Posts Tagged ‘poet’

Going Dark

June 9, 2017

I have been scrubbing my Facebook page of all my blog posts.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

It was actually an interesting little trip down memory lane.

It was good to see the pictures and posts and the blogs and to see how steady I have been in my pursuit of this endeavor.

I suspect that as of this blog the readership will go down.

Down  a lot.

But so be it.

It’s the price I pay to get to continue doing this, my little love, my bunny, my pet project for the last seven years.

I will happily sacrifice readers to keep doing the writing.

I was talking with a friend and my words ran away with themselves.

I got so excited about writing and poetry and I just started gushing.

My heart raced.

Words get me all crazy.

I’m not a crazy cat lady.

I’m a crazy poetry lady.

You should have heard me reciting Shakespeare earlier.

I got all kinds of excited.

Ah, Old English you do me so well.

Heh.

Today I actually had time for poetic pursuits, not so much writing it, but perusing it, looking up some old favorites and wondering to myself if it weren’t time to go replace some books of poetry that I used to have in my small library.

When I moved to Paris back in 2012 I sold off all my books.

All of them.

It still hurts to think about a little, some tenderness there, but I wanted to throw myself at the Paris experience and I knew I wasn’t going to pack a bunch of books up with me and carry them across the pond.

No.

I sold them.

I stored a few personal belongings of my own, small framed art works and pictures, my notebooks, my own writing, in a friend’s garage, but aside from that I got rid of everything else.

Books.

Clothes.

Shoes.

Everything but my bicycle and some clothes in a roll on suitcase.

I came back with that same roll on luggage and my bicycle.

And.

Ten dollars.

I don’t regret it, but yeah, I did have a moment today when I realized I had sold my copy of Pablo Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets.

That I didn’t have my complete works for Shakespeare, leather-bound from my undergraduate days.

Or.

Sigh.

My collection of TS Eliot.

Also from undergrad.

And.

Oh.

My OED.

My Oxford English Dictionary.

I sold that too.

I think this may be the first time I have ever admitted that in writing in a public forum.

It was a graduation gift from a set of girlfriends in Madison who were my best friends for years before I moved to San Francisco and became a raging drug addict whose friends wanted nothing to fucking do with her whatsoever.

I managed to keep that damn dictionary through years of moves and geographics and even pretty damn far into sobriety.

But.

I decided to let it go.

It was for God to have.

It was always Gods.

I went into Alley Cat Books on 24th Street a few months ago to see if the OED was still there, I was on my way to an appointment and really did not have time to stop in and look, but the last time I had been in there, the dictionary was still there.

Granted that had been over a year and a half ago.

I didn’t see it, but they had re-arranged the store and I was too shy and pinched on time to ask the clerk if they still had it.

One day I’ll replace those words.

And one day these words will be replaced.

All words are infinite.

All moments meaningful, lustful, alive, here and present and a live and loved in my heart.

I don’t have much contact with any of those old girlfriends, but they live in my heart.

And I won’t ever forget what it felt like to get that gift at my graduation party.

I can still feel the weight of it in my hands and I knew the moment it was set in my arms what it was.

I was blown away.

To be seen for what I love is important.

Although not important enough for me to have to do it, the writing or the reading, all good writers have to read too, I love an audience, but I don’t need one to write.

God is my witness.

My heart is my muse.

I am a channel and I don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going to go.

Only that it will.

These words.

Into the ether.

Into the void.

From out my fingers, from out of my heart, with passion and providence, into the universe.

Perhaps the words will fill the voids between stars, the emptiness that needs be filled by poetry until all the worlds are seemless and held in beauty, together under the great bounty and soulshine, the light will cover the dark.

Or not.

I don’t know.

I can’t ever really know.

I will just keep writing and trying and falling and stumbling and getting up again.

I believe I will fly one day, if not this day, then the next.

And every word I put down an attempt at faith in something so much bigger than I, a tiny glimpse, a sliver of honey and lavender crystals, a shining cello note, a sting pulled, a plucking, a bewitching, an enamourement, a leap,  and love tossed I jump.

I don’t need to know where I land.

The leaping.

Well.

It is enough.

It always is.

 

She Keeps Us Civilized

January 22, 2016

The mom said to her guests as they thanked me at the end of my shift this evening.

Well.

I try.

Sometimes though, the five year old is just going to stand on his head and fart on his friend and giggle wildly.

Fortunately the parents were outside in the back yard enjoying daiquiris.

I was inside with four boys: 5 3/4; 51/2; 4; and 3 1/2.

I add the halves and the quarters.

They are very fierce about their age and the hierarchy of who sits where in accordance to what age.

They were lined up left to right, oldest to youngest, along with two stuffed huskies, one stuffed cat, and one very, very loved teddy bear.

Four cups of milk in sippy cups and four graham crackers.

And.

Pengu.

Man.

There is nothing funnier to this age group than Pengu.

Nothing.

There is just something about the claymation little penguin that tickles the funny bone.

I find it endearing and cute and about the only video I can stand watching with the boys.

It’s a special night when the boys get videos, when I’m there we don’t watch videos.

I have been told by the boys that they do watch a lot of videos 0n the weekend.

I know they do and that’s not my business.

I am in no position to criticize or judge any one and their parental style.

I have in the past and it did not serve me well.

Glass houses and stones and what all.

The boys had a play date and I made pizzas.

I had to laugh at one point.

I don’t eat sugar or flour and here I am rolling out pizza dough–spinach and mushroom, pepperoni, plain cheese, and cheese and mushroom–and navigating around open containers of sugar and booze.

Not my normal.

Even at work.

But no matter.

I did my deal and took care of the boys and was grateful for my own lovely little abstinent meal and my extra time to get done laundry and pick up all the different sets of train tracks that had gotten pulled out to entertain the boys.

Three separate sets.

I pondered my psychology reading and was happy to use some theory on the boys.

I mean.

Come on.

I’m in the heart of family.

And I’m going to be a therapist.

Gold mine.

It’s like doing field work all the time.

I mean I got an A+ in Psychodynamics using a scene at the dentist office where one of the boys had a temper tantrum and I was able to apply Freud and Melanie Klein theory to what was happening.

I am a very lucky girl.

I am also a very lucky girl to have done some work today before work.

That’s the funny thing about work.

I work before it and I work after it.

Sometimes the work I do outside of work is more work.

But I digress.

I did some reading.

I checked over a couple of my syllabi.

Specifically I read the entire seven pages for Applied Spirituality.

,

I was resentful, wildly so, the first time I read it.

Hey, don’t you know who I am?

Don’t you know what I do?

I am special.

I already apply spirituality to my life.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Which.

When I took some time to reflect.

Was a rather unspiritual stance to take.

After doing some inventory on it and discussing it with another person at length I realized that I was, once again, being inflexible about my schedule.

I have a certain way of doing things and a certain time and don’t bother me while I am.

And.

Don’t even try to get me to do anything else.

It’s a matter of life and death.

Motherfucker.

Ah.

Yeah.

So, you can see, not so spiritual at that.

I recognize the fear behind the thoughts, I’ve been doing it this way for years, and I’m doing just fine, and I’m going to hold onto this way of doing things and you can pry my practice from my cold, dead, but still fucking spiritual, hands.

I laugh at myself.

I had a small epiphany–the poetry epiphany–and decided to not change up my practice so much, as deepen it.

I’ll grab some new spiritual readers, I will change out my daily readers, I’m still going to use conference approved literature, there is a really good reason I stick close to the original message of recovery.

It works.

But there’s more than one daily reader, so I will try another.

And I went for it this morning.

I wrote a full sonnet after writing my regular morning pages and doing my gratitude list.

I’m using a notebook that I bought at the museum store at the Centre Pompidou in Paris.

I’m calling the series.

“Love Letters To God.”

I debated posting the first sonnet here, but I am not sure how I am going to incorporate them yet for the class, and since that is the reason, the impetus to do the writing, I’m going to wait until after my professor gets back to me regarding my proposal.

That may not be for at least a week.

I got word today that my professor was under the impression that classes started this upcoming weekend, he has not officially posted the syllabus and sent out an apologetic e-mail this afternoon giving some suggestions and saying basically, just wait for a week and I’ll be ready for you.

I find this extraordinarily unprofessional considering this is a graduate school program and I am paying graduate school tuition out the fucking ass.

But this is not the first time that something wonky has occurred–readers not ready, etc.

And frankly, I don’t bear a grudge.

It’s just humanity happening in front of my eyes.

I can get fussy about it or I can be grateful for an extra week reprieve from the start of another round of grad school work.

It will all work out.

And.

I have no complaints.

I mean.

I wrote a delicious sonnet.

It made me happy to write.

Happier to read.

The next thing to explore is to see if I can link a sound byte to my blog or if I should do some sort of podcast on Youtube.

Which I know nothing about, but I do feel quite compelled to have some voice recordings out there.

It feels like the next thing to do in this evolution of being an artist.

Yup.

Me the artist.

How lovely that is to claim.

I am a poet.

I am a writer.

I am an artist.

Hell yeah.

Bring on the spirituality.

Bitches.

Lions, And Tigers, And Bears

September 15, 2015

And poetry.

Oh my.

I just received a really inspiring piece of e-mail from a friend I made standing in line at the Chapel piece by Mike Garlington out on playa this recent past Burning Man.

We were waiting to get into the chapel and the dust was blowing and the noise was high and the excitement to see the piece was big.

I gave my poem to a man standing in line with his daughter.

It was their virgin burn and it was sweet to make a connection in the moment, to share my art with another person.

I have had this poem memorized for over a decade and it never fails to surprise me how much people connect with it.

“I realized why I love listening to you,” he said in the dark of the RV, the cold air pressing in, drawing ourselves tighter into the embrace, “I love listening to you tell stories because I love the sound of your voice.”  He nuzzled the back of my neck and squeezed my breast, growled low in his throat, “tell me another story.”

I complied.

I don’t usually have to be asked twice to talk.

I have stories.

I do.

I have poems too and it’s been a sweetness to be approached for my poems.

The man in question found me on facebook and gmail and has reached out to me since he returned from the burn, reached out to say he was honored to have made the connection with me and also to ask for a copy of the poem.

And tonight I got home to another e-mail asking me to collaborate on a piece for the Burning Man ARTumnal.

The gentleman is a photographer and will be donating pieces to the art auction and asked if I would write poems using the 10 Principles of Burning Man as a jumping off place for the poems.

I am awed and flattered.

And.

Oh.

I am so fucking busy.

But.

I think I’m going to say yes.

The ARTumnal is not until November and I could write 10 poems by then.

In fact, it might be a great practice for me, I haven’t written that much poetry in a while, my main focus has been this blog, for good or bad, and I have a hankering to say yes.

Yes, why not, why not put something else on the plate.

I could write ten sonnets on the ten principles.

I could write one long rambling piece.

But I think ten poems on the principles that are shorter make more sense.

I like sonnets anyhow and what with the lack of analog work in the blinky blinky that is so Burning Man, it might be nice to offer something by way of writing as a construct and art that is woefully underrepresented there.

Although there was a grand typewriter out on playa that one could write missives on, I was unable to leave my poetic footprint there as the young woman on some sort of hallucinogen or other, was adamant about standing on the “s” key and not moving off the keyboard.

I acquiesced to her trip and made my way out onto the playa.

But when I think of some of the big moments in my burn, they were always the small, intimate pieces that happened between me and one person and the connection made there.

The night I gave this new friend the poem.

The same night I got caught up reciting it for another man, a man who I had a soulful interaction with that rocked me while I was reciting the piece, in just that moment, under the lights of the Midway around the Man, we had a deep and profound connection.

One so profound that I was a tremble doing the poem, but reached in there anyhow and pulled it all out.

“You do know that you risk people falling in love with you when you do that?” He asked me at the foot of the Storied Haven piece.  A gigantic shoe that you could access from the bottom door which led into a small foyer with a winged back chair and a bunch of books in the book shelf that were exquisite pieces of art, panoramas, lighted shores and stories, the absolute disappearance of my self into an experience, it might have been one of the most amazing art pieces i have seen period, let alone this Burning Man.

I had just recited him my poem.

That means I recited it four times at the event, which is unusual for me.

But there it is.

The line to get into the piece moved excruciatingly slow because there was so much to look at inside of it and the cargo was so beautiful and precious they only let in a few people, two, three at max, at the same time.

I offered a fairy tale or a poem to the gentleman manning the door.

I blushed when he offered the compliment.

I had never thought of it like that.

Allowing someone to fall in love with me for my words, for the heart-felt stirrings and strivings behind them.

I like my voice, I won’t lie, and I won’t be facetious, I have a nice voice.

But to know that I can be a better artist in a way for having not only written the words but having voiced them too, that is powerful, there is power there.

I haven’t done spoken word in a long time, here, there, at the retreat for school I did a few pieces, in Paris at Le Chat Noir in the Belleville district, but not really anything where I have gotten up on stage and let the voice roll out.

That might be something to look into.

In what time?

I don’t know.

But I do know that I am an artist and I take great pleasure in that, even if it is analog.

Even if it is old.

There is beauty there.

The craft of the words and the thoughtful placing of rhymes and rhythms, means a lot to me.

I don’t have to question why.

I don’t have to justify.

I can just know that there is a singing there and that I need to continue to answer the call and response of my own muse.

And if you want me to write you some poems.

Why not?

I am honored to be asked.

Thank you for letting me be of service.

Thank you for letting me be an artist.

I am pleased beyond these meager words.

I am.

And.

I say yes.

Yes please.

And.

Yes, thank you, too.

Thank you for seeing me as a poet.

That means the world.

It really does.


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