who are super talented and have books either on the shelf, or forthcoming. It is very encouraging to see folks from workshop publishing in the big po-world.

i have been . . .

. . . working on fiction. Short stories. By working on, I mean I have been writing voraciously inside my head and have yet to transfer that onto the page. There is a mental block with fiction writing for me that stems from my long affair with disliking revising my work. I would have to say that the one thing I pulled from my MFA experience is the embracing of revision. Poems no longer scare me. I can write a shitty poem and feel confident that I will be able to go back and make it less shitty. And then again. And again. Sometimes I even go back a version or two. Whatever. The point being, revision is that epoch of a piece of writing that pushes it over the edge. This can take time. I don't always see the revisions at first. I have a poem that I am in love with (always a dangerous prospect) and it has only seen one begrudging revision, and even that felt somehow dirty and cheap. (Why? Why did I force that one? The thesis, of course.)

With fiction, however, the concept of revising a story blocks me. Perhaps it is because there are so many more words, and the threads of events feel so much denser; mess with one early on and you pretty much kill where the story landed the first time. Perhaps this is really just me experiencing my usual procrastination. I don't know. What I do know is that inside my head, these stories are alive and vibrant, the characters vying for attention, the conversations taking off, the points of view establishing themselves, the tone and the pacing are practically dancing. . . and all I need to do is sit down and write them out.

where have you . . .

. . . been and where are you going?

I have been around. Around. Doing things. Finishing the thesis. Growing life. (No, really. Growing life.) Giving birth. Being a mommy.

Yes, that's right.

And now?

And now I am back in the swing of all things blog. Which means baby pictures. And writing tirades. And sending out the book. All in all, things are just pretty fantastic at the moment. (I'm waiting for Sam the cat to poop outside the litter box so I can yell at Bean and Sam the dog for eating it. I didn't say life is perfect.)

More posts to come!

no title needed. . .

. . . the pumpkin is being carved, the seeds are baking in some olive oil, salt and creole seasoning. No idea how many trick-or-treaters we will have here - hopefully just enough to drain the candy bowl. No need for leftovers.

I've done the early voting thing - and can't tell you how incredibly wonderful and liberating it was to cast that vote for Obama. I had to tell myself not to grin while voting. That may have seemed suspicious. I'm ready to be done with McCain and his ideas, and Bush and his actions. Time for something new!

And next week is UNCW's Writers' Week - a chance to play catch-up on grading, read, and of course, go to readings and events! And, let's be honest, a chance to sleep in all week. Now that is heavenly.

dirty, dirty words. . .

. . . and finally, someone says something about it! Campbell Brown (besides having a delicious name) of CNN actually posted an opinion piece on the whole calling Barack an Arab thing. And yes, while it is super nice of McCain to set that ignorant-in-desperate-need-of-more-than-just-a-hairdo woman at his rally, the whole point of the matter was missed. Being an Arab isn't a bad thing. Talk about this double standard - McCain won't touch the Wright controversy because that would be to bring up race (the black one), but he's quick to offer up the Ayers controversy because that brings up the other race (terrorist, which leads in this country to all things Arab).

People are just going to have to come to grips with their inner prejudices. All those out there who are terrified because Obama is black are going to have to take a deep breath and realize that he's a person, just like they are, only he isn't going to discriminate against them the way they are against him. Same thing with all the Republicans. Democrats aren't that bad. Without them, there would never have been legalized voting for women, blacks, and you can kiss public education good-bye. So relax. The Democrats managed to live through eight years of Republican policy and so far, no one has died. (Well, that's kinda a big lie. There is the war, the Recession, the complete chaos we are currently experiencing, in which case, why would anyone want to put a Republican leader back in control? It's okay to switch it up every now and then.)

We need more than two parties. Which is why I am neither. Because there really has got to be a third or fourth option. Someday we may get there. But first we have to get past the idea that calling someone an Arab is a dirty word, or the opposite of calling someone an American. Until our political leaders can see that difference (talking to you here, John!), we'll not progress into a more politically balanced country.

so here's the . . .

. . . goal: twenty new poems this month. I'm on my way with four or five. Today is the 12th, so that should give me plenty of time to rack up fifteen more. Fingers crossed, of course. This is all part of my thesis strategy. Which is why one goes to school to get an MFA. Forget the degree part. Forget the teaching experience. It's all about having someone hold your hand while you unconsciously put a book together. Like physical therapy for beginning writers.

It was mentioned to me the other day that I seem like I've been writing for a long time. So I thought about it, and yes, I have. I've been writing seriously for over ten years. I have half a dozen published poems to show for it, and I'm excited about where I am going. Maybe the MFA is really just a rite of passage some people need. I was reading in P&W about David Rhodes, the long lost writer who was rediscovered and is now publishing his first book after thirty years, and he did an MFA which gave him pretty much the same thing it is giving me: writing time. I don't have those connections everyone talks about -no lifetime friendships have emerged. So this semester holds a really tight importance for me to cherish that extra writing time. After next year, I won't ever have that again.

After next year, I may be moving to Canada. Or France. Because let's face it people, there is a shot that Obama may not win. How can people be so stupid to vote for McCain? McCain and Palin are out there blatantly lying (stopped the bridge to nowhere! sold the governor's jet for profit!) and Obama is talking about the issues. Like education. Health care. The war. The other war. It is so irritating to see this country once again go down the path of least resistance. The path of reality TV and fake butter on popcorn. No point in telling them to wake up. I think I finally understand what my high school history teacher told me once about losing his idealism. He said that when you get to a certain point, it feels futile to care so much. The stakes are so high here that apathy may be the best path to survival.

Or we can send Obama to the White House.

Choices, choices.

Reading Rodney Jones, Salvation Blues. Divine! One of my favorite poets out there. His poems make me want to write, which is always a great thing. He also has this incredible lexicon that weaves in his poems, making me lament my own limited use of language. (But then I think of James Wright, and I'm all square again on that front.)

i've been reading. . .

. . . divisadero by Michael Ondaatje. You must read this book. There is no excuse to not read this book. This book will change your life. It may even do your taxes and finish the laundry.

This is the second week of class, the first full week, the week of never ending changes to my roster. More want to add than want to drop. A nice problem to have, the downside being the complete and utter lack of chairs. Whatever. We can still have wonderful conversations if we must sit on the floor. So far, class is going swimmingly.

And now that I've established what type of teaching semester it is going to be, I am excited to see how my writing is going to go. Jack Myers, our visiting professor for the semester, will soon be in town, and the writing will be on. The critical look at what the heck my poems are actually doing. What are they doing anyway? Sitting in my hard drive, napping.

It is raining here, the remnants of Fay, and there are sirens galore outside. I can only imagine what sort of car crash has ensued with this rain. It is madness out there. Office hours seem trivial today. . . but we'll see. The cats are all reposing themselves on the bed and even the dogs seem tuckered out with the weather.

I'm reading a biography on Henry VIII. What I find most interesting is the amount of detail about daily life the author has put in. All the stuff you secretly want to know but most textbooks won't hint at - how did Henry use the bathroom? Did they eat with forks? How on earth could Henry afford to feed his household of 1000 folks? What the heck does the Queen do all day? Super interesting stuff. Not a time period my hygiene loving soul would have wanted to live in. Especially considering the kitchen conditions and what they ate. It feels good to be reading some history as a change to all the novels I've been consuming.

More thunder . . . what a good reading in bed day.

oh, won't john . . .

. . . mccain please just shut up? I am so tired of hearing his exact same speech addressing his "friends" about how he likes to use Ronald Reagan's comparison of congress to a drunken sailor, and how a drunken sailor emailed him (really? really, Mr. McCain?) not liking the comparison. Oh, how it hurts to hear the man speak. He really drives me crazy.

Not to let Obama off the hook either - I'm not so thrilled with his turning around on off-shore drilling. Yes, we little Americans have grown too big for our gas-needing britches, but that doesn't mean we need to do more harm to an already wounded environment. I think of this as a test of how America is going to handle the green movement. Is it just a fad, or are we really going to screw ourselves in the end?

If McCain wins, I am moving to Canada. Seriously. I cannot handle more conservative politics that hold down the social movements of the people.

Ironically, I am reading Wicked right now. Politics galore. Which is ultimately what the Harry Potter books are about as well. (Infinitely more so than religion, I think.) Before I go a-ranting again, I feel I should go change the channel. I think Kathy Griffin is on. Phew.

what a fabulous . . .

. . . book! Just finished reading On Beauty by Zadie Smith. It is completely worth your time to read! I'm still thinking about it. It has such an abrupt ending, which is completely apropos for the theme of the book, that I want more. I want to know that Howard is okay, that Kiki gets what she needs, that Levi stops being so Levi, that Carl is doing better things, that Zora gets to take a moment to dismount that high horse of hers. I feel okay about Jerome though. He'll make it.

I think one of the things I so loved about this book was how incredibly close you can get as a reader, so involved in these small/big issues that they are dealing with - and yet you are forced to stop and see each of these characters from the perspective of another character, which lends so much insight into what it really means to be human. Everyone's flaws are there to be judged, and there is never resolution to what it means to get at the truth of who a person is. People are so complex! This is something I try to convey in class, but I'm not sure it ever gets across. It is easy to write stock - it is hard to write original.

So I am onto another book as of this morning: The Epicure's Lament by Kate Christensen. So far, so good. She's whipping around language like scrambled eggs. Reading these two women writers makes me wonder why on earth anyone needs me on the scene. Some seriously beautiful stuff going on here. I'm in awe.

okay, so here . . .

. . . is an interesting post over at Harriet. D.A. Powell brings to our attention the question of poetry readings. I'm always excited to see certain poets read, because I am always entertained or deeply moved: Gerald Stern and James Tate are two of my favorites. I think they certainly fit the "poet greats" category. Every semester when it comes time for Writer's Week and I have to send my young and impressionable students out to see their first reading, I always balk. It's instinctive. Will all of my energy and enthusiasm for the written word die upon the proverbial boring poetry reading? Well, cripes. It can't always go well. I've been bored at readings before. But not for lack of depth or anything. Usually the boredom is a result of poorly planned events. Ten readers in two hours is enough to bore anyone. Or one reader for over forty minutes is pushing it. (Unless we're talking about a reader who likes to pontificate and happens to be gifted at doing so.)

It seems that there should be a happy medium in all this. Everyone has an off night. I'm willing to hear a poet twice before judging. But after that the judgment will be swift and mocking.

Lots of writing going on, but they are all starts. Half starts. No ends. No middles. No real progress. Just a lot of . . . potentialities.

dakota, mid-yawn. . .

. . .

yes, it is. . .

. . . true: my summer class was cancelled. I've had two former students email me about it, lol. Okay then. Let's just say, that enrollment seems to be down all over the board. The economy isn't so great, lots of students who previously were considered credit-worthy are no longer making the grade with lenders, and it goes from there. All I can say is that I am glad I wasn't counting on this job for my bread and butter this summer, otherwise times would be very, very tight.

Other news: mourning George Carlin, of course. Smart, smart man. One of the most astute people of cultural phenomenons and the general tomfoolery of humankind.

I am gathering words, so if you have any good ones, send them my way. This is my new attempt at poetry making - taking words I like, and starting there. Starting anywhere. Current words in the works: gravitas, sequention, and looky-loo.

I am also writing some other stuff. This is good. Fun, actually. I'm not one of those writers who actually enjoys writing. It's rather like pulling teeth for me, so anytime I look forward to writing as a verb it is indeed a grand occasion. Writing is like exercise - when I am disciplined about it I tend to enjoy it more (or dread it more, whatever). I like the afterwards effect of feeling accomplished though, so perhaps that is impetus enough to get back in the groove.

two cheers for . . .

. . . the best book I've read so far all summer: Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris. It was superb, and I highly recommend it. It is the kind of book that makes me want to be a writer.

And here is a tribute picture of Yummy, who did pass away and was finally buried this past weekend. (It was an extended wake, held in the freezer; hold your horror there.)

changes and stagnations. . .

. . . which I just spent twenty minutes writing about and Blogger lost. So instead, I will simply tell you that there is a very naughty squirrel messing about my flowerbed in the front window. He likes to dig around my mulch and store things. But he doesn't but the mulch back. And now he is looking at me as though I should be happy to see him, tail all aflicker.

Humph.

the drought extended . . .

. . . to the blog. Well, really it is more of a time issue. And then an inspiration issue. And then the issues kept piling up. Neglect, etc. It's all very clear in my head.

I've been absent.

But two days ago, I woke up to the composition of a poem going on in my head. It is a beautiful thing.

Teaching summer session soon. I've picked up two amazing books for the next semester: Poet's Choice by Ed Hirsch and The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry edited by J.D. McClatchey. I can't open one without wanting to consume the other. The Vintage one in particular is as close an anthology I've encountered to what would be in my own if I ever endeavored to compile one beyond the xeroxes I currently live by.

i am officially a little old granny lady . . .

. . . with an impending hump on my back. Okay, not really. But it feels like it. I have managed to somehow injure my neck, and this time it was without the help of a horrid hick woman from Polk County running a red light. A very red light. But I'm not still bitter over that. Luckily. Anyway, yes, I can barely move my head. My body is protesting the schedule that my mind thought would be good for the old psyche - keep busy, engage in my surroundings, volunteer to do extra things.

Enough whining. So I got the house, and am moving. Or, at this point, soliciting help from large burly men who will be able to pick up my little green velour loveseat circa 1970 in one beefy hand. I'm excited. The house has a yard. The house also has the ugliest door in all of Wilmington. I like to joke about there being an Ugly Paint Store, but this door only proves that there is one, and I have never shopped there. Anyway, the door will be painted. And there is a yard. A yard! A huge yard. I'm very stoked about having this. The only downside to leaving the apartment is losing the pool. Whatever. I'll live. (Maybe.)

Dakota is sleeping on my lap right now. She managed to get herself locked in the closet under the stairs the other night when I had to pull out the vacuum. Spent all night in there and when I got up to feed the kitties, it took me several minutes of picturing her lifeless body in the jaws of an alligator before I figured it out.

So how about this political process? I am still torn between Obama and Clinton. Super Tuesday didn't help me any. NC doesn't vote until May - by then, hopefully I will have some idea of who I want, although I want them both. Can we have co-presidents? Neither of them can be the VP. It simply cannot be. But this is such a polarizing event, and people are actually interested, and if nothing else, at least the terrible presidency of Bush has pushed people into some sort of action. That is his legacy. Not a bad one - getting people to care and vote - but he will go down as one of the worst presidents ever. And he earned it.

the worst . . .

. . . week ever. Included being sick, a bleeding bird, falling down a flight of stairs, and turning in my notice to my apartment. Hah! Take that apartment living! No longer will I be subjected to the randy behavior of my once-a-week neighbors. No longer will I be irritated at 3am by your cacophonous flow of inexplicable traffic past my window. No longer will I be subject to your domestic housecalls by burly police officers in triplicate. No longer will I suffer the neglect of beige carpet on my psyche. No longer!

Assuming, of course, that I get the house.

So the bird. Buddha picked a blood feather. He had blood dripping off his beak, all over his foot, and there it was, a huge (bird-sized) flow of blood on his wing. I, naturally, freaked. Called vet.

Me: My bird is bleeding!

Office Person: Do you have any corn starch?

Me: Who the hell cooks with corn starch these days?

Office Person: Better bring him down right now.

Once at vet's office, he'd stopped bleeding. Of course. He did get a nail trim though. Phoebe got a wing clipping. Vet told me not to worry about the feather plucking. Not much I can do about it, despite my new Bird Talk magazine that filled me with hope that one day little Timmy would walk again! No - wrong mag. One day little Buddha would let his feathers grow! What can I say? He likes the naked look.

Um, falling down the stairs. Yeah. I have the bruises to prove it. Not going into detail. I think I have told you too much already. Let's just say, it was through no fault of my own, and I wasn't drinking.

On top of being a bit under the weather, this has all basically served to reinforce my belief in long, extended vacations.

(All misspellings are the fault of Blogger. The button won't work. Figures.)