I found them when I was cleaning out the old teal
Ford Explorer, handed down to me when I left home
for college and now waiting for the tow truck to be taken
to that final resting place - the salvage yard - due
to a cracked radiator hose and a faulty transmission.
While leaning across the driver's and passenger's seat
to the small pocket on the door, I pulled out old pens
from insurance companies in South Dakota, a pad of paper
from a funeral home in Washington, receipts from gas
in Oregon, remnants of travels taken and life lived.
They were at the bottom of the pocket, tucked behind a map
of Montana. Brown specs, rounded, tortoiseshell,
a little too outdated to be new, a little too late 80s to be retro.
When I put them on, I saw her: brown hair wavy and unruly,
short and stylishly unfashionable, her kind eyes hidden
in the mirrored lenses that warded off the Minnesota sun
that glinted off the white snow. For a second, her eyes
were mine, and I loved that 22-year-old version of herself,
edgy and lively, and I loved the 22-year-old version of myself,
because we were the same behind my mother's sunglasses.
Friday, April 30, 2010
[Poem#14] As You Go
Real life, my dears, is only a stone's throw
from where you already walk. This time
spent embracing your mind has not divorced
you from life outside the ivy halls. You
have not been hiding, I hope, from the pain
and suffering just off your beaten path:
pain down darkened alleyways of your city,
in hospital beds in your town, in streets paved with dirt
on the other side of the world. That is the real life
that you have touched briefly, and now
it will be your reality. So throw that stone
to hear it bounce in the path ahead, and know
that just as one section of the traveling ends,
with its familiar landscape, another one begins,
with a horizon always just out of reach.
Your striving is the journey.
from where you already walk. This time
spent embracing your mind has not divorced
you from life outside the ivy halls. You
have not been hiding, I hope, from the pain
and suffering just off your beaten path:
pain down darkened alleyways of your city,
in hospital beds in your town, in streets paved with dirt
on the other side of the world. That is the real life
that you have touched briefly, and now
it will be your reality. So throw that stone
to hear it bounce in the path ahead, and know
that just as one section of the traveling ends,
with its familiar landscape, another one begins,
with a horizon always just out of reach.
Your striving is the journey.
[Poem#13] Fighting
(oldie. it's a little different than what I usually write... ha!)
The Man got nothing but money in his eyes,
dripping out like the tears you will not let him see.
Oh, men love God, but the Man cannot - for
he cannot love anything he cannot own, son.
So be careful of the Man with the blood-brown eyes
and the two-snapped teeth, because he don't care
for nothing but his own dirty belly.
The Man got nothing but money in his eyes,
dripping out like the tears you will not let him see.
Oh, men love God, but the Man cannot - for
he cannot love anything he cannot own, son.
So be careful of the Man with the blood-brown eyes
and the two-snapped teeth, because he don't care
for nothing but his own dirty belly.
True quote of the day...
"Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It's a gift to the world and every being in it. Don't cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you've got."
-p.165, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
I think this taps into the fear of the artist who lacks confidence (read: me). Every once in a while (read: every day), I find myself doubting my intentions. I wonder if I'm doing this writing deal because I love it or because I need attention, accolades. Am I creating for myself or am I creating for the world? And if it's the latter, who the hell do I think I am to even imagine I'm impacting the world in such a way?
No. My creation is a tribute to my own Creator. And even if it doesn't change the world, I hope that I'm making the world a little more rich because I am sharing my perspective on it. It would be selfish to keep this gift to myself...and it is a gift. I need to do something with it.
Even if I'm a grumpy pants on occasion. And I don't feel like creating and I don't feel like I have anything at all to offer. Like tonight, for example.
I will show up. I will do my work, even if my work is crappy. I will do it.
Though ice cream would help.
-p.165, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
I think this taps into the fear of the artist who lacks confidence (read: me). Every once in a while (read: every day), I find myself doubting my intentions. I wonder if I'm doing this writing deal because I love it or because I need attention, accolades. Am I creating for myself or am I creating for the world? And if it's the latter, who the hell do I think I am to even imagine I'm impacting the world in such a way?
No. My creation is a tribute to my own Creator. And even if it doesn't change the world, I hope that I'm making the world a little more rich because I am sharing my perspective on it. It would be selfish to keep this gift to myself...and it is a gift. I need to do something with it.
Even if I'm a grumpy pants on occasion. And I don't feel like creating and I don't feel like I have anything at all to offer. Like tonight, for example.
I will show up. I will do my work, even if my work is crappy. I will do it.
Though ice cream would help.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
[Poem#12] Stuck
I don't transition well -
she said with a burdened laugh
before she turned to
watch her lovers move forward
as she remains behind,
stuck in the mire of the present.
(I like this as it is. And I like how it looks. But it's very short. Maybe I'll try adding something to it later and see what happens. Also the title is awful).
she said with a burdened laugh
before she turned to
watch her lovers move forward
as she remains behind,
stuck in the mire of the present.
(I like this as it is. And I like how it looks. But it's very short. Maybe I'll try adding something to it later and see what happens. Also the title is awful).
[Poem#11] "Some Keep the Sabbath by Going to Church"
(rough rough rough draft. i'm too worn out to edit right now)
A bright Sunday morning after a dark week
I sat in my clunker's driver's seat, alone
at the wheel. It was time for church - I mustn't
be late - as I passed the minivans of little girls
in pink bows and teenagers in jeans. I looked for church
but could not find it. The building was there,
and the right people were milling outside and in, but
it didn't feel right. So I drove past, hearing the strains
of a worship team warming up. And I drove past another
building, parking lot filled with SUVs and hybrids, all
praising the Lord next to each other. And it was not right.
I found my autopilot taking me to a wooded park
in the center of town. I sat beneath a hundred year old tree,
strong and tall, seeing its branches reach up and form a spire.
The grass was the pew, soft and green, neverending and communal.
Wildflowers surrounded me, the lone earth decorations
meant to glorify God. A squirrel approached and started to squeal
at the sight of me. A preacher, he warned me to turn from that tree
I was under for the sake of my soul. I obliged, he the learned being
among us. But that was the only sin of mine he knew, and he pardoned
me easily, his storage of food safe.
And I sat and I waited for the Lord to come down and speak to me,
only to discover he already had.
A bright Sunday morning after a dark week
I sat in my clunker's driver's seat, alone
at the wheel. It was time for church - I mustn't
be late - as I passed the minivans of little girls
in pink bows and teenagers in jeans. I looked for church
but could not find it. The building was there,
and the right people were milling outside and in, but
it didn't feel right. So I drove past, hearing the strains
of a worship team warming up. And I drove past another
building, parking lot filled with SUVs and hybrids, all
praising the Lord next to each other. And it was not right.
I found my autopilot taking me to a wooded park
in the center of town. I sat beneath a hundred year old tree,
strong and tall, seeing its branches reach up and form a spire.
The grass was the pew, soft and green, neverending and communal.
Wildflowers surrounded me, the lone earth decorations
meant to glorify God. A squirrel approached and started to squeal
at the sight of me. A preacher, he warned me to turn from that tree
I was under for the sake of my soul. I obliged, he the learned being
among us. But that was the only sin of mine he knew, and he pardoned
me easily, his storage of food safe.
And I sat and I waited for the Lord to come down and speak to me,
only to discover he already had.
True quote of the day...
Since this is my game and my rules, today's quotes are from a song. Well, two, actually. If you know anything about me, you probably know I'm a pretty big Switchfoot fan. I respect those in the band as musicians, faith-followers, and human beings. Anyway, they released an album last fall titled Hello Hurricane. It's a beautiful musical journey that ends with my two favorite songs, perhaps ever, back to back.
The second to last song of the album is titled "Sing It Out." It starts out quiet, a man's voice against the void. "I'm on the run/ I'm on the ropes this time/ Where is my song?/ I've lost the song of my soul tonight." It's an individual defeated, a man who has lost his passion, his purpose, the very beat of his heart. In desperation and need, he cries, "Sing it out/ Sing it out/ Take what is left of me/ Make it a melody/ Sing it out/ Sing out loud/ I can't find the words to sing/ Come be my remedy." Today, I finally fully understood this chorus. The man is asking God, or the Muse, or the Universe, to sing him his song, the song that has been lost and forgotten. The song of his gifts, his genius, his purpose. He's asking to hear it, because he has no music in his ears or his heart. If he hears it, then he will remember and perhaps be able to sing along.
After that passionate plea to hear one's song comes the final song of the album, "Red Eyes." The first few lines are exactly where I continue to find myself.
"'What are you waiting for?/ The day is gone.'/ I said I'm waiting for dawn./ 'What are you aiming for/ out here alone?/ I said I'm aiming for home./ Holding on, holding on..."
This dialogue is what I feel internally every day when I choose between hope and despair. My pessimistic nature tells me that the day is gone. The light is now dark. There is nothing to see here. But my artist's nature, the nature in touch with the Divine, answers that I am just waiting for the dawn, the light that continues to return after the darkness. Because it'll come back. And though the darkness in me tells me that I am alone, I know that I am headed for the place where I belong: home. The title of this song could be interpreted in a multitude of ways. One's eyes are red after sobs, the despair that creeps in and takes hold. But red eyes can also come with intense searching. Looking for a way, a path, a light, a hope. Red eyes.
So not exactly the quotes on writing that I've been sharing over the last week or so. But music speaks to me on a deep level, the art of someone else's soul speaking to the art in mine. What I need to do is hold on, to continue forward, to do my work and encourage others in theirs. Because in doing so, we make this world livable. Hopeful.
Currently, I'm grouchy. Resistance is strong today. But I'm showing up to do my work anyway. I tend to get in funks for no reason (strike that; there's always a reason, but mostly it's a dumb one), but I'll fight it off, somehow. Showing up to work is the first step. Actually working and creating is the next. And the third? Well, I'll just find out when I get there.
The second to last song of the album is titled "Sing It Out." It starts out quiet, a man's voice against the void. "I'm on the run/ I'm on the ropes this time/ Where is my song?/ I've lost the song of my soul tonight." It's an individual defeated, a man who has lost his passion, his purpose, the very beat of his heart. In desperation and need, he cries, "Sing it out/ Sing it out/ Take what is left of me/ Make it a melody/ Sing it out/ Sing out loud/ I can't find the words to sing/ Come be my remedy." Today, I finally fully understood this chorus. The man is asking God, or the Muse, or the Universe, to sing him his song, the song that has been lost and forgotten. The song of his gifts, his genius, his purpose. He's asking to hear it, because he has no music in his ears or his heart. If he hears it, then he will remember and perhaps be able to sing along.
After that passionate plea to hear one's song comes the final song of the album, "Red Eyes." The first few lines are exactly where I continue to find myself.
"'What are you waiting for?/ The day is gone.'/ I said I'm waiting for dawn./ 'What are you aiming for/ out here alone?/ I said I'm aiming for home./ Holding on, holding on..."
This dialogue is what I feel internally every day when I choose between hope and despair. My pessimistic nature tells me that the day is gone. The light is now dark. There is nothing to see here. But my artist's nature, the nature in touch with the Divine, answers that I am just waiting for the dawn, the light that continues to return after the darkness. Because it'll come back. And though the darkness in me tells me that I am alone, I know that I am headed for the place where I belong: home. The title of this song could be interpreted in a multitude of ways. One's eyes are red after sobs, the despair that creeps in and takes hold. But red eyes can also come with intense searching. Looking for a way, a path, a light, a hope. Red eyes.
So not exactly the quotes on writing that I've been sharing over the last week or so. But music speaks to me on a deep level, the art of someone else's soul speaking to the art in mine. What I need to do is hold on, to continue forward, to do my work and encourage others in theirs. Because in doing so, we make this world livable. Hopeful.
Currently, I'm grouchy. Resistance is strong today. But I'm showing up to do my work anyway. I tend to get in funks for no reason (strike that; there's always a reason, but mostly it's a dumb one), but I'll fight it off, somehow. Showing up to work is the first step. Actually working and creating is the next. And the third? Well, I'll just find out when I get there.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
[Poem#10] Migration
For my class
In a book about birds with a green finch
on the cover, I learned that all birds move,
but not all birds migrate. What marks
this particular motion is that it's seasonal,
annual, repeated at the end of something.
When the wind begins tossing around
recently fallen leaves, the temperature
drops to give the grass a nightly crisp, and
the flowers start to fold in on themselves,
putting their colors away for the winter,
then the birds know in their tiny beings
that it is time to move. They pick up
their wings and lift themselves into the sky,
without a backwards glance. They know
when it is time to move and they do not hesitate.
They simply fly, unafraid. Because though
they have to fight the winter breezes bearing down
on their fragile feathers, they believe that the end
of their journey will be warm and plentiful.
And there they will rest until the next migration.
My friends, be the birds of your souls.
In a book about birds with a green finch
on the cover, I learned that all birds move,
but not all birds migrate. What marks
this particular motion is that it's seasonal,
annual, repeated at the end of something.
When the wind begins tossing around
recently fallen leaves, the temperature
drops to give the grass a nightly crisp, and
the flowers start to fold in on themselves,
putting their colors away for the winter,
then the birds know in their tiny beings
that it is time to move. They pick up
their wings and lift themselves into the sky,
without a backwards glance. They know
when it is time to move and they do not hesitate.
They simply fly, unafraid. Because though
they have to fight the winter breezes bearing down
on their fragile feathers, they believe that the end
of their journey will be warm and plentiful.
And there they will rest until the next migration.
My friends, be the birds of your souls.
[Prose#2] Senior Chapel
(rough draft of a prose piece I'm working on...bare bones, only....needs some flesh)
I entered the auditorium for the last chapel service of my freshman year. The small evangelical college I attended had chapel twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays for an hour in the late morning. We were required to attend 21 times. Boasting was a sin, but if I were to boast, I would have proclaimed the fact that I attended every single chapel that first year, far more than the required amount.
It wasn't just a desire to overachieve as I did all throughout my high school years. It wasn't even a desire to be known for my religiosity. I loved the warm feeling I got from chapel that first year, the sense of regular communal worship, binding together the community that my college strove to create. I was dazzled by the thought of being part of it, by growing in my spirit, by becoming the woman of God that I always dreamed I'd be in college, through Bible studies, theological discussions, and these chapel times.
Senior chapel was a bit different. Part celebration, part blessing, it was the time fo rthe sneior class to remember and project. As a freshman, I didn't know very many seniors, but I saw them in the cafeteria, knew them by name, was lost in wonder at their playfulness and maturity. They were this entity to me, what I dreamed of being before leaving this place forever. But that was ages from now.
Some seniors got up to share. One spoke of his love for Fox and the mission he was going to serve at. Another quoted inside jokes and shared his plans to attend graduate school. Then a senior woman got up. She nervously took the microphone, even though I had seen her perform with the chapel worship band twice a week for the last two semesters. In contrast to her musical persona, this version of herself seemed very unsure.
She confirmed that when she said she didn't know why she was speaking. She went on to speak of her doubts about faith, church, and God. She said that all she had seen abroad and at home makes her wonder about the nature of God and if he can exist in a world with so much pain. She said, in tears, looking at her fellow worship team senior friends, "I cannot pray right now. I feel like I am in a dark room and I cannot see God. I'm so glad to have friends who can see him and who are praying for me."
This moment has stuck with me. As a freshman girl from a Christian home in a Christian university, I was awestruck at two things: one, her intense vulnerability in front of the entire campus community. And second, the fact that her faith was broken after four years at a Christian school. My stomach dropped, and I prayed for her, that her faith would return to her and that she would grow strong in the Lord.
I'm not shocked by that anymore. In fact, I understand her perspective. After recently graduating from the same Christian university, I see where her faith did not fit her anymore. God often seems far these days, even at a place where the community bears a Christian label. And the God of my youth, the God of my fathers, is not a God I can believe in any longer. Those versions of God I can comprehend, and I am frustrated by a God I can comprehend because I know he cannot be the true God.
There are times these days when I cannot pray. But I am thankful for my friends who still can. And there are other times when I'm the only one who can see a glimpse of God who is both Father and Mother, and then I am the one praying for those who cannot see through the fog. I'm understanding that is Christian community; that is faith.
I entered the auditorium for the last chapel service of my freshman year. The small evangelical college I attended had chapel twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays for an hour in the late morning. We were required to attend 21 times. Boasting was a sin, but if I were to boast, I would have proclaimed the fact that I attended every single chapel that first year, far more than the required amount.
It wasn't just a desire to overachieve as I did all throughout my high school years. It wasn't even a desire to be known for my religiosity. I loved the warm feeling I got from chapel that first year, the sense of regular communal worship, binding together the community that my college strove to create. I was dazzled by the thought of being part of it, by growing in my spirit, by becoming the woman of God that I always dreamed I'd be in college, through Bible studies, theological discussions, and these chapel times.
Senior chapel was a bit different. Part celebration, part blessing, it was the time fo rthe sneior class to remember and project. As a freshman, I didn't know very many seniors, but I saw them in the cafeteria, knew them by name, was lost in wonder at their playfulness and maturity. They were this entity to me, what I dreamed of being before leaving this place forever. But that was ages from now.
Some seniors got up to share. One spoke of his love for Fox and the mission he was going to serve at. Another quoted inside jokes and shared his plans to attend graduate school. Then a senior woman got up. She nervously took the microphone, even though I had seen her perform with the chapel worship band twice a week for the last two semesters. In contrast to her musical persona, this version of herself seemed very unsure.
She confirmed that when she said she didn't know why she was speaking. She went on to speak of her doubts about faith, church, and God. She said that all she had seen abroad and at home makes her wonder about the nature of God and if he can exist in a world with so much pain. She said, in tears, looking at her fellow worship team senior friends, "I cannot pray right now. I feel like I am in a dark room and I cannot see God. I'm so glad to have friends who can see him and who are praying for me."
This moment has stuck with me. As a freshman girl from a Christian home in a Christian university, I was awestruck at two things: one, her intense vulnerability in front of the entire campus community. And second, the fact that her faith was broken after four years at a Christian school. My stomach dropped, and I prayed for her, that her faith would return to her and that she would grow strong in the Lord.
I'm not shocked by that anymore. In fact, I understand her perspective. After recently graduating from the same Christian university, I see where her faith did not fit her anymore. God often seems far these days, even at a place where the community bears a Christian label. And the God of my youth, the God of my fathers, is not a God I can believe in any longer. Those versions of God I can comprehend, and I am frustrated by a God I can comprehend because I know he cannot be the true God.
There are times these days when I cannot pray. But I am thankful for my friends who still can. And there are other times when I'm the only one who can see a glimpse of God who is both Father and Mother, and then I am the one praying for those who cannot see through the fog. I'm understanding that is Christian community; that is faith.
True quote of the day...
"Every breath we take, every heartbeat, every evolution of every cell comes from God and is sustained by God every second, just as every creation, invention, every bar of music or line of verse, every thought, vision, fantasy, every dumb-ass flop and stroke of genius comes from that infinite intelligence that created us and the universe in all its dimensions, out of the Void, the field of infinite potential, primal chaos, the Muse. To acknowledge that reality, to efface all ego, to let the work come through us and give it back freely to its source, that, in my opinion, is as true to reality as it gets."
- p.162, The War of Art," Steven Pressfield
Besides the fact that the first sentence is exquisite, I think it taps into a beautiful truth: that we as artists are not our own. We have been endowed with gifts by a master Artist, and it is nothing of our doing. Thus, because we have been so given, we must give our gifts back to the ultimate Creator, doing our work for him. In denying our own egos that tell us we are the best there ever was, we give our work back to the One from whom it came, and in turn, continue forward, using the gifts and giving the work back. I think I can live within that cycle quite happily, I believe. It takes the pressure off and gives me full reign to express myself as I see fit. A glorious freedom, indeed.
- p.162, The War of Art," Steven Pressfield
Besides the fact that the first sentence is exquisite, I think it taps into a beautiful truth: that we as artists are not our own. We have been endowed with gifts by a master Artist, and it is nothing of our doing. Thus, because we have been so given, we must give our gifts back to the ultimate Creator, doing our work for him. In denying our own egos that tell us we are the best there ever was, we give our work back to the One from whom it came, and in turn, continue forward, using the gifts and giving the work back. I think I can live within that cycle quite happily, I believe. It takes the pressure off and gives me full reign to express myself as I see fit. A glorious freedom, indeed.
Monday, April 26, 2010
[Poem#9] Missed Opportunity
It was there in the stacks I found him
in the Purple Room of the world's largest
bookstore, in the section on Christianity.
I was searching for Lewis, and passed him,
crouching in the center of the aisle, three
times. Each time, his head rose as I passed.
I should have asked him to help me, but my
need for self-sufficiency reigned. I found Lewis only a
few feet from where he perused the Inspiration selection.
I could not stare without being noticed, so I saw his profile
in my peripheral. His skin, chocolate and smooth,
unlined. His eyes, dark; his brow furrowed;
body lean and muscular. He walked over next
to me to look at L'Engle, while I moved down slightly
to Miller. I felt electricity leap off him and snap me,
a gravitational pull that drew me near to him without
a single motion. All I had to do was lean toward him,
whisper what I was looking for; maybe he could help.
But I had nothing to say, nothing
at all, so I walked away.
in the Purple Room of the world's largest
bookstore, in the section on Christianity.
I was searching for Lewis, and passed him,
crouching in the center of the aisle, three
times. Each time, his head rose as I passed.
I should have asked him to help me, but my
need for self-sufficiency reigned. I found Lewis only a
few feet from where he perused the Inspiration selection.
I could not stare without being noticed, so I saw his profile
in my peripheral. His skin, chocolate and smooth,
unlined. His eyes, dark; his brow furrowed;
body lean and muscular. He walked over next
to me to look at L'Engle, while I moved down slightly
to Miller. I felt electricity leap off him and snap me,
a gravitational pull that drew me near to him without
a single motion. All I had to do was lean toward him,
whisper what I was looking for; maybe he could help.
But I had nothing to say, nothing
at all, so I walked away.
Side note.
I am tired tonight. Spent physically, emotionally, mentally. It's been a good few days, but - at the risk of sounding like the world's biggest pessimist - they remind me that this phase of life is ending. Transition's coming...again.
I took a risk tonight. I gave a packet of all of the things I've written about PNG (good, bad, or mediocre) to each of the team members I went with. I'm not exactly sure why, except I felt like they should read it. It's very vulnerable for me to hand someone a piece I have written. I'm not a professional; I struggle separating criticism from feeling. But this just had to be done. Basically what I did was shove the packet into each of their hands and run away. It's a tension between really wanting to hear what they thing and really wanting the attention and focus to be away from me. Regardless, it's in their hands now. My pieces can leave this shelter to go to the world.
I'm rambling. Gosh, I'm so tired.
I took a risk tonight. I gave a packet of all of the things I've written about PNG (good, bad, or mediocre) to each of the team members I went with. I'm not exactly sure why, except I felt like they should read it. It's very vulnerable for me to hand someone a piece I have written. I'm not a professional; I struggle separating criticism from feeling. But this just had to be done. Basically what I did was shove the packet into each of their hands and run away. It's a tension between really wanting to hear what they thing and really wanting the attention and focus to be away from me. Regardless, it's in their hands now. My pieces can leave this shelter to go to the world.
I'm rambling. Gosh, I'm so tired.
True quote of the day...
"You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair--the sense that you can never completely put on the page what's in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page."
--Stephen King, On Writing
On Writing is one of the best books I've ever read. In fact, it's the only Stephen King book I've ever read, and I've read it at least three times. The last line of this quote I've put on the first page of every single journal I've written in (or meant to write in). "You must not come lightly to the blank page." I've never had a problem with that. I'll sit and stare at a blank piece of lined paper, my pen tapping the table, for minutes that seem like hours. With my eyes, I'll beg my blank computer screen to please fill with these thoughts of mine, somehow, without me having to put myself out there. I am always heavy with possibility when I come to the blank page.
But I find when that page is filled...I feel lighter.
--Stephen King, On Writing
On Writing is one of the best books I've ever read. In fact, it's the only Stephen King book I've ever read, and I've read it at least three times. The last line of this quote I've put on the first page of every single journal I've written in (or meant to write in). "You must not come lightly to the blank page." I've never had a problem with that. I'll sit and stare at a blank piece of lined paper, my pen tapping the table, for minutes that seem like hours. With my eyes, I'll beg my blank computer screen to please fill with these thoughts of mine, somehow, without me having to put myself out there. I am always heavy with possibility when I come to the blank page.
But I find when that page is filled...I feel lighter.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
[Poem#8] A Poem to Help You Clean Out Your Desk, Pt. 2
For J
I noticed right away when he took
down the inspirational eagle picture
that hung with humor on the left-hand
wall. The beginning of the end.
The mirror remained, but he bequeathed
his bamboo screen to my keeping, when the time
came, as we both knew it would.
Next, he gave away Mr. Potato Head dressed
as the Easter Bunny, to an old friend and co-
worker who had a collection. That way, Potato
could be among his people.
Next went the promise of rulers, staplers,
the good red scissors that he wrote his initials on -
JMCS - before he was blindsided by the changes.
And then followed the old university mugs,
the mannequin chests, the Pez dispensers.
The photo frames remained until the end,
as did the mirror and the lamp,
though the files made it home before even the
announcement was made. Call it a cowboy's
intuition. And so bits and pieces remain,
scattered among us faithful followers,
who could not rise to save him in fact,
but by every Pez dispensed or Potato Head
displayed, he remains.
I noticed right away when he took
down the inspirational eagle picture
that hung with humor on the left-hand
wall. The beginning of the end.
The mirror remained, but he bequeathed
his bamboo screen to my keeping, when the time
came, as we both knew it would.
Next, he gave away Mr. Potato Head dressed
as the Easter Bunny, to an old friend and co-
worker who had a collection. That way, Potato
could be among his people.
Next went the promise of rulers, staplers,
the good red scissors that he wrote his initials on -
JMCS - before he was blindsided by the changes.
And then followed the old university mugs,
the mannequin chests, the Pez dispensers.
The photo frames remained until the end,
as did the mirror and the lamp,
though the files made it home before even the
announcement was made. Call it a cowboy's
intuition. And so bits and pieces remain,
scattered among us faithful followers,
who could not rise to save him in fact,
but by every Pez dispensed or Potato Head
displayed, he remains.
[Poem#7] Watching Him Watching Her
Her voice enters before she does,
and his attention is drawn to her
as a fluttering, flying moth is pulled
to the porch light by some unknown
force. Love, perhaps.
No other words enter his ears
as his eyes go aflame, sparking and popping,
taken back in time, by portals and
wormholes. If he could break into song
and dance, he would.
Like a good boy, his eyes
stay above her neck, but I know that his mind
takes stock of her every motion:
the way she stands, the way she walks,
the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts,
how her arms brush her thighs.
And I cannot deny him this moment,
before words are exchanged, and her smile
sets the stage for what is to come. So I stand
and I wait, while his mind is stolen and his
body is accosted by all that she is and could be -
the hope of the possibility.
and his attention is drawn to her
as a fluttering, flying moth is pulled
to the porch light by some unknown
force. Love, perhaps.
No other words enter his ears
as his eyes go aflame, sparking and popping,
taken back in time, by portals and
wormholes. If he could break into song
and dance, he would.
Like a good boy, his eyes
stay above her neck, but I know that his mind
takes stock of her every motion:
the way she stands, the way she walks,
the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts,
how her arms brush her thighs.
And I cannot deny him this moment,
before words are exchanged, and her smile
sets the stage for what is to come. So I stand
and I wait, while his mind is stolen and his
body is accosted by all that she is and could be -
the hope of the possibility.
True quote of the day...
Write while the heat is in you. When the farmer burns a hole in his yoke, he carries the hot iron quickly from the fire to the wood, for every moment it is less effectual to penetrate (pierce) it. It must be used instantly, or it is useless. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.
— Henry David ThoreauOkay, since I haven't read much lately (blame friends, Apple, and Hulu), I'm going for this old quote from HD Thoreau. While I haven't connected much with the fellow in the past, this quote struck me as golden. I find that the longer I wait to write on a topic that strikes me as intriguing, the less interesting and complete my my thoughts on the subject turn out to be. If I could pinpoint one major downturn in my writing life (besides the apathy I fight so strongly against), it would be this: I wait until I cool.
Slacker...
Yeah, I know I've been slacking. Writing daily for five whole days (wowowow!) and then...I miss a day. And then another one. Even this post is being written on Sunday, though it still feels like an extension of a beautiful Saturday. And these last two days without my writing space have been lovely, filled with people and events that may not be available in a little over a week. So I plan to experience them as well as I can in this time that I have. Maybe that doesn't make me a pro, Mr. Pressfield, but that makes me human. Humans need art but humans also need experiences and people to create art about and for.
I just had the loveliest last two days with some of the loveliest people.
Yesterday had work and laughter and donuts and decorating to Backstreet Boys and flowers and preening and screaming in joy and good food and celebration and leaves and Shakespeare under the clouds and talks and hugs and falling asleep during a movie.
Today had sleeping in and lazy morning and baseball and catching up and mac'n'cheese and new computer and sitting together and singing to Company and Powell's and so many books and cute boy in the Christianity section and sitting on the floor of the Pearl Room and Rocco's Pizza and people watching and laughter and reminiscing and a ridiculous movie and brownies.
Good days.
Update: I am writing this on my brand new MacBook. I almost had a panic attack when I bought it because I realized that I actually did buy it and I own it and I committed to this. I'm a little commitment-phobic, but that is a topic for another time. I'm not IN LOVE with it, but I like it well enough. I'm feeling sentimental for my old PC...until I open it, that is. It'll be a transition. Also, I got my waterproof notepad and already put it up with the included suction cups. We'll see how it works. AND I put my voice recorder from PNG in my car, so when I get great ideas while driving I don't have to endanger myself and others by trying to find a piece of scrap paper, find a pen, and try to scribble it down. As for reading, I haven't read much these past few days, but I did get some books at Powell's that I'm stoked about. I got Dickens and Dostoevsky (of course), but I also got a Gerard Manley Hopkins book of poems (writer of my favorite poem "God's Grandeur") and a book about writing poems by Ted Kooser (great poet and former US poet laureate who wrote me a response after I wrote him). So stoked.
Mmm, so this has been a blah blog about nothing in particular. I've started two poems, but seeing how it's almost 1 am and I'm committed to going to church tomorrow, I'm going to call it a night. Forgive me, Mr. Pressfield. I'll be sure to show up and write tomorrow. Until then...
I just had the loveliest last two days with some of the loveliest people.
Yesterday had work and laughter and donuts and decorating to Backstreet Boys and flowers and preening and screaming in joy and good food and celebration and leaves and Shakespeare under the clouds and talks and hugs and falling asleep during a movie.
Today had sleeping in and lazy morning and baseball and catching up and mac'n'cheese and new computer and sitting together and singing to Company and Powell's and so many books and cute boy in the Christianity section and sitting on the floor of the Pearl Room and Rocco's Pizza and people watching and laughter and reminiscing and a ridiculous movie and brownies.
Good days.
Update: I am writing this on my brand new MacBook. I almost had a panic attack when I bought it because I realized that I actually did buy it and I own it and I committed to this. I'm a little commitment-phobic, but that is a topic for another time. I'm not IN LOVE with it, but I like it well enough. I'm feeling sentimental for my old PC...until I open it, that is. It'll be a transition. Also, I got my waterproof notepad and already put it up with the included suction cups. We'll see how it works. AND I put my voice recorder from PNG in my car, so when I get great ideas while driving I don't have to endanger myself and others by trying to find a piece of scrap paper, find a pen, and try to scribble it down. As for reading, I haven't read much these past few days, but I did get some books at Powell's that I'm stoked about. I got Dickens and Dostoevsky (of course), but I also got a Gerard Manley Hopkins book of poems (writer of my favorite poem "God's Grandeur") and a book about writing poems by Ted Kooser (great poet and former US poet laureate who wrote me a response after I wrote him). So stoked.
Mmm, so this has been a blah blog about nothing in particular. I've started two poems, but seeing how it's almost 1 am and I'm committed to going to church tomorrow, I'm going to call it a night. Forgive me, Mr. Pressfield. I'll be sure to show up and write tomorrow. Until then...
Thursday, April 22, 2010
[Poem#6] The Whittler
(this is ridiculously bad and far from being done, but I promised I would try out this subject tonight. it has a poetic weight to it, and I don't think I'm done with it yet, but it needs some work!)
In all the books, the grandpa was
the one who whittled, while sitting on the
front porch that he built with his own two
hands from the trees back behind his cabin.
He took a knife, sharpened by hand, and treated
both his instrument and his art with the utmost
respect. He held the knife carefully, taking
from the piece of wood every milimeter that did
not look like a bear, or a piglet, or an arrowhead.
My grandfathers did not build log cabins, nor did
they whittle with a knife and wood. But they
whittled in other ways: one by acts of service,
the other by the Word of God. And I have begun to
whittle as well, taking words to the porch that
I have built, taking out my tools, and seeing what
I can pull away that does not look like a thesis statement
or a couplet or a rhetorical statement.
In all the books, the grandpa was
the one who whittled, while sitting on the
front porch that he built with his own two
hands from the trees back behind his cabin.
He took a knife, sharpened by hand, and treated
both his instrument and his art with the utmost
respect. He held the knife carefully, taking
from the piece of wood every milimeter that did
not look like a bear, or a piglet, or an arrowhead.
My grandfathers did not build log cabins, nor did
they whittle with a knife and wood. But they
whittled in other ways: one by acts of service,
the other by the Word of God. And I have begun to
whittle as well, taking words to the porch that
I have built, taking out my tools, and seeing what
I can pull away that does not look like a thesis statement
or a couplet or a rhetorical statement.
[Poem#5] A Poem for a Fearful Friend
For JMS
I see it in your eyes
even when they dart from my
face to hide from sight. It's a bright
quickening that flashes a personal Morse code,
shouting for help and safety and a second chance.
I can see it in your mouth
too, when your lips are still
from the lies about being fine.
It's in the tightening of the corners,
the stillness of the curvature, the slight
quiver that is barely noticed and unconstrained.
And it's in your hands,
as they flutter hurriedly through
the air as to wave away the invading
flood. But when they are still, they cannot
be still, buzzing in your lap, shaking slightly.
It is also in your ears,
your nose, your breast, your
thighs, your toenails. I regret to say
I cannot take this monster from your existence.
Even if I had the power, I would not, because without
it, your eyes would not glow. Your mouth would not be still.
Your hands would not rest. This fear you feel now is only a fraction
of what will drive you further into the darkness, only to find you have what you need
to create the light.
I see it in your eyes
even when they dart from my
face to hide from sight. It's a bright
quickening that flashes a personal Morse code,
shouting for help and safety and a second chance.
I can see it in your mouth
too, when your lips are still
from the lies about being fine.
It's in the tightening of the corners,
the stillness of the curvature, the slight
quiver that is barely noticed and unconstrained.
And it's in your hands,
as they flutter hurriedly through
the air as to wave away the invading
flood. But when they are still, they cannot
be still, buzzing in your lap, shaking slightly.
It is also in your ears,
your nose, your breast, your
thighs, your toenails. I regret to say
I cannot take this monster from your existence.
Even if I had the power, I would not, because without
it, your eyes would not glow. Your mouth would not be still.
Your hands would not rest. This fear you feel now is only a fraction
of what will drive you further into the darkness, only to find you have what you need
to create the light.
Ways I'm going to increase productivity...follow-up!
--Order amazing waterproof notepad for the shower, where all of the good words rain down (goal: not to take three hour long showers)
DONE: Ordered, shipped, on their way to me and my flowing creative juices. I hope they work.
--Buy new MacBook with my tax rebate for those coffee shop writing sessions that will (hopefully) lead to some good work, some good confidence, and some good flirting with the barista behind the counter
DONE: I hate buying big budget things, but I'm getting pretty excited. The new toy will arrive this weekend, fingers crossed. I love my PC with all of my heart, but a Mac is going to be good fun. And it's new and shiny! Also, confidence and flirting yet to come.
--Set a weekly time to peruse the Writer's/Poet's Market, to find places for my work to see the light of day
NOT DONE: yet...I did find out Portland center has last year's version of the WM, but no version of the PM. So lunch break times will be difficult. I'm not giving up, especially since I plan to buy the 2011 versions of both when they come out in August.
--Read writers who respect the craft and understand the battle; get to know the professionals
WORKING ON IT: well, I'm still reading Pressfield. That counts.
--Fight Resistance
TRYING.
DONE: Ordered, shipped, on their way to me and my flowing creative juices. I hope they work.
--Buy new MacBook with my tax rebate for those coffee shop writing sessions that will (hopefully) lead to some good work, some good confidence, and some good flirting with the barista behind the counter
DONE: I hate buying big budget things, but I'm getting pretty excited. The new toy will arrive this weekend, fingers crossed. I love my PC with all of my heart, but a Mac is going to be good fun. And it's new and shiny! Also, confidence and flirting yet to come.
--Set a weekly time to peruse the Writer's/Poet's Market, to find places for my work to see the light of day
NOT DONE: yet...I did find out Portland center has last year's version of the WM, but no version of the PM. So lunch break times will be difficult. I'm not giving up, especially since I plan to buy the 2011 versions of both when they come out in August.
--Read writers who respect the craft and understand the battle; get to know the professionals
WORKING ON IT: well, I'm still reading Pressfield. That counts.
--Fight Resistance
TRYING.
True quote of the day...
"As Resistance works to keep us from becoming who we were born to be, equal and opposite powers are counter-poised against it. These are our angels and allies."
-p. 107, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
Yeah, I'm still in the middle of this short book. I love this quote for the last phrase: "angels and allies." There's something in that. A poem or a title...
Honesty time. I gotta admit that I am not in the right place (true story: I just wrote "write place") to write. I just got home from a long day an hour ago, then spent the last 25 minutes in full emotional breakdown mode due to jealousy, fear, and loneliness. Poor roommate had to hear the awful blubbering, and the worst part is? No resolution. I've never been good at living within tension, but I'm finding out life is tension.
I've just got to tap into those opposite powers that are on my side, champions of my cause. I need those angels, those allies, because life is a lonely journey, as is the pursuit of art.
-p. 107, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
Yeah, I'm still in the middle of this short book. I love this quote for the last phrase: "angels and allies." There's something in that. A poem or a title...
Honesty time. I gotta admit that I am not in the right place (true story: I just wrote "write place") to write. I just got home from a long day an hour ago, then spent the last 25 minutes in full emotional breakdown mode due to jealousy, fear, and loneliness. Poor roommate had to hear the awful blubbering, and the worst part is? No resolution. I've never been good at living within tension, but I'm finding out life is tension.
I've just got to tap into those opposite powers that are on my side, champions of my cause. I need those angels, those allies, because life is a lonely journey, as is the pursuit of art.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
[Poem#4] Pig Killing
(Since we're in the PNG mood...)
Pig Killing
The first thwack shimmers through
the Papua New Guinea humidity
and it is surpassed by his screams
that rise over the green palm
trees and kaukau plants.
It’s not over for him, unwilling participant
in a final performance meant to shock me
while proclaiming cultural pride.
The wooden club flies toward its target
and the screams erupt again.
It is almost more than my sheltered
life can take. I come from a place
where my bacon has always been bacon,
bearing no resemblance to the snout \
and hooves it once sported.
But here I am watching my dinner
wail as his wild eyes seek
out the dark eyes of his attacker
and look for sympathy. There is
none. My tears are not welcome here.
Finally the show ends, and the one who walks
upright with the bloodied club smiles,
his teeth stained with the redness
of the buwai plant in an empty face.
My face is empty too.
Later we eat our meal together in
the central clearing of the village,
after the loser has been steamed
underground for eight hours,
light animals and dark animals
slain by our own bestiality.
Pig Killing
The first thwack shimmers through
the Papua New Guinea humidity
and it is surpassed by his screams
that rise over the green palm
trees and kaukau plants.
It’s not over for him, unwilling participant
in a final performance meant to shock me
while proclaiming cultural pride.
The wooden club flies toward its target
and the screams erupt again.
It is almost more than my sheltered
life can take. I come from a place
where my bacon has always been bacon,
bearing no resemblance to the snout \
and hooves it once sported.
But here I am watching my dinner
wail as his wild eyes seek
out the dark eyes of his attacker
and look for sympathy. There is
none. My tears are not welcome here.
Finally the show ends, and the one who walks
upright with the bloodied club smiles,
his teeth stained with the redness
of the buwai plant in an empty face.
My face is empty too.
Later we eat our meal together in
the central clearing of the village,
after the loser has been steamed
underground for eight hours,
light animals and dark animals
slain by our own bestiality.
[Prose#1] Editing
Okay, so I feel like I've cheated a bit. I didn't really do any writing today. But I did edit most of my essays from Papua New Guinea in preparation for a next step. I hadn't looked at them in four months, and it still seemed a little soon, a little fresh for me to go back to them. I still have a lot of emotional baggage to dig through concerning Papua New Guinea. Maybe it'll produce some good art...maybe not.
So anyway, here are some sections from my editing. Perhaps not my best paragraphs, but they're somewhat interesting.
Raw Beauty
My clothes didn’t want to come onto my body again, sticking and pulling with every drop of sweat. Not for the first time since arriving on the island, I cursed this modern age and my Western background. Back home, I was stylistically conservative, sporting t-shirts and walking shorts in warm Oregon weather. In Papua New Guinea, though, how I wished to go nude like the climate demanded! The New Guineans usually covered the crotch area for modesty, but breasts were not culturally sensual in the least. I understand why; being topless in that heat would have been a blessing. But with four American male traveling companions of varying ages – and two who could damage my university GPA – the freedom was a no-go. Granted, too, a certain modicum of modesty was required in our situation and setting. Staying at Martin Luther Seminary in Lae, the only white faces among many dark ones, we already stood out simply by existing.
Davis
His name was Davis. The first time I saw him, he was suddenly perched next to me on a table, watching the students from America perform funny scenes. I didn’t know where this little boy in a brown checkered shirt came from and I didn’t know who he belonged to; at the Seminary where he lived, everyone seemed to claim all of the children, both teasing and loving them like their own. He was silent, either not knowing English or pretending he didn’t. It was hard to distinguish between the two with any of the children, especially a little ten-year-old like Davis. He had seen white people before. Some of them taught at the Seminary where he lived, but I doubt he had seen so many young white people in one place before. I tried to engage him with my broken Pidgin. Nem bilong yu? He just smiled at his swinging shoes, a beaming bright dark face with shining white teeth. The smile made his face erupt into joy, embarrassment, and uncertainty all at once.
Dakis
Dakis is not unfamiliar to everyone on my team. Our leader, a professor at the college, calls her meri bilong mi. My woman. Rhett teases her in Pidgin and she scolds him for his mild flirtation. It is the kind of communication possible because Dakis knew Rhett when he was a little white boy following his teacher father around, and now she is giddy because that boy she remembers is a man. But even those without such history can see Dakis for who she is: a rockstar, says Cyndi, one of my teammates. Dakis walks around Martin Luther Seminary like she owns the campus, not unearned haughtiness but instead an ownership born out of years of living with and through a place. Martin Luther Seminary is her home.
Wendy
My team begins to work with the children and teens outdoors, playing theatre games and drawing them out of their shells. I step back to watch, and I find myself on the stairs next to Wendy Bailey. Wendy’s Northern Irish dark eyes snap with intelligence and passion. Her shoulder-length dark hair is plain and pretty, offset by her pink button-up shirt and long jean skirt. Her manner of speaking delights my ears– the lilt of her voice, her evident passion, and the way she uses my name over and over again as she speaks. I feel like she is talking to me and only me. This woman is beautiful and vibrant, absolutely beside herself happy to watch her New Guinean children have so much fun with these visitors.
So anyway, here are some sections from my editing. Perhaps not my best paragraphs, but they're somewhat interesting.
Raw Beauty
My clothes didn’t want to come onto my body again, sticking and pulling with every drop of sweat. Not for the first time since arriving on the island, I cursed this modern age and my Western background. Back home, I was stylistically conservative, sporting t-shirts and walking shorts in warm Oregon weather. In Papua New Guinea, though, how I wished to go nude like the climate demanded! The New Guineans usually covered the crotch area for modesty, but breasts were not culturally sensual in the least. I understand why; being topless in that heat would have been a blessing. But with four American male traveling companions of varying ages – and two who could damage my university GPA – the freedom was a no-go. Granted, too, a certain modicum of modesty was required in our situation and setting. Staying at Martin Luther Seminary in Lae, the only white faces among many dark ones, we already stood out simply by existing.
Davis
His name was Davis. The first time I saw him, he was suddenly perched next to me on a table, watching the students from America perform funny scenes. I didn’t know where this little boy in a brown checkered shirt came from and I didn’t know who he belonged to; at the Seminary where he lived, everyone seemed to claim all of the children, both teasing and loving them like their own. He was silent, either not knowing English or pretending he didn’t. It was hard to distinguish between the two with any of the children, especially a little ten-year-old like Davis. He had seen white people before. Some of them taught at the Seminary where he lived, but I doubt he had seen so many young white people in one place before. I tried to engage him with my broken Pidgin. Nem bilong yu? He just smiled at his swinging shoes, a beaming bright dark face with shining white teeth. The smile made his face erupt into joy, embarrassment, and uncertainty all at once.
Dakis
Dakis is not unfamiliar to everyone on my team. Our leader, a professor at the college, calls her meri bilong mi. My woman. Rhett teases her in Pidgin and she scolds him for his mild flirtation. It is the kind of communication possible because Dakis knew Rhett when he was a little white boy following his teacher father around, and now she is giddy because that boy she remembers is a man. But even those without such history can see Dakis for who she is: a rockstar, says Cyndi, one of my teammates. Dakis walks around Martin Luther Seminary like she owns the campus, not unearned haughtiness but instead an ownership born out of years of living with and through a place. Martin Luther Seminary is her home.
Wendy
My team begins to work with the children and teens outdoors, playing theatre games and drawing them out of their shells. I step back to watch, and I find myself on the stairs next to Wendy Bailey. Wendy’s Northern Irish dark eyes snap with intelligence and passion. Her shoulder-length dark hair is plain and pretty, offset by her pink button-up shirt and long jean skirt. Her manner of speaking delights my ears– the lilt of her voice, her evident passion, and the way she uses my name over and over again as she speaks. I feel like she is talking to me and only me. This woman is beautiful and vibrant, absolutely beside herself happy to watch her New Guinean children have so much fun with these visitors.
True quote of the day...
"If Resistance couldn't be beaten, there would be no Fifth Symphony, no Romeo and Juliet, no Golden Gate Bridge. Defeating Resistance is like giving birth. It seems absolutely impossible until you remember that women have been pulling it off successfully, with support and without, for fifty million years."
-p. 57, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
My roommate is going to be a labor and delivery nurse. We've been talking (read: she's been talking, I've been pretending to be busy tidying up and unaffected by what she's saying) a lot about childbirth lately. And it does seem impossible, but apparently it happens. I mean, I'm here. So are you.
The same goes for creation.
-p. 57, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
My roommate is going to be a labor and delivery nurse. We've been talking (read: she's been talking, I've been pretending to be busy tidying up and unaffected by what she's saying) a lot about childbirth lately. And it does seem impossible, but apparently it happens. I mean, I'm here. So are you.
The same goes for creation.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
[ProsePoem#1] Ioanna
(the challenge levied by my poetry group: a prose poem. Since I don't really care for/believe in prose poems, I can't tell you if I succeeded.)
There is only one picture of him among the hundreds that freeze the dipping palm trees, the rocking grasses, the swaying people. A fellow American traveler sneakily took the shot of us saying good-bye just beyond the Papua New Guinea customs desk. The flash did not go off, though, and so now, a year later, all that is visible is a foggy version of me: pink lips wide, eyes cast down demurely, and white face shining both from the New Guinea humidity and the attention. In the photo, his features are indeterminable, his dark face blending into the shadows of the background. All I can remember are his white teeth, the tribal tattoo imprinted on his arm, and that I’ve never been looked at like that in all my life. Because, for once, in the eyes of another, I was exotic. Foreign. Beautiful.
I met him over the Pacific Ocean, in that halfway space between here and there. I felt his gaze as soon as I sunk into the gray leather seats of the Air Niugini aircraft. He let me sit by the window when he heard it was my first trip to his island, and he was pleased by my nervous anticipation. With his quiet voice, just barely audible above the jet engine, he was eager to share stories of his tropical home and the tribal beauty that lay within. I said told him we were going to meet a village, and he smiled, a silent smile with bright teeth, before saying they would paint my face. I could see through his eyes the delight of this white girl in the clothes of his ancestors.
On a whim, I asked for advice, and he told me, do not be afraid. I could see he was his country, and so was asking me to not be afraid of him. I smiled and responded, I will not be afraid, and the look of his white teeth gleaming through his lips is the only picture I have of him now.
There is only one picture of him among the hundreds that freeze the dipping palm trees, the rocking grasses, the swaying people. A fellow American traveler sneakily took the shot of us saying good-bye just beyond the Papua New Guinea customs desk. The flash did not go off, though, and so now, a year later, all that is visible is a foggy version of me: pink lips wide, eyes cast down demurely, and white face shining both from the New Guinea humidity and the attention. In the photo, his features are indeterminable, his dark face blending into the shadows of the background. All I can remember are his white teeth, the tribal tattoo imprinted on his arm, and that I’ve never been looked at like that in all my life. Because, for once, in the eyes of another, I was exotic. Foreign. Beautiful.
I met him over the Pacific Ocean, in that halfway space between here and there. I felt his gaze as soon as I sunk into the gray leather seats of the Air Niugini aircraft. He let me sit by the window when he heard it was my first trip to his island, and he was pleased by my nervous anticipation. With his quiet voice, just barely audible above the jet engine, he was eager to share stories of his tropical home and the tribal beauty that lay within. I said told him we were going to meet a village, and he smiled, a silent smile with bright teeth, before saying they would paint my face. I could see through his eyes the delight of this white girl in the clothes of his ancestors.
On a whim, I asked for advice, and he told me, do not be afraid. I could see he was his country, and so was asking me to not be afraid of him. I smiled and responded, I will not be afraid, and the look of his white teeth gleaming through his lips is the only picture I have of him now.
[Poem#3] Tarmac Miracles
(I feel like this might be better as prose…and it's FAR TOO LONG)
I.
I rarely am a spectator to the rising
of the sun, but today I had no choice.
I drove through the fog to the departure
gate and, two hours later, emerged
onto the tarmac in the pale light
of new morning. Fog had been burned
away by the licking fingers of the sun,
and it flickered in glee as it rose over
the mountain. Warmed to see my old
friend, I waited, with others, on the stairs
outside a too-small airplane to visit a place
without mountains. The air was cold,
but see-through, clearly, freshly morning.
I often forget that I like how the morning
flames with possibilities.
II.
Another plane took off with a rushing roar
as we stood on a nearby runway. Conversation
ceased, heads turned in awe to watch
the miracle of flight, the sound, the fury
of modern travel. Moments later, we entered our
own plane and promptly forgot.
III.
The man in front of me, with short curly
dreadlocks, really should have checked
the luggage he’s carrying: his guitar.
Instead, it goes on the plane, on a packed-
out flight. The cheery attendant tries to help
shove the instrument into an overhead bin,
but it’s just a little too thick, with the case.
I see a slight concern wrinkle the space
between his deep eyes and I understand.
On our crowded flight, only two seats
are unclaimed – one next to him, 14D,
one next to me, 15C.
So he sits by his guitar, carefully strapping
it into a seat belt that hugs its curvy body,
at peace with his lovely companion.
My seat remains unfilled,
(save for a magazine tossed carelessly
over after finishing the final page.)
I.
I rarely am a spectator to the rising
of the sun, but today I had no choice.
I drove through the fog to the departure
gate and, two hours later, emerged
onto the tarmac in the pale light
of new morning. Fog had been burned
away by the licking fingers of the sun,
and it flickered in glee as it rose over
the mountain. Warmed to see my old
friend, I waited, with others, on the stairs
outside a too-small airplane to visit a place
without mountains. The air was cold,
but see-through, clearly, freshly morning.
I often forget that I like how the morning
flames with possibilities.
II.
Another plane took off with a rushing roar
as we stood on a nearby runway. Conversation
ceased, heads turned in awe to watch
the miracle of flight, the sound, the fury
of modern travel. Moments later, we entered our
own plane and promptly forgot.
III.
The man in front of me, with short curly
dreadlocks, really should have checked
the luggage he’s carrying: his guitar.
Instead, it goes on the plane, on a packed-
out flight. The cheery attendant tries to help
shove the instrument into an overhead bin,
but it’s just a little too thick, with the case.
I see a slight concern wrinkle the space
between his deep eyes and I understand.
On our crowded flight, only two seats
are unclaimed – one next to him, 14D,
one next to me, 15C.
So he sits by his guitar, carefully strapping
it into a seat belt that hugs its curvy body,
at peace with his lovely companion.
My seat remains unfilled,
(save for a magazine tossed carelessly
over after finishing the final page.)
Ways I'm going to increase productivity...
--Order amazing waterproof notepad for the shower, where all of the good words rain down (goal: not to take three hour long showers)
--Buy new MacBook with my tax rebate for those coffee shop writing sessions that will (hopefully) lead to some good work, some good confidence, and some good flirting with the barista behind the counter
--Set a weekly time to peruse the Writer's/Poet's Market, to find places for my work to see the light of day
--Read writers who respect the craft and understand the battle; get to know the professionals
--Fight Resistance
--Buy new MacBook with my tax rebate for those coffee shop writing sessions that will (hopefully) lead to some good work, some good confidence, and some good flirting with the barista behind the counter
--Set a weekly time to peruse the Writer's/Poet's Market, to find places for my work to see the light of day
--Read writers who respect the craft and understand the battle; get to know the professionals
--Fight Resistance
True quote of the day...
"The amateur, underestimating Resistance's cunning, permits the flu to keep him from his chapters; he believes the serpent's voice in his head that says mailing off that manuscript is more important than doing the day's work.
The professional has learned better. He respects Resistance. He knows if he caves in today, no matter how plausible the pretext, he'll be twice as likely to cave in tomorrow.
The professional knows that Resistance is like a telemarketer; if you so much as say hello, you're finished. The pro doesn't even pick up the phone. He stays at work."
-p. 80, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
I have a tummyache tonight. My head is pounding. And I'm super tired. BUT. I'm still going to show up. Maybe all that I write will be crap. Maybe tomorrow I'll be ashamed of those words. But at least I did my work. It's how habits are formed.
The professional has learned better. He respects Resistance. He knows if he caves in today, no matter how plausible the pretext, he'll be twice as likely to cave in tomorrow.
The professional knows that Resistance is like a telemarketer; if you so much as say hello, you're finished. The pro doesn't even pick up the phone. He stays at work."
-p. 80, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
I have a tummyache tonight. My head is pounding. And I'm super tired. BUT. I'm still going to show up. Maybe all that I write will be crap. Maybe tomorrow I'll be ashamed of those words. But at least I did my work. It's how habits are formed.
Monday, April 19, 2010
[Poem#2] Kinship
Today I realized life is such: that
each beetle that crawls up on my knee
is my sister, though not in the way
that some believe but in a truer sense.
As she comes and crawls, and I gently brush her
back, to keep from crushing her when I shift,
she comes again, determined to go where
she deems best. And she will live
and die, as she continues to crawl, to go,
to move. Resiliency, my sister the beetle.
each beetle that crawls up on my knee
is my sister, though not in the way
that some believe but in a truer sense.
As she comes and crawls, and I gently brush her
back, to keep from crushing her when I shift,
she comes again, determined to go where
she deems best. And she will live
and die, as she continues to crawl, to go,
to move. Resiliency, my sister the beetle.
[Poem#1] A Poem to Help You Clean Out Your Desk
(for J, C, J, D, & J)
It's a word that means you move
the lamp you love from the coffee
table to the mantle, then switch
the sofa around so it faces the fireplace,
not the sliding glass door.
Or it means moving your spice rack
from the third shelf of the pantry
to the second, so it can be eye
level, or the tool box from the corner
behind the lawn mower to right next
to the shoe rack, so you can pound
in nails with a hammer, not a tennis shoe.
It shouldn't mean that couch crushing
you against the taupe wall, the spices
making your stomach sick, the hammer
pounding in your head, while the man
with dull eyes seated across from you
tells you he's sorry, but they're
reorganizing.
It's a word that means you move
the lamp you love from the coffee
table to the mantle, then switch
the sofa around so it faces the fireplace,
not the sliding glass door.
Or it means moving your spice rack
from the third shelf of the pantry
to the second, so it can be eye
level, or the tool box from the corner
behind the lawn mower to right next
to the shoe rack, so you can pound
in nails with a hammer, not a tennis shoe.
It shouldn't mean that couch crushing
you against the taupe wall, the spices
making your stomach sick, the hammer
pounding in your head, while the man
with dull eyes seated across from you
tells you he's sorry, but they're
reorganizing.
True quote of the day...
"The more you love your art/calling enterprise, the more important its accomplishment is to the evolution of your soul, the more you will fear it and the more Resistance you will experience facing it." - p. 73, The War of Art, Steven Pressfield
Ah, and it sounds hopeless, but Pressfield's point is that too much love creates too much pressure/anxiety/fear of failure. Instead, be a professional. Do your work. Absorb the criticism, learn from it, don't take it as a blow to your very being. Do the work that you need to do. That you were created to do.
I'm not very good at this. But I'm trying.
Ah, and it sounds hopeless, but Pressfield's point is that too much love creates too much pressure/anxiety/fear of failure. Instead, be a professional. Do your work. Absorb the criticism, learn from it, don't take it as a blow to your very being. Do the work that you need to do. That you were created to do.
I'm not very good at this. But I'm trying.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
two years later...
I started this blog two years ago, and proceeded to write a single post about nothing in particular.
Well, here I try again.
I've been reading about Resistance and how it keeps me from creating, from feeding my spirit. And I'm tired of my 9-6 job sucking all of my energy and stifling my art.
This last week has been total and utter shit, and I say that word so rarely that it actually means something in this case. My emotions have been run ragged, my heart has been torn, and the shaky stability I've tried to create for myself has been demolished in one fell swoop.
It's times like these that I need words. I need to put my thoughts out into the ether in hopes that someone will hear them. And I need to create good art, because that's what makes me feel.
It's far too late. I have to work early tomorrow, and I'll get not-enough sleep tonight. But Resistance loves excuses, and Resistance loves tomorrows, and I've decided to - for once in my life - to fight for something.
Hence the blog. The anti-establishment part of me feels that blogs are passe, that they are too mainstream, that they are too overindulgent and prevalent. But so what? If it helps me to write, then it's doing its job.
So let's see what happens! I don't write very well when I don't have accountability, so we'll see what this does. Maybe my thoughts tomorrow will have some more coherence...though I guess technically it is almost tomorrow.
Do journey with me, if you feel a hankering. I would enjoy some company.
Well, here I try again.
I've been reading about Resistance and how it keeps me from creating, from feeding my spirit. And I'm tired of my 9-6 job sucking all of my energy and stifling my art.
This last week has been total and utter shit, and I say that word so rarely that it actually means something in this case. My emotions have been run ragged, my heart has been torn, and the shaky stability I've tried to create for myself has been demolished in one fell swoop.
It's times like these that I need words. I need to put my thoughts out into the ether in hopes that someone will hear them. And I need to create good art, because that's what makes me feel.
It's far too late. I have to work early tomorrow, and I'll get not-enough sleep tonight. But Resistance loves excuses, and Resistance loves tomorrows, and I've decided to - for once in my life - to fight for something.
Hence the blog. The anti-establishment part of me feels that blogs are passe, that they are too mainstream, that they are too overindulgent and prevalent. But so what? If it helps me to write, then it's doing its job.
So let's see what happens! I don't write very well when I don't have accountability, so we'll see what this does. Maybe my thoughts tomorrow will have some more coherence...though I guess technically it is almost tomorrow.
Do journey with me, if you feel a hankering. I would enjoy some company.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)