I was supposed to be driving down the Eastern Seaboard today. But the potential threat of ice and the fact that my car is still covered with snow is keeping me here. Hopefully I will be out and about and on the road headed south tomorrow.
So I figured I'd spend today thinking about this year, this 2008. This is possibly my last day in New York City in 2008, and what a ride it has been.
Because I'm a dork and like reviewing things, I'll do a bit of a recap:
January -- I remember coming back from my Christmas holiday in SC and sitting with my old friend in her Brooklyn apartment, and saying, "I feel like I need to celebrate this new year." They looked at me crazy. I said, "I mean, I feel like this year is going to be big." So we celebrated. I started a new job teaching high schoolers and mentoring and educating learners in NYC. AWP was in NYC. I celebrated my birthday with a huge Cave Canem reading. I remember folks seeing me there and multiple times people telling me, "You have this glow about you", and one friend saying "After all you've been through, you must be about to be handed something big."
February -- I don't really remember much about February. I was hanging deep with this fellow that I liked, but probably shouldn't have liked. But I was living and working. The end of February, I got this call to put my manuscript back into the world.
March -- The end of March I hit a valley. Progress happens like that. You get knocked down so then you have nothing else to do but to build yourself back up. I remember having a conversation with a friend. I was in tears. But I said -- "I have this feeling in my gut that after all of this, I'm about to be handed something great"
April -- Rough patch coping with the fellow. I remember feeling underappreciated at work. I remember resigning and preparing myself to head back to South Carolina. I was building a life there, getting ready to abandon the Northeast and all of it's issues. Then I had my review, and realized all of my hard work was being recognized. I got the raise I desired. I went home for a week, and the prize announcement for the competition my manuscript was entered into was the same week I was home. I was able to go there and be in the presence of Elizabeth Alexander when she announced that she picked my book as the winner.
May -- What I remember most about May is the euphoria of knowing my writing will be in the world in a big way soon. I remember thinking, maybe I should stick NYC out. I remember writing in my journal: "I want to conquer NYC"...and I changed my mindset of being on the defense to being on the offense, and a whole world opened up as soon as I changed my mind about how I would be interacting with this city.
June -- I moved into my "impossible" apartment in NYC. In a conversation I had with a friend last week, he commented, "You sure have a lot of boundaries for things you want." And it was sort of off-handed, like, how dare you keep saying "I don't want this" etc etc. And then I thought about it, and I agreed. And I said, "That's the only way I get exactly what I want." I remember thinking, "If I were to move into NYC, I want to live in Manhattan, I don't want to pay a certain amount of money, I don't want to live with a complete stranger, I want to live in Harlem, and I don't want to look for the apartment." I call it the impossible apartment, because that seems like an impossible feat. A friend called me to ask what would keep me in the city. I told her exactly what I wanted and didn't want. She said, "My roommate is moving out, and I wanted you to be the first to know." So I moved into my impossible apartment...which had everything I wanted.
Also in June, I started Bikram Yoga, which, changed my life. I finished my last year as a Cave Canem Fellow. And walked into the world.
July -- All of July was spent in isolation. I spent the month in Connecticut at the Soul Mountain retreat, writing and sleeping and dreaming.
August -- was interesting because I was in this weird place where I wasn't sure when work would start back up, and I had just taken two months off without pay and was still paying to live in a NYC apartment. I spent a lot of time in my apartment writing and sending work out and preparing myself. My wise friend said, when I was worried that I was deteriorating, that, "I think it's smart. You are resting up before your book comes out. I wish I had done that."
Sept--October. I don't really remember too many specific things about this period except, I decided that I needed mini vacations away from the city. I spent many sundays upstate or away or just out and about not really worrying or doing anything of any importance. Getting to know friends on a deeper level. There was the Election frenzy and worry about the results, and getting frustrated at "friends" comments and postings and trying to figure out how they will factor into my life after November. I bought a bed in October, and realized that act was prooving that I was settling into, taking on the city. A lot of things went crazy for a bit after that.
But maybe I should take my lessons from Bikram Yoga. It's the only yoga I've practiced, really. But I remember when I first started and committed myself, there were positions that I could not do, indeed, they were painful. But you're taught to breathe through the discomfort, and soon enough your body will adjust and you'll feel this click, and somehow I can make my forehead touch my knee while standing up, or make my body bend in almost a 90 degree angle to the right or left. So. What I mean by all of this, is that, I had to breathe through the hard, uncomfortable stuff. And here I am, doing what I thought I never could do.
November -- election, thanksgiving. I met a new friend, which caused me to stretch my boundaries, and apply what i want and don't want to personal relationships. I decided in that month, too, to stop self-sabotaging my life, and get my act together and apply to grad school again. I spent that month still in tears, still trying to wrap my mind around this life I'm in right now, and prepare for my book in the Spring.
December -- I decided that I don't have time in my life for sadness. Again, taking the offense on your life totally changes your perspective and how you deal with things. Immediately I found some happiness. I did much celebrating before I turned in my application to grad school, and that took away some of the edge, some of the fret. No matter what happens, it's the offensive play that makes me proud. And here I am, at the end of the year, and so excited...sooo excited about 2009, I can hardly contain myself.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The Alchemist
After Sunday's celebration, I decided on Monday that I still needed to celebrate. That is, the day before I take the GRE. I went to my friend's house (the person who I started these "celebrations with") and we ate dinner then popped a bottle of champagne and toasted the things we want to see happen soon.
She has been reading Paulo Coelho books for some time now. You should know this is significant because she is not a reader! So anyways. This other book I've been reading mentioned "The Alchemist" a couple of times and then someone else around me talked about it, so I figured it was time for me to check it out. That's how I discover some things -- if it is brought to my attention from separate worlds, then I figure there is some importance on it in my life and I should investigate it. So I asked my friend while I was at her house if I could borrow her book. She agreed. I rode the local train from brooklyn to harlem and read. The next morning I had to go back to brooklyn for the GRE. I read the book down, and back up and finished it last night. So basically a day and a train ride later.
It's an interesting book. It's called "a story about following your dreams" and in a way, that is exactly what it is. It was perfect for me to read it at this juncture in my life....in this cross between straddling uncertainty and just flinging myself into the wind and see what happens. Or, like an earlier post, taking to the sky and taking my traveling hints from the birds. Animals seem to know much more about life and living than I think we give them credit for. The Alchemist highlights that same sentiment -- showing that we over look the powers in the natural world to teach us what we need to know about living and life.
She has been reading Paulo Coelho books for some time now. You should know this is significant because she is not a reader! So anyways. This other book I've been reading mentioned "The Alchemist" a couple of times and then someone else around me talked about it, so I figured it was time for me to check it out. That's how I discover some things -- if it is brought to my attention from separate worlds, then I figure there is some importance on it in my life and I should investigate it. So I asked my friend while I was at her house if I could borrow her book. She agreed. I rode the local train from brooklyn to harlem and read. The next morning I had to go back to brooklyn for the GRE. I read the book down, and back up and finished it last night. So basically a day and a train ride later.
It's an interesting book. It's called "a story about following your dreams" and in a way, that is exactly what it is. It was perfect for me to read it at this juncture in my life....in this cross between straddling uncertainty and just flinging myself into the wind and see what happens. Or, like an earlier post, taking to the sky and taking my traveling hints from the birds. Animals seem to know much more about life and living than I think we give them credit for. The Alchemist highlights that same sentiment -- showing that we over look the powers in the natural world to teach us what we need to know about living and life.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Won't You Celebrate With Me?
Won't You Celebrate With Meby Lucille Clifton
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
This is an oft-quoted poem. But I never get tired of it, ever. I believe in its message. Especially the end "come celebrate/with me that everyday/something has tried to kill me/and has failed." Considering the last couple of weeks, considering the last couple of battles I've had with self and career and purpose...Those words really hit home.
There's this thing I started at the beginning of the year. I had just come back from a couple of weeks at home and felt a little weary about my future in the Northeast, and what work I was going to be doing, and about writing and life. I decided that in 2008 my motto would be "It's a new year and I'm a grown ass woman." I also remember this one night at a friend's house in Brooklyn, I got this feeling to celebrate. I was like, "I feel like we should celebrate in advance what this year is going to bring". They kind of looked at me like I was crazy. And nodded their head. I said, "I think this is going to be an amazing year and I should just celebrate in advance."
So, that's what I did. I celebrated. And things in a lot of ways just sort of fell into place. So I continued that tradition and found reason to celebrate, and often...and blessings just kept coming.
Today I'm having some friends over to "celebrate"....sort of close out the year, celebrate people in my life...celebrate the gifts we're about to receive and open up the new 2009 year, which I feel is going to be even more amazing than this one. Yep.
Won't you celebrate with me today?
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
This is an oft-quoted poem. But I never get tired of it, ever. I believe in its message. Especially the end "come celebrate/with me that everyday/something has tried to kill me/and has failed." Considering the last couple of weeks, considering the last couple of battles I've had with self and career and purpose...Those words really hit home.
There's this thing I started at the beginning of the year. I had just come back from a couple of weeks at home and felt a little weary about my future in the Northeast, and what work I was going to be doing, and about writing and life. I decided that in 2008 my motto would be "It's a new year and I'm a grown ass woman." I also remember this one night at a friend's house in Brooklyn, I got this feeling to celebrate. I was like, "I feel like we should celebrate in advance what this year is going to bring". They kind of looked at me like I was crazy. And nodded their head. I said, "I think this is going to be an amazing year and I should just celebrate in advance."
So, that's what I did. I celebrated. And things in a lot of ways just sort of fell into place. So I continued that tradition and found reason to celebrate, and often...and blessings just kept coming.
Today I'm having some friends over to "celebrate"....sort of close out the year, celebrate people in my life...celebrate the gifts we're about to receive and open up the new 2009 year, which I feel is going to be even more amazing than this one. Yep.
Won't you celebrate with me today?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
final stretch
these next two weeks will test me in many ways. i am planning on sending off my packet of stuff for grad school tomorrow. next tuesday i take my GRE exam. i am supposed to be grading 32 papers of high school persuasive essays and prepare to head south - finally - for the winter. it's like i'm migrating or something
maybe i am. maybe we should take our living and movements from the birds. they move on instinct. they move when it's time to move. i like watching bodies of birds fly. in the city, it's an interesting thing to watch. the high buildings create this kind of circular air, and sometimes, you'll find the birds moving and switching left and right, gliding and switching between the buildings above the streets. they turn and turn and don't run into each other. they turn and turn and at some point there is a movement and they fly out and on and still together, still in formation.
or like how they know when to go south when the north gets rough, and so on. they just know. they don't have books and timetables to follow. they can't get weather forecasts on their mobile devices. they just feel it, in the air. and they move accordingly.
i used to say my own movement was like a dandelion spur/spore. the kind when the dandelion changes to the white ball of seeds. i used to make wishes on them. i don't remember any of the wishes, but i knew that if you picked one up and blew it and could blow the whole thing off in one breath, your wish would come true. my life was one of those spores blown into the world by someone else's wishes, i used to think. but now, i like the idea of the birds and their intuition. their movement...how the gull comes inland when a storm approaches. how they pick up disparate parts to build their nest. innovative and knowing. they do it by feeling.
i would like to live less calculated like that. just feeling my way through.
maybe i am. maybe we should take our living and movements from the birds. they move on instinct. they move when it's time to move. i like watching bodies of birds fly. in the city, it's an interesting thing to watch. the high buildings create this kind of circular air, and sometimes, you'll find the birds moving and switching left and right, gliding and switching between the buildings above the streets. they turn and turn and don't run into each other. they turn and turn and at some point there is a movement and they fly out and on and still together, still in formation.
or like how they know when to go south when the north gets rough, and so on. they just know. they don't have books and timetables to follow. they can't get weather forecasts on their mobile devices. they just feel it, in the air. and they move accordingly.
i used to say my own movement was like a dandelion spur/spore. the kind when the dandelion changes to the white ball of seeds. i used to make wishes on them. i don't remember any of the wishes, but i knew that if you picked one up and blew it and could blow the whole thing off in one breath, your wish would come true. my life was one of those spores blown into the world by someone else's wishes, i used to think. but now, i like the idea of the birds and their intuition. their movement...how the gull comes inland when a storm approaches. how they pick up disparate parts to build their nest. innovative and knowing. they do it by feeling.
i would like to live less calculated like that. just feeling my way through.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Workshop
Saturday a great friend of mine celebrated the launch of her book, Canticle of Idols. You should buy it on Amazon.com right now.
I read Saturday with other poets to help push the work into the world. It was a great time. A new friend came and was able to see what I do. I was able to be who I am becoming.
Also on Saturday night I was asked to lead a workshop on Sunday. The Acentos Foundation holds these weekly workshops in east Harlem. They are free and open to the public. They have some amazing people coming through weekly. The person scheduled for Sunday canceled and I was asked to fill in. I agreed.
This meant, however, that I had to come up with a 2 hour workshop. I didn't make it home until 1:30am and needed to leave my apartment by 10:30a to make it to the east side by bus with a few minutes to prepare. Lucky for me, I bought this book on a whim. It's called "One year to a writing life". Granted, it doesn't have the kind of words I need at this juncture in my career, it did, however, have snippets here and there that I could splice and mix into a workshop.
I couldn't decided between Odes or Prose Poems. I printed out poems for both. But I decided to go with a workshop on Odes. I wrote down my plan on the bus over there, and said a little prayer that it would go over well, and my! The poems produced in those 2 hours were amazing. I was so happy to be a midwife to these babies.
I came home and decided I need to start building more. My empire. I typed up the plan. I will probably type up other plans.
I am also thinking about other ways (like last post) to create my writing footprint on the world. This includes taking a big leap from a former teacher who said that poets can't just be poets in this day. While preparing to send off grad school applications, I have been writing some prose - in addition to the book reviews - and hope to find homes for this new body of work as well.
I read Saturday with other poets to help push the work into the world. It was a great time. A new friend came and was able to see what I do. I was able to be who I am becoming.
Also on Saturday night I was asked to lead a workshop on Sunday. The Acentos Foundation holds these weekly workshops in east Harlem. They are free and open to the public. They have some amazing people coming through weekly. The person scheduled for Sunday canceled and I was asked to fill in. I agreed.
This meant, however, that I had to come up with a 2 hour workshop. I didn't make it home until 1:30am and needed to leave my apartment by 10:30a to make it to the east side by bus with a few minutes to prepare. Lucky for me, I bought this book on a whim. It's called "One year to a writing life". Granted, it doesn't have the kind of words I need at this juncture in my career, it did, however, have snippets here and there that I could splice and mix into a workshop.
I couldn't decided between Odes or Prose Poems. I printed out poems for both. But I decided to go with a workshop on Odes. I wrote down my plan on the bus over there, and said a little prayer that it would go over well, and my! The poems produced in those 2 hours were amazing. I was so happy to be a midwife to these babies.
I came home and decided I need to start building more. My empire. I typed up the plan. I will probably type up other plans.
I am also thinking about other ways (like last post) to create my writing footprint on the world. This includes taking a big leap from a former teacher who said that poets can't just be poets in this day. While preparing to send off grad school applications, I have been writing some prose - in addition to the book reviews - and hope to find homes for this new body of work as well.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Book Reviews
I am learning that the best way to make a poetic footprint in the world is not only through publishing poetry. Well, I knew that a while ago. A mentor said so. But you refuse to acknowledge that poetry cannot feed you. You're like: fiction writers get paid to just write fiction. Then you just sound like a whiny writer who is unhappy with your lot. Maybe I am. Maybe I want the world to be like it was in the old days. When poetry mattered. Not to say poetry doesn't matter. It does. Of course it does. But what I mean is, when people could live off of their poetry. When people were sponsored by the state and governments and monarchies and officials to write poetry...for the people.
Anyways. It's not like writing book reviews is a chore. Well, it can be. Some places want you to be "objective" -- meaning, they want you to find something bad about a poetry book to say. I don't know that I think that is fair...a mentor of mine who writes several poetry books a month says he only writes book reviews for books he likes. Which is fair -- why would you intentionally put bad vibes out into the world? Especially if you are a poet yourself and someone may or will have the opportunity to review your book. Isn't the purpose of book reviews to say: hey, this book is out there...here's my take on it...see for yourself? That's what I believe they are for. They are exposure for the book/author being reviewed, and maybe even the reviewer.
Maybe it's like karma: I review your book and you review mine?
Anyways. I am writing this review....I hope to finish it tomorrow. It only needs to be about 500 words. I have a magazine ready and waiting. Which is, too, exciting.
Onward --
Anyways. It's not like writing book reviews is a chore. Well, it can be. Some places want you to be "objective" -- meaning, they want you to find something bad about a poetry book to say. I don't know that I think that is fair...a mentor of mine who writes several poetry books a month says he only writes book reviews for books he likes. Which is fair -- why would you intentionally put bad vibes out into the world? Especially if you are a poet yourself and someone may or will have the opportunity to review your book. Isn't the purpose of book reviews to say: hey, this book is out there...here's my take on it...see for yourself? That's what I believe they are for. They are exposure for the book/author being reviewed, and maybe even the reviewer.
Maybe it's like karma: I review your book and you review mine?
Anyways. I am writing this review....I hope to finish it tomorrow. It only needs to be about 500 words. I have a magazine ready and waiting. Which is, too, exciting.
Onward --
sieve
i love that word. i don't know why. it sounds almost like it's job.
today, i'm going to go through my poems with a dear, dear friend of mine and figure out which ones i am using to apply to graduate school(s). I need to narrow down about 40ish poems to 10. crazy, huh? that's why you ask a friend to help you.
i am currently re-reading ross gay's _against which_ and honoree fannone jeffer's _red clay suite_. it is here i am learning about rethinking the narratives and stories we tell in our poetry books. i am preparing _cartographer_ to send out again nearing the end or middle of december.
my looming loneliness has served as a sieve to figure out what people i really need in my life. it has been a hard process, filtering. but necessary. some people in your life actually do you harm, i'm learning. even if their intentions seem good. what may feel or what you may think feels good is actually stripping you away, down to nothing, down to the exposed nerve. some people are like candy to teeth. you're happy and happy until you have to get a root canal, and you'd wished you hadn't eaten so much in the first place -- but the damage is too deep, too far gone to take any of it back.
*sneeze #3 in the last hour*
i'm looking forward, i think, to some time away from this schedule i keep. some friends are coming into town for thanksgiving...and we're going to my friend's sister's house to eat and drink and be merry. hopefully things are fine. i believe they will be. but i miss my family. i miss cooking half of the thanksgiving meal myself. i miss eating and sleeping and getting up to eat again.
next thanksgiving i'm not spending it away.
today, i'm going to go through my poems with a dear, dear friend of mine and figure out which ones i am using to apply to graduate school(s). I need to narrow down about 40ish poems to 10. crazy, huh? that's why you ask a friend to help you.
i am currently re-reading ross gay's _against which_ and honoree fannone jeffer's _red clay suite_. it is here i am learning about rethinking the narratives and stories we tell in our poetry books. i am preparing _cartographer_ to send out again nearing the end or middle of december.
my looming loneliness has served as a sieve to figure out what people i really need in my life. it has been a hard process, filtering. but necessary. some people in your life actually do you harm, i'm learning. even if their intentions seem good. what may feel or what you may think feels good is actually stripping you away, down to nothing, down to the exposed nerve. some people are like candy to teeth. you're happy and happy until you have to get a root canal, and you'd wished you hadn't eaten so much in the first place -- but the damage is too deep, too far gone to take any of it back.
*sneeze #3 in the last hour*
i'm looking forward, i think, to some time away from this schedule i keep. some friends are coming into town for thanksgiving...and we're going to my friend's sister's house to eat and drink and be merry. hopefully things are fine. i believe they will be. but i miss my family. i miss cooking half of the thanksgiving meal myself. i miss eating and sleeping and getting up to eat again.
next thanksgiving i'm not spending it away.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
'tis the season
Winter is a beast. It's not even winter yet. But it, already is a beast.
I'm a little homesick, I'm not going to lie. I've never really been this homesick before. A friend said he never experienced homesickness. I guess I could say that before now. Maybe it is the winter. Maybe it is I do not get enough vitamin D, or essential sun rays on my face and shoulders, because they're bundled up in layers upon layers of clothing.
I haven't really had a reason to get dressed up and go out. I've been a loser and staying inside. Granted, I get sucked into going out after work or a poetry reading, but I've not had a date or a real time set out to go and explore, to live, to just enjoy life and being alive. The cold does not facilitate this, either, as I just want to stay in my bed, in my room. Inside.
On the writing side of things, who are you reading? I realize this is a question I've come to hate. I'm always "reading" someone or something, but I dont really know what this means when folks ask it. Generally, this comes on the heels of me saying something like, "Yeh, I just put together another manuscript" or "yeh, I just did a poetry challenge." or something. I don't know. Do they want to know who is influencing my work?
I came to the conclusion that I read more fiction when I'm working on poetry. I read poetry to pass time on the train. (truth told) I read poetry when I am working on a specific poem and I remembered a poem I read in passing or a poet that I could look at to get my gears turning. But, truthfully, outside of Mahmoud Darwish....who I haven't read in a while, and I haven't even read the one book I have all the way through...is probably my knee-jerk answer, because people look for an answer a name, a book. As if they expect you to have an answer. I don't ever have an answer, but I say Darwish to appease them, to move the conversation along.
Is that bad of me to say? That I don't really read? That I expect people to read, but that I don't read. That's the wrong way of saying what I'm trying to say. I read. I could have a full on conversation about the last books of poetry I've read. I could give you my opinions and such. But it's hard for me to say "I'm reading x" when really what it seems they want is a favorite poet, which I do not or cannot say with assurance that I have. A favorite poet. And this puts me a crazy position. Because I know there may come a time when I will be interviewed or asked questions or people want to know the origins of my genius. And I guess, what I'm saying is that my foundation is not from reading. My foundation is from talking to people. To engaging. To writing and writing and writing. It is in the communities and conversations I build. It is in thinking about history and how to tell history in a poem. It is watching the world outside.
It does not come from a book.
I'm a little homesick, I'm not going to lie. I've never really been this homesick before. A friend said he never experienced homesickness. I guess I could say that before now. Maybe it is the winter. Maybe it is I do not get enough vitamin D, or essential sun rays on my face and shoulders, because they're bundled up in layers upon layers of clothing.
I haven't really had a reason to get dressed up and go out. I've been a loser and staying inside. Granted, I get sucked into going out after work or a poetry reading, but I've not had a date or a real time set out to go and explore, to live, to just enjoy life and being alive. The cold does not facilitate this, either, as I just want to stay in my bed, in my room. Inside.
On the writing side of things, who are you reading? I realize this is a question I've come to hate. I'm always "reading" someone or something, but I dont really know what this means when folks ask it. Generally, this comes on the heels of me saying something like, "Yeh, I just put together another manuscript" or "yeh, I just did a poetry challenge." or something. I don't know. Do they want to know who is influencing my work?
I came to the conclusion that I read more fiction when I'm working on poetry. I read poetry to pass time on the train. (truth told) I read poetry when I am working on a specific poem and I remembered a poem I read in passing or a poet that I could look at to get my gears turning. But, truthfully, outside of Mahmoud Darwish....who I haven't read in a while, and I haven't even read the one book I have all the way through...is probably my knee-jerk answer, because people look for an answer a name, a book. As if they expect you to have an answer. I don't ever have an answer, but I say Darwish to appease them, to move the conversation along.
Is that bad of me to say? That I don't really read? That I expect people to read, but that I don't read. That's the wrong way of saying what I'm trying to say. I read. I could have a full on conversation about the last books of poetry I've read. I could give you my opinions and such. But it's hard for me to say "I'm reading x" when really what it seems they want is a favorite poet, which I do not or cannot say with assurance that I have. A favorite poet. And this puts me a crazy position. Because I know there may come a time when I will be interviewed or asked questions or people want to know the origins of my genius. And I guess, what I'm saying is that my foundation is not from reading. My foundation is from talking to people. To engaging. To writing and writing and writing. It is in the communities and conversations I build. It is in thinking about history and how to tell history in a poem. It is watching the world outside.
It does not come from a book.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tuesday
I'm trying to be a better blogging citizen. I mean, I have people's blogs that I check everyday. Yet I do not update my life enough on this thing. Although, I must admit, it becomes challenging telling the same store several times over. I write most of my life in my journals/moleskins.
Today ends my November week-long poetry challenge. This has been a good one. I believe I love every poem I wrote, although several now I cannot remember.
Let's refresh. Here's the titles, at least, of the poems written this week. Everything is about Harlem.
Wednesday: M101L Uptown Bus
Thursday: P.S. 153 Auditorium
Friday: Bird Song
Saturday: 120th and Morningside
Sunday: Cerebral
Monday: 132nd and Adam Clayton Powell
Tuesday: Saturdays, 125th Street
The last two pieces are in form. Monday's poem is a Pantoum, as said. Today's poem I came and sat down at a cafe with a nice cup of coffee and pounded out a hefty sestina. It's probably one that I'm most proud of, and well, I've written a lot of sestinas. It is my #2 favorite form.
I believe I hit a momentum. I believe the momentum came when I finally let the project be a project instead of a bunch of poems in a folder. So. I think I'm going to try one more week. Or just continue as long as this lasts...as long as I have something. Although, I do believe that my turn to form is saying I am beginning to lose things to talk about. Weird conclusion, for some, I know. But I tend to turn to form when I have a poem I don't know how to shape or get out (my pantoum is about a homeless man & a severed 5$ bill on the ground at his feet)....or when I have a half-realized idea....I sit down at the table with it like a sudoku puzzle and move some things around and turn it and twist it until it fits into a poem. I think that's how my sestina arrived.
I might try a few more forms both to give some "weight" -- as form seems to do that for poetry books -- and because I feel like there are still some things that if I'm writing about Harlem I need to address.
What kind of things would you like to see about Harlem?
Today ends my November week-long poetry challenge. This has been a good one. I believe I love every poem I wrote, although several now I cannot remember.
Let's refresh. Here's the titles, at least, of the poems written this week. Everything is about Harlem.
Wednesday: M101L Uptown Bus
Thursday: P.S. 153 Auditorium
Friday: Bird Song
Saturday: 120th and Morningside
Sunday: Cerebral
Monday: 132nd and Adam Clayton Powell
Tuesday: Saturdays, 125th Street
The last two pieces are in form. Monday's poem is a Pantoum, as said. Today's poem I came and sat down at a cafe with a nice cup of coffee and pounded out a hefty sestina. It's probably one that I'm most proud of, and well, I've written a lot of sestinas. It is my #2 favorite form.
I believe I hit a momentum. I believe the momentum came when I finally let the project be a project instead of a bunch of poems in a folder. So. I think I'm going to try one more week. Or just continue as long as this lasts...as long as I have something. Although, I do believe that my turn to form is saying I am beginning to lose things to talk about. Weird conclusion, for some, I know. But I tend to turn to form when I have a poem I don't know how to shape or get out (my pantoum is about a homeless man & a severed 5$ bill on the ground at his feet)....or when I have a half-realized idea....I sit down at the table with it like a sudoku puzzle and move some things around and turn it and twist it until it fits into a poem. I think that's how my sestina arrived.
I might try a few more forms both to give some "weight" -- as form seems to do that for poetry books -- and because I feel like there are still some things that if I'm writing about Harlem I need to address.
What kind of things would you like to see about Harlem?
Monday update:
So I've got great news. Be sure I'll tell you all this in a few months, but I'd like to begin to put the energy into the world right now.
May 10, 2009 will be the night of my NYC Book Party/Launch. Yep. At The Bowery Poetry Club. Yep. from 6-930pm.
Other than that, business as usual. The economy being what it is required me to take some time (really, they "fixed" my schedule) off at work, and at first I was totally upset. I was livid. However, I will still make decent enough money to tide me over. I should be thankful, I concluded. For the time. I have this new manuscript that needs to be nurtured. I have a novel that I would like to see finished before the end of the year. I should be thankful that I have these few more hours, these few more days, really, a week to devote to writing. Here, I am trying to channel the positive.
I ordered two books last week. Toni Morrison's _a mercy_ and Jericho Brown's (Hi, Jericho!) _please_. They arrived yesterday. Whenever I work in the Bronx, I have a 45 minute commute from my apartment in Harlem there, and then an hour from the Bronx to my job's office on Wall Street. While I have this "policy" of three takes for music and poetry collections before I come down hard and fast, Jericho's book decidedly kept me engaged the whole ride. Let me just say, "Track 1: Lush Life". And I'm not just saying it because it's the first poem of the book. I mean, there are other poems -- but I remember reading that poem (sometimes I read collections back to front...) and immediately looking forward to the next 40 minute commute.
Last night I did get to see Toni Morrison. For like 2 seconds. Maybe my devotion is not that deep. My best friend called me earlier in the day to say she was in Barnes and Noble and Toni Morrison was giving a reading and immediately thought about me. I didn't know. But I thought how sweet, I just picked up the book today. It's in my bag. Perfect. I had just promised a friend I would go hear him feature. I cursed myself. So, I tried to slip away and gave myself excuses for going to see Toni Morrison at Barnes & Noble. When I got there, I thought, the bookstore was pretty empty to be having Toni there. I forgot about the four floors, and took myself to the top. Before the last escalator, a woman stopped me to ensure the4th floor was my destination.
"You're here for the event?" Yes, I say. Thinking she was going to tell me I needed a ticket or something I didn't have because I had just gotten off the train from work.
"There's like 1000 people up there and it's hot as heck. You have to go up and all the way to the back," she says.
I shrug it off, thinking, what's so bad about sitting on the back row or something. I go up there and it is packed. The air has stopped moving. And there is a low murmur from the front of the room that barely makes it past the rows and rows - and indeed, bookshelves - of people on the fourth floor. I strained to hear her from across the room and between the stacks. I was sweating, and suffocating (in truth: I'm slightly claustrophobic) and after about 2 minutes I got out of there. I love Toni, but the reality of me getting my book signed or surviving that reading was not happening. So, I left and went to Bar 13.
There, I wrote a pantoum. My favorite form. About Harlem, my favorite place.
May 10, 2009 will be the night of my NYC Book Party/Launch. Yep. At The Bowery Poetry Club. Yep. from 6-930pm.
Other than that, business as usual. The economy being what it is required me to take some time (really, they "fixed" my schedule) off at work, and at first I was totally upset. I was livid. However, I will still make decent enough money to tide me over. I should be thankful, I concluded. For the time. I have this new manuscript that needs to be nurtured. I have a novel that I would like to see finished before the end of the year. I should be thankful that I have these few more hours, these few more days, really, a week to devote to writing. Here, I am trying to channel the positive.
I ordered two books last week. Toni Morrison's _a mercy_ and Jericho Brown's (Hi, Jericho!) _please_. They arrived yesterday. Whenever I work in the Bronx, I have a 45 minute commute from my apartment in Harlem there, and then an hour from the Bronx to my job's office on Wall Street. While I have this "policy" of three takes for music and poetry collections before I come down hard and fast, Jericho's book decidedly kept me engaged the whole ride. Let me just say, "Track 1: Lush Life". And I'm not just saying it because it's the first poem of the book. I mean, there are other poems -- but I remember reading that poem (sometimes I read collections back to front...) and immediately looking forward to the next 40 minute commute.
Last night I did get to see Toni Morrison. For like 2 seconds. Maybe my devotion is not that deep. My best friend called me earlier in the day to say she was in Barnes and Noble and Toni Morrison was giving a reading and immediately thought about me. I didn't know. But I thought how sweet, I just picked up the book today. It's in my bag. Perfect. I had just promised a friend I would go hear him feature. I cursed myself. So, I tried to slip away and gave myself excuses for going to see Toni Morrison at Barnes & Noble. When I got there, I thought, the bookstore was pretty empty to be having Toni there. I forgot about the four floors, and took myself to the top. Before the last escalator, a woman stopped me to ensure the4th floor was my destination.
"You're here for the event?" Yes, I say. Thinking she was going to tell me I needed a ticket or something I didn't have because I had just gotten off the train from work.
"There's like 1000 people up there and it's hot as heck. You have to go up and all the way to the back," she says.
I shrug it off, thinking, what's so bad about sitting on the back row or something. I go up there and it is packed. The air has stopped moving. And there is a low murmur from the front of the room that barely makes it past the rows and rows - and indeed, bookshelves - of people on the fourth floor. I strained to hear her from across the room and between the stacks. I was sweating, and suffocating (in truth: I'm slightly claustrophobic) and after about 2 minutes I got out of there. I love Toni, but the reality of me getting my book signed or surviving that reading was not happening. So, I left and went to Bar 13.
There, I wrote a pantoum. My favorite form. About Harlem, my favorite place.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Make your own luck!
I don't know or remember where I've heard that quote. But I just thought about it. I suppose it's the moral, or at least similar to the idea that if the world gives you lemons, make lemonade.
This week has been a hell of a week. I will not relive it here. Just know, that I've been pissy and moody.
However, I decided to channel that energy into something productive. I decided to stop saying "I have enough poems for another manuscript" and actually produce it.
Tonight, I put together another manuscript.
A couple days ago, I assembled a chapbook.
Monday, I have to send it off, for a deadline, for the Crab Orchard Open Series. Within the next month, I need to send it to Tupelo for the Dorsett Prize.
Tis the season for sowing. Next season, reaping.
This week has been a hell of a week. I will not relive it here. Just know, that I've been pissy and moody.
However, I decided to channel that energy into something productive. I decided to stop saying "I have enough poems for another manuscript" and actually produce it.
Tonight, I put together another manuscript.
A couple days ago, I assembled a chapbook.
Monday, I have to send it off, for a deadline, for the Crab Orchard Open Series. Within the next month, I need to send it to Tupelo for the Dorsett Prize.
Tis the season for sowing. Next season, reaping.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Community!
I've been so thankful that despite the recent and continual unraveling around me, I have poets and friends for support.
July and August I did month-long poetry challenges. I wasn't working, I had all day to think about my poem. It was an interesting exercise in watching, or monitoring, your process and watching it change. Undoubtedly, if you engage in even just one month-long challenge, your process will change. It's beautiful to watch, really.
Anyways. I don't believe I could sustain another month-long challenge, so I started doing these series of week-long challenges once a month. I use them to write poems for this specific project I'm working on. So it's like, I focus deeply for a week producing the poems, and I read the rest of the month and look for materials.
Here's today's poem:
Bird song
The call nearing 2am can’t seem
to dislodge itself from my ear even
after hours we’ve said good night
and I’ve rolled to the cold side
of my bed looking to fall back
into slumber. Last night I was
somewhere in Harlem, listening
to this bird sing and I know now
where women get the sorrow,
the low, guttural notes
to say You made me love you,
I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t –
and mean it. I’ve seen other sparrow-
women fly around the city with hope
caught in their beak looking to build
a nest. The wind outside sounds
a vortex, and the whistle wakes me
again, and your laughter is unraveling itself
from my memory. There is no settling,
just nights flapping wings outside
windows wondering what ifs, their weary
suppositions. The cup in our hands, unfilled.
(c) delana r.a. dameron
July and August I did month-long poetry challenges. I wasn't working, I had all day to think about my poem. It was an interesting exercise in watching, or monitoring, your process and watching it change. Undoubtedly, if you engage in even just one month-long challenge, your process will change. It's beautiful to watch, really.
Anyways. I don't believe I could sustain another month-long challenge, so I started doing these series of week-long challenges once a month. I use them to write poems for this specific project I'm working on. So it's like, I focus deeply for a week producing the poems, and I read the rest of the month and look for materials.
Here's today's poem:
Bird song
The call nearing 2am can’t seem
to dislodge itself from my ear even
after hours we’ve said good night
and I’ve rolled to the cold side
of my bed looking to fall back
into slumber. Last night I was
somewhere in Harlem, listening
to this bird sing and I know now
where women get the sorrow,
the low, guttural notes
to say You made me love you,
I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t –
and mean it. I’ve seen other sparrow-
women fly around the city with hope
caught in their beak looking to build
a nest. The wind outside sounds
a vortex, and the whistle wakes me
again, and your laughter is unraveling itself
from my memory. There is no settling,
just nights flapping wings outside
windows wondering what ifs, their weary
suppositions. The cup in our hands, unfilled.
(c) delana r.a. dameron
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Poem for today
because i'm trying to be good again and really keep up a blog, yo.
and because i love this woman, this poet. and because i needed to read it myself this morning. happy thursday. (the week is almost over)
Love,
you be the reason why
we swagger & jive,
lift the guitar, & pick up the axe.
when it is i tilt my hat to the side,
wearing colors & perfumes, it's cause, love,
you did it to me. oh,
you do sure turn my tongue to fiddle,
& make the salt taste sweet. man,
i don't need a rooster, or peacock even,
to help me spend my time, nope,
just you, love, right & solid as
a line.
(c) aracelis girmay
and because i love this woman, this poet. and because i needed to read it myself this morning. happy thursday. (the week is almost over)
Love,
you be the reason why
we swagger & jive,
lift the guitar, & pick up the axe.
when it is i tilt my hat to the side,
wearing colors & perfumes, it's cause, love,
you did it to me. oh,
you do sure turn my tongue to fiddle,
& make the salt taste sweet. man,
i don't need a rooster, or peacock even,
to help me spend my time, nope,
just you, love, right & solid as
a line.
(c) aracelis girmay
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Writing Sample
Not that I have a bunch of poems, but, well, I do.
I've dreaded this moment for a while now. In truth, it was the writing sample that kept me from applying to the appropriate grad schools in the beginning. I mean, how do you narrow down your work to 10 pages?
Anyone reading this -- what are your strategies for narrowing down?
I think I have 35 poems that are, for now, for the first round...musts.
Now. to say to 25 of them... you just didn't make the cut.
help!
I've dreaded this moment for a while now. In truth, it was the writing sample that kept me from applying to the appropriate grad schools in the beginning. I mean, how do you narrow down your work to 10 pages?
Anyone reading this -- what are your strategies for narrowing down?
I think I have 35 poems that are, for now, for the first round...musts.
Now. to say to 25 of them... you just didn't make the cut.
help!
i try to keep the walls from falling down
the title of today's blog is from Tracy Chapman. Beautiful woman. Beautiful song. It is one of those albums (telling stories) that reminds me of a time in my life. a whole time. i listen to this album now, and i am back in charleston, SC. it was the first time that I lived in my own apartment. when i started to work to pay bills to live in this world. it was my first real experience in "the real world".
mind you, i was still in college. i transferred out of chapel hill (perhaps i have a history of being decidedly undecided) to "finish" at the college. big mistake. i was enrolled full time and working two jobs. and loving this man i shouldn't be while crushing on my roommate a bit because he was always around when the other man wasn't.
it was a true situation of me trying to keep the walls from falling down around me. my two jobs paid a buck and some change above minimum wage. basically all of my money went towards rent. luckiy one of my jobs was a coffeeshop, and so I ate their food, drank their coffee. i did homework there. i lived there. i lived off of the 30some dollars i received from tips per week. i would buy a footlong veggie sub from subway and split it between lunch and dinner.
it made me realize, however, that i am a fighter. i made it through. i graduated, and moved up to new jersey only to face harder obstacles. higher rent, a car note, travel money (path, subway, bus...everyday), food, etc etc.
now i'm probably my most stable ever living in nyc. which i find ironic, as it is ont of the most expensive cities in the world.
where am i going with this? well...i'm trying to keep my life together. while i'm stable a bit, financially, i am unstable in relationships. those walls are falling down, down, down.
some of them i have asked to fall apart and away. a week ago i decided what things i wanted to see manifest. i asked for a full ride to graduate school, for a prize for my book, and for people in my life who are harmful to disappear. it's the letting go that breaks up everything that you know. it's why we don't let go. we hold on, thinking we're holding things together, that to let go is to let all the walls fall down.
maybe i need to understand that letting go is keeping the walls from falling down.
mind you, i was still in college. i transferred out of chapel hill (perhaps i have a history of being decidedly undecided) to "finish" at the college. big mistake. i was enrolled full time and working two jobs. and loving this man i shouldn't be while crushing on my roommate a bit because he was always around when the other man wasn't.
it was a true situation of me trying to keep the walls from falling down around me. my two jobs paid a buck and some change above minimum wage. basically all of my money went towards rent. luckiy one of my jobs was a coffeeshop, and so I ate their food, drank their coffee. i did homework there. i lived there. i lived off of the 30some dollars i received from tips per week. i would buy a footlong veggie sub from subway and split it between lunch and dinner.
it made me realize, however, that i am a fighter. i made it through. i graduated, and moved up to new jersey only to face harder obstacles. higher rent, a car note, travel money (path, subway, bus...everyday), food, etc etc.
now i'm probably my most stable ever living in nyc. which i find ironic, as it is ont of the most expensive cities in the world.
where am i going with this? well...i'm trying to keep my life together. while i'm stable a bit, financially, i am unstable in relationships. those walls are falling down, down, down.
some of them i have asked to fall apart and away. a week ago i decided what things i wanted to see manifest. i asked for a full ride to graduate school, for a prize for my book, and for people in my life who are harmful to disappear. it's the letting go that breaks up everything that you know. it's why we don't let go. we hold on, thinking we're holding things together, that to let go is to let all the walls fall down.
maybe i need to understand that letting go is keeping the walls from falling down.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
November Run-Down
I am applying again to grad school. It is a pressing time, begging folks for letters of recommendation, etc etc. I am happy that it hasn't been as hard as it could be, though there have been some noted (and perhaps, expected) bumps along the way.
I would like to post the list of potential schools, but I think not only is it dangerous to do so (yes, I said it) but also...jinxing it. Let's just say, I believe that this time around will be a good one.
In other news, the book! "How God Ends Us" is coming along smoothly. Everything according to plan and deadlines. The next step: I receive the typeset pages. I am supposed to send off my acknowledgments page. I promised them that on Monday. Maybe I am behind. Ugh. Tomorrow. That is my plan for tomorrow. While I already have one, I want to make everything is covered. I want to make sure everyone is properly thanked that should be.
Plans are in process for website development. And book party. I plan on having a multi-city launch. Part of the cool thing with the organization, the Poetry Initiative, that sponsored the prize is they put together a book launch. So I'll have a book launch at home. I'm trying to plan a book launch in NYC. Or two. Or several. Is that doing too much?
Other projects/things going on in my life at the moment: I've been doing a series of week-long poetry challenges with friends. It's good because I'm only really responsible for one week of poetry a month. The rest that happens, I'm thankful. Other than that, I don't freak out. And I still have pretty good progress towards things I'm working on.
I've put together a chapbook from my work this summer. I call it "kingdom: animalia". Someone suggested I look for an illustrator. I might do that. It could be a cool project. I'm also going to submit it to a couple of presses, maybe.
What else? I'm writing about Harlem for a larger "project" and in that, too, about NYC. It fascinates me, I guess you could say plainly. I'm taken by the city for reasons unknown. I'm taking that fascination and channeling it. And publishing it.
I treated myself to a poetry book today. It has been a while since I've treated myself to a poetry book. I was looking for Jericho Brown's book (which everyone has been drooling over) in the stores in NYC. Something about ordering books -- I'm so impatient. Anyways. I stopped in Strand and picked up a book since I couldn't find one that I wanted. Not to say the book I chose was a bad choice, it just wasn't what i was going for...but when the poetry appetite is roaring, it cannot go unfed. I picked up C. Dale Young's "The Second Person". I've never read anything of his. Which, this, too, is a treat. Sometimes I go and pick up books that I've never considered on my radar.
I'll post more about it as I read. I'm also reading 2 fiction books: The Secret Life of Bees and Claude McKay's Home to Harlem.
Other than that, just laying low, grading papers, teaching writing...educating the masses. I keep thinking: if I were 200 years removed, what I would be doing would be considered illegal. granted, my own education would be illegal. But just think: my whole being: writer, teacher who is both black and female, who teaches only students of color how to read, write, and articulate themselves...yes. I sort of like that.
Okay -- back to the grad school and work grind.
I would like to post the list of potential schools, but I think not only is it dangerous to do so (yes, I said it) but also...jinxing it. Let's just say, I believe that this time around will be a good one.
In other news, the book! "How God Ends Us" is coming along smoothly. Everything according to plan and deadlines. The next step: I receive the typeset pages. I am supposed to send off my acknowledgments page. I promised them that on Monday. Maybe I am behind. Ugh. Tomorrow. That is my plan for tomorrow. While I already have one, I want to make everything is covered. I want to make sure everyone is properly thanked that should be.
Plans are in process for website development. And book party. I plan on having a multi-city launch. Part of the cool thing with the organization, the Poetry Initiative, that sponsored the prize is they put together a book launch. So I'll have a book launch at home. I'm trying to plan a book launch in NYC. Or two. Or several. Is that doing too much?
Other projects/things going on in my life at the moment: I've been doing a series of week-long poetry challenges with friends. It's good because I'm only really responsible for one week of poetry a month. The rest that happens, I'm thankful. Other than that, I don't freak out. And I still have pretty good progress towards things I'm working on.
I've put together a chapbook from my work this summer. I call it "kingdom: animalia". Someone suggested I look for an illustrator. I might do that. It could be a cool project. I'm also going to submit it to a couple of presses, maybe.
What else? I'm writing about Harlem for a larger "project" and in that, too, about NYC. It fascinates me, I guess you could say plainly. I'm taken by the city for reasons unknown. I'm taking that fascination and channeling it. And publishing it.
I treated myself to a poetry book today. It has been a while since I've treated myself to a poetry book. I was looking for Jericho Brown's book (which everyone has been drooling over) in the stores in NYC. Something about ordering books -- I'm so impatient. Anyways. I stopped in Strand and picked up a book since I couldn't find one that I wanted. Not to say the book I chose was a bad choice, it just wasn't what i was going for...but when the poetry appetite is roaring, it cannot go unfed. I picked up C. Dale Young's "The Second Person". I've never read anything of his. Which, this, too, is a treat. Sometimes I go and pick up books that I've never considered on my radar.
I'll post more about it as I read. I'm also reading 2 fiction books: The Secret Life of Bees and Claude McKay's Home to Harlem.
Other than that, just laying low, grading papers, teaching writing...educating the masses. I keep thinking: if I were 200 years removed, what I would be doing would be considered illegal. granted, my own education would be illegal. But just think: my whole being: writer, teacher who is both black and female, who teaches only students of color how to read, write, and articulate themselves...yes. I sort of like that.
Okay -- back to the grad school and work grind.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
long time
I've been away for way too long. My last real post was in August. Since then, my life has been whisked from under my feet and getting from day to day upright is a struggle. A struggle I sometimes lose.
Big news: I bought a new bed. This is significant because I prided myself once in my ability to pack up my life and go...just go away from here. or there. or anywhere I was "living". All of my moves happened by packing up my car. That's it. My life has been able to fit into either a Suzuki Esteem or Honda Civic. Two doors.
So I brooded over it for a week. I shopped over the internet for the perfect bed. I found a place that delivers on the same day and assembles it. Long story short, the bed didn't get put together until Tuesday, which gave me lots of time to brood about how I really couldn't afford the bed, but that I needed it...or how the bed was symbolic for putting my feet into nyc...which is saying that I now have to fight to stay here. This is pure Darwinism right here. It's flight vs. fight. I'm saying that I plan to fight. Because I have roots here. I've bought matching curtains. I am scheming on a new desk and bookshelves. I am scheming on settling in.
Big news: I bought a new bed. This is significant because I prided myself once in my ability to pack up my life and go...just go away from here. or there. or anywhere I was "living". All of my moves happened by packing up my car. That's it. My life has been able to fit into either a Suzuki Esteem or Honda Civic. Two doors.
So I brooded over it for a week. I shopped over the internet for the perfect bed. I found a place that delivers on the same day and assembles it. Long story short, the bed didn't get put together until Tuesday, which gave me lots of time to brood about how I really couldn't afford the bed, but that I needed it...or how the bed was symbolic for putting my feet into nyc...which is saying that I now have to fight to stay here. This is pure Darwinism right here. It's flight vs. fight. I'm saying that I plan to fight. Because I have roots here. I've bought matching curtains. I am scheming on a new desk and bookshelves. I am scheming on settling in.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Harlem Night Song
Harlem Night Song
Langston Hughes
Come, Let us roam the night together
Singing.
I love you.
Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining.
Night sky is blue.
Stars are great drops
Of golden dew.
Down the street
A band is playing
I love you.
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
Langston Hughes
Come, Let us roam the night together
Singing.
I love you.
Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining.
Night sky is blue.
Stars are great drops
Of golden dew.
Down the street
A band is playing
I love you.
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Writing and Risk
Last Tuesday I had a reading in Brooklyn, Park Slope to be exact. It was at this cute little place called the Perch Cafe. I read with two other women writers Taha Ebrihimi and Hossannah Asucion. All women of color. Taha is Iranian and read from her memoir she wrote when she got a grant to go around the world and observe/write about the Sufis (which apparently they are a private group and do not normally allow outsiders), and Hossannah is Filipino and read some sultry prose poems about the city. I especially liked the line: "The city taught you to love in incomplete parts"
I was excited to read with two new women of color. Not that I don't like to read with familiar women of color, but I was excited, you see, because it was the first time that I read with other genres as well as with people whose work I was unfamiliar with. This meant, undoubtably that I would be reading to an almost all new audience (though, luckily several of my friends made the long trek from Harlem to Park Slope with me!).
So, I am learning now, too, that I have this book ("How God Ends Us") that will be coming out in the spring and will hopefully have a whole list of readings and places to go and people to read to. Before I had this book forthcoming, I used to like to use readings as opportunities to test out new material; I would always read new work every chance I got to get behind the microphone. At first, I was a bit devastated to think that I would have to confine myself to one collection, that I would not be able to read new stuff. But, despite the fact that I'm finding it fun - for now...I suppose this is the honeymoon phase? - to look at my manuscript from different angles and figure out what stories I can tell using which poems and having each reading be a new reading. Maybe it's because I believe every poem can be read aloud (I know some poets who would argue differently and then complain that they are tired of reading the same five poems from their book...and I say to them: you have a whole book of poems to choose from!) Maybe because I believe in taking risks.
Here we are: the risks part of this entry. This reading happened the Tuesday after we lost Bernie Mac, Isaac Hayes, and Mahmoud Darwish. I'm not going to lie, I am sad and feel for losing anyone, but I was mostly sad about Mahmoud Darwish (his collection "The Butterfly's Burden" will forever be one of my favorite books of poetry) and how important his voice was/is/will be to illuminating the Palestinian's history and current state.
So I mentioned this, at the reading, that we lost a lot of people over the weekend, but probably most important to me was Mahmoud Darwish. While planning what I was going to read, I was not planning on reading any of my Palestine poems (of which I have a whole second collection I'm working on...), but I felt I must. A bit of background: I have been working on and off on this collection of poetry based on my historical research in college about the history of the conflict and how Palestinians tell or portray their suffering/story. A way I thought I could get into the personal side of it was to spend time reading blogs and watching films - mostly feature films, I had articles and books for the hard facts. I go to places like the BBC or other less-biased world-news places to get updates on both sides of the story and events that happen, and found this interesting podcast "Crossing the line" that I tune into sometimes to hear accounts when my eyes beg reprieve.
My risk then, was reading these Palestinian-based poems (they are persona...in the voices of Palestinians) to an all new audience, with all new readers, when I should be gathering folks in support of my book coming out. I could lose readers/listeners with a wrong move. I could offend a host of folks with two poems. But that is the risk right? What fun is it to be safe always, to read the same poems all the time?
It was interesting. I was the last reader. I had to close out the evening. I started with the Palestine poems, because I figured I'd have time to redeem myself with other poems later. I started with a poem by Adonis, and said I wanted to read it to remember Darwish. Then I read two newer poems (which I admit, the older me has calmed down on the voices) - one which came out in the latest Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review -- a poem I wrote about this news story I read where two lovers were separated by the wall that severed East Jerusalem, and had to sneak around in order to be together. And then I read this ghazal about Gaza using facts and stories I've collected over time and places. So the refrain, if you're familiar with the ghazal form (composed of couplets, mostly mildly disassociated with the end of the second line containing the refrain), was "under siege" -- and I watched as I went through the 15-couplet ghazal the audience shift. It was heavy in the room for a minute. And I thought -- I am doing my work. I am making these people listen, whether they like it or not. I have taken my risk.
Immediately after (I had three poems I wanted to read about Palestine) I switched gears though. I figured I wasn't going to walk that line too far. I still wanted them to be with me, in some way, until the end. Even if I did shake them up and make them uncomfortable for about 5 minutes of their life.
So I read some poems from the book. I read two new poems. And said thank you. By the time I got to about the middle of the selection of poems from the book, tension shifted in my favor again, and people were smiling and nodding. I had a couple of people come up and thank me for my work, with smiles, saying they really liked it. People mentioned specific poems. No one mentioned Palestine. But that's okay, I did it.
My friend attended the reading and said he felt the energy shift as well. What is advocacy if not risk? What is writing for - if not to illumine?
I was excited to read with two new women of color. Not that I don't like to read with familiar women of color, but I was excited, you see, because it was the first time that I read with other genres as well as with people whose work I was unfamiliar with. This meant, undoubtably that I would be reading to an almost all new audience (though, luckily several of my friends made the long trek from Harlem to Park Slope with me!).
So, I am learning now, too, that I have this book ("How God Ends Us") that will be coming out in the spring and will hopefully have a whole list of readings and places to go and people to read to. Before I had this book forthcoming, I used to like to use readings as opportunities to test out new material; I would always read new work every chance I got to get behind the microphone. At first, I was a bit devastated to think that I would have to confine myself to one collection, that I would not be able to read new stuff. But, despite the fact that I'm finding it fun - for now...I suppose this is the honeymoon phase? - to look at my manuscript from different angles and figure out what stories I can tell using which poems and having each reading be a new reading. Maybe it's because I believe every poem can be read aloud (I know some poets who would argue differently and then complain that they are tired of reading the same five poems from their book...and I say to them: you have a whole book of poems to choose from!) Maybe because I believe in taking risks.
Here we are: the risks part of this entry. This reading happened the Tuesday after we lost Bernie Mac, Isaac Hayes, and Mahmoud Darwish. I'm not going to lie, I am sad and feel for losing anyone, but I was mostly sad about Mahmoud Darwish (his collection "The Butterfly's Burden" will forever be one of my favorite books of poetry) and how important his voice was/is/will be to illuminating the Palestinian's history and current state.
So I mentioned this, at the reading, that we lost a lot of people over the weekend, but probably most important to me was Mahmoud Darwish. While planning what I was going to read, I was not planning on reading any of my Palestine poems (of which I have a whole second collection I'm working on...), but I felt I must. A bit of background: I have been working on and off on this collection of poetry based on my historical research in college about the history of the conflict and how Palestinians tell or portray their suffering/story. A way I thought I could get into the personal side of it was to spend time reading blogs and watching films - mostly feature films, I had articles and books for the hard facts. I go to places like the BBC or other less-biased world-news places to get updates on both sides of the story and events that happen, and found this interesting podcast "Crossing the line" that I tune into sometimes to hear accounts when my eyes beg reprieve.
My risk then, was reading these Palestinian-based poems (they are persona...in the voices of Palestinians) to an all new audience, with all new readers, when I should be gathering folks in support of my book coming out. I could lose readers/listeners with a wrong move. I could offend a host of folks with two poems. But that is the risk right? What fun is it to be safe always, to read the same poems all the time?
It was interesting. I was the last reader. I had to close out the evening. I started with the Palestine poems, because I figured I'd have time to redeem myself with other poems later. I started with a poem by Adonis, and said I wanted to read it to remember Darwish. Then I read two newer poems (which I admit, the older me has calmed down on the voices) - one which came out in the latest Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review -- a poem I wrote about this news story I read where two lovers were separated by the wall that severed East Jerusalem, and had to sneak around in order to be together. And then I read this ghazal about Gaza using facts and stories I've collected over time and places. So the refrain, if you're familiar with the ghazal form (composed of couplets, mostly mildly disassociated with the end of the second line containing the refrain), was "under siege" -- and I watched as I went through the 15-couplet ghazal the audience shift. It was heavy in the room for a minute. And I thought -- I am doing my work. I am making these people listen, whether they like it or not. I have taken my risk.
Immediately after (I had three poems I wanted to read about Palestine) I switched gears though. I figured I wasn't going to walk that line too far. I still wanted them to be with me, in some way, until the end. Even if I did shake them up and make them uncomfortable for about 5 minutes of their life.
So I read some poems from the book. I read two new poems. And said thank you. By the time I got to about the middle of the selection of poems from the book, tension shifted in my favor again, and people were smiling and nodding. I had a couple of people come up and thank me for my work, with smiles, saying they really liked it. People mentioned specific poems. No one mentioned Palestine. But that's okay, I did it.
My friend attended the reading and said he felt the energy shift as well. What is advocacy if not risk? What is writing for - if not to illumine?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
and i snuck out at the last minute
So. I was supposed to be on punishment. I told several people I was putting myself on punishment, that I wasn't going to leave the house b/c of my punishment. Then at the last minute, right after I ate dinner, I put on my shoes and left. And went.
And it was like that party you hear about all week and talk to all your friends about and you think how you're going to get there w/o your parents knowing because they've already said no because you're on punishment and you sneak out of the house anyways, knowing that if you get caught the consequences are going to be higher...but you want to go b/c you know it's going to be hot and you don't want to be the only person in the world not at this party
then you get there and you are the only person at this party.
and you're like. i should have stayed on punishment and not wasted the risk.
yeh.
And it was like that party you hear about all week and talk to all your friends about and you think how you're going to get there w/o your parents knowing because they've already said no because you're on punishment and you sneak out of the house anyways, knowing that if you get caught the consequences are going to be higher...but you want to go b/c you know it's going to be hot and you don't want to be the only person in the world not at this party
then you get there and you are the only person at this party.
and you're like. i should have stayed on punishment and not wasted the risk.
yeh.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Punishment
There's a reading tonight that I want to go to. But I'm punishing myself. My punishment should exist in the form of turning off my internet, but I'm not sure I'm that disciplined in self-punishment, but I can make myself stay in my apartment until I write something today. I am punishing myself because I've managed to find so many things to keep me from writing that it's almost annoying. This blog writing is also a form of procrastination.
I'm at a crossroads that I've faced before. A while ago, I read through over and over "The Purpose Driven Life" and worried, because it talks about utilizing your gifts and such to fulfill your purpose in life. Then I was like -- crap! I have too many gifts. And this wasn't me trying to gloat or show off, but I thought, at the time, I had: my music, my writing, my athletics, my crafts. I didn't add to that teaching then, because I didn't know that it, too, would be a gift that I received. But here I am. So anyways, the crossroads that existed then was to decide which was going to come to the forefront. Which was going to get the most focus and attention. Writing moved up. I had to make that decision, and it has been a bit easier trying to figure out how to work my purpose out of that one thing.
So now I'm faced with many many projects that I want to work on right now. I have short stories, plays, a novel, some poetry reviews and essays - all of which are started in some shape or form but need some more attention. Attention that gets diffused into starting a new project. I need to pick one to come to the forefront until it is finished.
I'm at a crossroads that I've faced before. A while ago, I read through over and over "The Purpose Driven Life" and worried, because it talks about utilizing your gifts and such to fulfill your purpose in life. Then I was like -- crap! I have too many gifts. And this wasn't me trying to gloat or show off, but I thought, at the time, I had: my music, my writing, my athletics, my crafts. I didn't add to that teaching then, because I didn't know that it, too, would be a gift that I received. But here I am. So anyways, the crossroads that existed then was to decide which was going to come to the forefront. Which was going to get the most focus and attention. Writing moved up. I had to make that decision, and it has been a bit easier trying to figure out how to work my purpose out of that one thing.
So now I'm faced with many many projects that I want to work on right now. I have short stories, plays, a novel, some poetry reviews and essays - all of which are started in some shape or form but need some more attention. Attention that gets diffused into starting a new project. I need to pick one to come to the forefront until it is finished.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Crossing the line
Something in me snapped and got me wanting to write about Palestine again. I don't know what happened. Maybe I realized that I was just sitting around and not doing anything but writing about myself, which is useless. Maybe I realized that I have a potential -- a real potential -- publisher for it, and I know about being handed a baton and knowing to run at full speed as soon as it lands safely in your hands. I consider the first publication to be the baton handed over to me, and I have some work to do.
I started listening to this podcast. I don't have a TV, don't judge me. Anyways, this podcast is called "Crossing the line" in which it seeks to give voice to the voiceless. You can find it here: http://ctl.libsyn.com/index.php?post_year=2008&post_month=07
Anyways, so something powerful happened to me about 2am while I was listening to this. I was interested in the interview that was going on about al Naksa (or the 6-day war or the war of 1967) and what happened..trying to write a poem about it, right. And at the end of the hour or so segment, they were reporting on the War in Iraq. And it made me think of Aracelis Girmay's brilliant poem, "Arroz Poetica" in which she speaks on the atrocities of war, and how the civilians in any country that is being attacked will never be called out, their names, I mean. And there's this turn that she makes where the poem starts to dig into your center, and she says:
....The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa'id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, and the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.
So anyways. This radio podcast...called out the names of the people fallen that week. Including Iraqis. And I thought, how powerful. How sad. How sad, even, to think of the American soldiers dying -- almost all of them that week (of June, 2007) were between 20-30...many of them from places I've been. And you find yourself listening for a name you recognize, though I know no one in the war. But you still listen. Then you realize some of these people fighting are younger than you are. And I'm not that old. And then you get enraged. And you want to stop listening, but you feel like to turn off would be to disrespect the dead, because they fell and all we got from other news stations was/were/are numbers, and no names. And you listen. And you hear the places they left from, the cities they lived and loved. And the families. And I wonder if the families know that this exists? That there is a place where their name is being called out, and remembered. And people will hear it.
I started listening to this podcast. I don't have a TV, don't judge me. Anyways, this podcast is called "Crossing the line" in which it seeks to give voice to the voiceless. You can find it here: http://ctl.libsyn.com/index.php?post_year=2008&post_month=07
Anyways, so something powerful happened to me about 2am while I was listening to this. I was interested in the interview that was going on about al Naksa (or the 6-day war or the war of 1967) and what happened..trying to write a poem about it, right. And at the end of the hour or so segment, they were reporting on the War in Iraq. And it made me think of Aracelis Girmay's brilliant poem, "Arroz Poetica" in which she speaks on the atrocities of war, and how the civilians in any country that is being attacked will never be called out, their names, I mean. And there's this turn that she makes where the poem starts to dig into your center, and she says:
....The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa'id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, and the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.
So anyways. This radio podcast...called out the names of the people fallen that week. Including Iraqis. And I thought, how powerful. How sad. How sad, even, to think of the American soldiers dying -- almost all of them that week (of June, 2007) were between 20-30...many of them from places I've been. And you find yourself listening for a name you recognize, though I know no one in the war. But you still listen. Then you realize some of these people fighting are younger than you are. And I'm not that old. And then you get enraged. And you want to stop listening, but you feel like to turn off would be to disrespect the dead, because they fell and all we got from other news stations was/were/are numbers, and no names. And you listen. And you hear the places they left from, the cities they lived and loved. And the families. And I wonder if the families know that this exists? That there is a place where their name is being called out, and remembered. And people will hear it.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Until the callouses form
My fingertips are sore. Only on the left side. My friend play guitar and came over, and played my guitar (whose name is Olive) and it got me to thinking: I've had this guitar in four years, and you know -- I still can't really play it. I need to fix that. I am blocking it for some reason, and I can't figure it out. I'm not sure what will or can be released once I play it, but I think that ambiguity makes me a little scared to unlock it. Crazy-sounding, I know.
I'm going to play my guitar every day for the rest of my time off. Who knows what will happen?
I'm going to play my guitar every day for the rest of my time off. Who knows what will happen?
Friday, July 25, 2008
clearing clutter with feng shui
The longer I have dreadlocks, the more I learn this idea of energy and placement of energy and how energy can get "stuck" places. I believe I have a lot of energy in these dreadlocks...
So anyways. I moved to Harlem a couple weeks ago, but I've been away on retreats and things that I never really unpacked. Today I woke up and tried to write for a little bit, then I thought: I should work on unpacking my things. I bought this book, _Clear your clutter with feng shui_, and i've had this other book, _Organizing for the Creative person_ and I'm putting these two books to use. It's crazy how many books I've accumulated. Really crazy when you begin to unpack them really (I always kept some shit in my car when I was in Jersey) and I've got essentially 3 smallish bookshelves of books. Yep. and this is just my "portable library" -- I still have books in columbia that I don't think will ever make it with me where ever I end up living.
So now I have a work desk in my room. Which is revolutionary. I haven't had one of these since....man. living in the dorm? I always professed that I can't do work in my room, and if work were to be brought back into my room I'd do it on my bed and that would last all of 5 minutes or so because I'd soon just go to sleep. But I think if it's one thing I took from Soul Mountain, it's my ability to do work in my living space...and I don't know if I'm thankful for this ability yet, but it's there, and I have a desk now, in my room and it's got poets and writers magazine and its got a little thing for bills and for writing supplies and some books on there, and a lamp, and my name tag (yes i kept it) from working at the bank. I inherited a wine rack from the girl who moved out of the room I moved into. I'm going to have to fill it. Is it bad to keep a wine rack in your room? Ha. Here it is.
What else? Oh -- I've hung up some pictures I printed last summer. I have to go print out more pictures...and hang them up. I think the pictures and the books make my room feel most like home. Here is my home. My clothes are finally up in a closet again and not in a bag, although on Wednesday they'll be taken back down again, and taken home for about 10 days.
Anyways, come uptown and visit.
Tonight I want to work some on an essay. Maybe a poem. I've done a lot of work today.
So anyways. I moved to Harlem a couple weeks ago, but I've been away on retreats and things that I never really unpacked. Today I woke up and tried to write for a little bit, then I thought: I should work on unpacking my things. I bought this book, _Clear your clutter with feng shui_, and i've had this other book, _Organizing for the Creative person_ and I'm putting these two books to use. It's crazy how many books I've accumulated. Really crazy when you begin to unpack them really (I always kept some shit in my car when I was in Jersey) and I've got essentially 3 smallish bookshelves of books. Yep. and this is just my "portable library" -- I still have books in columbia that I don't think will ever make it with me where ever I end up living.
So now I have a work desk in my room. Which is revolutionary. I haven't had one of these since....man. living in the dorm? I always professed that I can't do work in my room, and if work were to be brought back into my room I'd do it on my bed and that would last all of 5 minutes or so because I'd soon just go to sleep. But I think if it's one thing I took from Soul Mountain, it's my ability to do work in my living space...and I don't know if I'm thankful for this ability yet, but it's there, and I have a desk now, in my room and it's got poets and writers magazine and its got a little thing for bills and for writing supplies and some books on there, and a lamp, and my name tag (yes i kept it) from working at the bank. I inherited a wine rack from the girl who moved out of the room I moved into. I'm going to have to fill it. Is it bad to keep a wine rack in your room? Ha. Here it is.
What else? Oh -- I've hung up some pictures I printed last summer. I have to go print out more pictures...and hang them up. I think the pictures and the books make my room feel most like home. Here is my home. My clothes are finally up in a closet again and not in a bag, although on Wednesday they'll be taken back down again, and taken home for about 10 days.
Anyways, come uptown and visit.
Tonight I want to work some on an essay. Maybe a poem. I've done a lot of work today.
school daze
i am finally unpacking and cleaning/organizing my room by way of "clear your clutter with feng shui". upon unpacking, i found this booklet that my ap english teacher my senior year of high school put together. he also wrote on the back which has gone through some water damage. what is most important is this last sentence: "I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes." I remember reading that, and thinking *gasp!* what an expectation he wishes to see filled. And now, just think. Next year, it's quite possible!
My teacher wrote:
DeLana,
Thanks for your poetic musings and conversations ...(water mark)
I've enjoyed getting to know you. Thanks too for your athletic contributions and achievements! You are a talented young lady. May your college years be just as ....(water mark). I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes.
Analytically yours,
and then my poem.
Lessons
We were strug'ling through these years of schooling,
building, molding a new identity.
Hours drift away while in the school building,
searching for strength from insecurity.
We went through twelve years of conditioning.
Parents stressed college as soon as we leave,
hear, "College! don't negotiate!" wond'ring
when we will leave the shadows of their tree.
Now we find we are ent'ring a new tier
of society, on our own, we tread
using each lesson we've learned through the years
mem'ries in our minds we now embed.
We find: we live, we die, through trials, we learn
through school to reach the dreams for which we yearn.
(c) dd 2002.
My teacher wrote:
DeLana,
Thanks for your poetic musings and conversations ...(water mark)
I've enjoyed getting to know you. Thanks too for your athletic contributions and achievements! You are a talented young lady. May your college years be just as ....(water mark). I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes.
Analytically yours,
and then my poem.
Lessons
We were strug'ling through these years of schooling,
building, molding a new identity.
Hours drift away while in the school building,
searching for strength from insecurity.
We went through twelve years of conditioning.
Parents stressed college as soon as we leave,
hear, "College! don't negotiate!" wond'ring
when we will leave the shadows of their tree.
Now we find we are ent'ring a new tier
of society, on our own, we tread
using each lesson we've learned through the years
mem'ries in our minds we now embed.
We find: we live, we die, through trials, we learn
through school to reach the dreams for which we yearn.
(c) dd 2002.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
People?
So each time I try and venture out of the house to interact with the world that is outside of my window, I get out there and think I should have stayed home. I think this is a result of being so secluded for 3 weeks. I've reverted back to myself, my old self, the self that enjoyed solitude...or rather, preferred it. Then I get into groups of people and go inside myself. Like, I'd rather be looking outside of the window at the passing cars than be active in the conversation. Or, I'd rather be listening than participating. Great. Now I've somehow managed to make myself start over at ground zero. And maybe this is a good thing. Since I'm so used to finding the good in everything, the lesson. Maybe this means that I will remain a bit more focused. I know this will not be possible when I go home in a little over a week. Everyone will want to see me. I will not be able to get away with not talking to people, so I might as well take advantage of it now, especially in this world that doesn't require you to even say much to anyone.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
work work work
Yesterday I started and finished Janice Harrington's "Even the Hollow My Body Made is Gone." I am thinking about writing a review. Well, I am going to write a review. This time here in NYC needs to still be spent working, I've told myself. And by working that means, still writing, still editing, still producing. I've got on tap a couple of essay ideas to play around with and hopefully place somewhere soon. I've got some places I need to contact for reading gigs. All of that stuff.
On the flip side of the work....I'm still finalizing dates, but I'll be reading at UNC Chapel Hill in April. Yup. Yup.
Look out!
On the flip side of the work....I'm still finalizing dates, but I'll be reading at UNC Chapel Hill in April. Yup. Yup.
Look out!
Monday, July 21, 2008
Passing Strange
I came home early from my residency to see this broadway play, "Passing Strange". My really good friend is in town, and I hadn't seen her for a year (we used to be roommates for two years) and she's staying with me, so I said, let's go and see this. She said, sure. So we got there relatively early to get student tix (what little good school is still doing for me) and had decent seats, considering the price we paid. It was the last day of the show, which had been going apparently for six months, which is long, and they showed out! boy did they show out. I've been singing the tunes in my head all day, and when I get a little bit of money, I'm going to buy the album, I believe.
Then Raina and I met up with Evan and had dinner and then trekked it back uptown for some spirits and some musica nd good times. Yep. More days should consist of this greatness.
Then Raina and I met up with Evan and had dinner and then trekked it back uptown for some spirits and some musica nd good times. Yep. More days should consist of this greatness.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Day 19, or so I'm leaving a day early
The time spent here has been glorious. It has given me a chance to really produce a lot of stuff, to push the limits of my writing, to just sit and breathe for a while. I'm not going to lie, part of me is ready to leave the space if only that I need a change of scenery. I mean, I need a little more wiggle room. I mean, sometimes a house can trap you despite the freedoms you find in it.
"Final Count" (as I don't believe I'm going to write anything else today. If I do, I'll update you)
43 poems
10 pages to my novel
a play ("The empty bowl")
a short story ("Some nights, only water")
the beginnings of an essay ("Cultural Amnesia")
and a total makeover of my book that's coming out in the Spring 09 ("How God Ends Us")
Yep. Now, I have to go and pack. I'll be in the city tonight.
"Final Count" (as I don't believe I'm going to write anything else today. If I do, I'll update you)
43 poems
10 pages to my novel
a play ("The empty bowl")
a short story ("Some nights, only water")
the beginnings of an essay ("Cultural Amnesia")
and a total makeover of my book that's coming out in the Spring 09 ("How God Ends Us")
Yep. Now, I have to go and pack. I'll be in the city tonight.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Book news
So yesterday I woke up to a manila envelope in the kitchen. I usually stumble from my perch (i call the small bedroom I chose with a window overlooking the pond a perch) to fix coffee in the morning.
Kwame Dawes is the series editor for the book prize that my manuscript won this spring. It is exciting because I have always admired his work. It's even more exciting that I get to have my introduction to the world with two of my favorite writers, and with a prize that is connected to home. Interesting -- so many times I thought I was running away from home, from South Carolina. When I left for college, it was a running away from home. But here I am. It's interesting to think -- my first publication was about a home/house/South Carolina. My first book publication is coming out of the University of South Carolina Press (which is in my home, Columbia, SC)...I don't believe in coincidences. I believe in fate, in faith. I believe in "it was meant to be this way" and take things as they come.
But anyways. So this manila envelope. I sent Kwame my manuscript in May, and thought the process would be simply, "here are my line edits" and leave it at that. But no. Now I am considering this book in a different light, thinking of the variations and variations of stories I can tell by just switching poems around, by moving a comma. I spent all of my day 16 thinking about taking poems out and putting poems in and moving poems around and finding epigraphs and words to fit in places where there was a void...and you think the book is done after you write the poems. No so, my friend, not so. The proof is in the pudding, or whatever that is supposed to mean.
So, I did the damage, and shook myself up a bit. I'm going to have to let the new sketch of the book (by the way, titled "How God Ends Us"....look for it in February!) sit for a while before I decide if what I did was good or bad. I have to figure out a way to detach myself from the original version and let this one live in the world a bit before I kill it, or say, no, Kwame, this isn't working for me.
Not that I'd really say it. In a dream world, I'd stand up and defend my poems. But in that dream world, I'd already have five books of poetry published...and well, that dream hasn't come to fruition yet, buttttt I do see another publication soon on the horizon. I do.
Kwame Dawes is the series editor for the book prize that my manuscript won this spring. It is exciting because I have always admired his work. It's even more exciting that I get to have my introduction to the world with two of my favorite writers, and with a prize that is connected to home. Interesting -- so many times I thought I was running away from home, from South Carolina. When I left for college, it was a running away from home. But here I am. It's interesting to think -- my first publication was about a home/house/South Carolina. My first book publication is coming out of the University of South Carolina Press (which is in my home, Columbia, SC)...I don't believe in coincidences. I believe in fate, in faith. I believe in "it was meant to be this way" and take things as they come.
But anyways. So this manila envelope. I sent Kwame my manuscript in May, and thought the process would be simply, "here are my line edits" and leave it at that. But no. Now I am considering this book in a different light, thinking of the variations and variations of stories I can tell by just switching poems around, by moving a comma. I spent all of my day 16 thinking about taking poems out and putting poems in and moving poems around and finding epigraphs and words to fit in places where there was a void...and you think the book is done after you write the poems. No so, my friend, not so. The proof is in the pudding, or whatever that is supposed to mean.
So, I did the damage, and shook myself up a bit. I'm going to have to let the new sketch of the book (by the way, titled "How God Ends Us"....look for it in February!) sit for a while before I decide if what I did was good or bad. I have to figure out a way to detach myself from the original version and let this one live in the world a bit before I kill it, or say, no, Kwame, this isn't working for me.
Not that I'd really say it. In a dream world, I'd stand up and defend my poems. But in that dream world, I'd already have five books of poetry published...and well, that dream hasn't come to fruition yet, buttttt I do see another publication soon on the horizon. I do.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
changing the changes
this post's title is after Hermine Pinson's CD title. It is also sort of acknowledging another shift, another change, and how, I suppose, the body feels these shifts when it has a time to be still and listen, like when you're up on a mountain top. like now.
Yesterday was wildly productive. Yesterday I sat with some jazz songs and meditated. I have this thing I like to do with jazz songs -- especially ones that either I don't know the words to or that just don't have words to them -- where I imagine the lyrics. So, my friend has a CD out. He has this song that might be one of my favorites...because of this solo that he has that, to me, has so much heart, so much open heart. I play the song over and over, and imagine the words, and in the context of relationships (perhaps ours) I imagine him saying "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I'm so sorry that I hurt you" and it fits. My lyrics, to his playing. So I wondered what a poem written with this feel, this mood would feel like. So I started freewriting. With the song on repeat I freewrote for a couple of minutes. Then I used that material to lift out phrases to build a poem with later. I did this for 6 songs. I got sing poems..each I feel captured the feel of the song.
What was on the playlist you ask? (I'm leaving said friend out of this...so only 5 songs)
Maiden Voyage/Everything in its place -- Robert Glasper
Perazuan -- Esperanza Spalding
Thinking one thing and doing another -- Miles Davis
Days of Wine and Roses --
August Blues --
I forget right now who did the last two ones. Updates later. But it's a nice exercise. If you try it, let me know how it turns out!
I have also been doing some crazy, crazy reading up here. Marilyn Nelson has a biggg library. All you can eat. Plus more. So, I go to the shelves and pick books for the day and then read them. I have this project I started (e-mail me if you want an invite) where I decided to gather some cool poet-lovers and suggested we share our favorite poems, or poems that make us say "Damn" or just poems that we think need to be out in the world. So an online poetry anthology, if you will. "Unthemed" except to say we thought we liked them enough that we wanted to share them with each other. This has brougt up some interesting conversations and interesting moments of, "oh, I've never heard of this poet" or "oh! I like this poem, too!"...surely there can be some misjudgment and people may say "this did not make me say 'damn'" and that's fine too -- this space is just a collection of poems to make us think, because I want to be well-read, but I don't always know what to dip into. I have some new names to check out, recommended by some really great poets. Come join the fun.
What else? Today I only wrote one poem. Which is like....way below record. But I did finish my play, so I'll take that. I also woke up late thanks to this wonderful rain. It happened so, that I thought it was a dream. I woke up to the sound of rain and thought, "I should pull down the window, maybe turn off the fan" and then went right back to sleep. Rain will do that. By the time I actually got up and decided to get on with my day, the sun was out, the deck was dry -- there was no evidence of this rain that kept me in the bed longer. So my schedule was off. So I just read some, and played with the play (my first ever. although i don't think anything will become of it, i can just say that i've written a play now...which i couldn't say before here)...and listened to stories. I cooked dinner for everyone. Then we sat around and had a "reading" -- Hermine and Karma and Marilyn and myself. We all read things we were working on at the moment. I read some of my animal poems, mainly animals inspired by the environment...ones I had actually seen from my room window (badger/woodchuck, small-mouthed bass, io moth, turkey vulture, spider). Then I read some of the poems from the jazz stuff, some other non-related poems (when I broke off from doin the animal poems, I decided to use Neruda's questions to mull over for a bit and maybe inspire a poem in response to the question)....then, I got to read some of my novel with them. They seemed to enjoy it. There were some questions, which is understandable; I still don't have some things planned out yet, nor have I really sat down and said, "I'm going to begin editing," but it was good to get some writerly ears listening, in conversation.
6 days left. I suppose after the week-remaining mark you start counting down? Instead of saying Day 14, I opted to say, "six days left" -- and I can't decide if it is equivalent to the "glass half-empty" or what. Just this fact: there are six days left here. Who knows what or who will come or visit in those days.
Yesterday was wildly productive. Yesterday I sat with some jazz songs and meditated. I have this thing I like to do with jazz songs -- especially ones that either I don't know the words to or that just don't have words to them -- where I imagine the lyrics. So, my friend has a CD out. He has this song that might be one of my favorites...because of this solo that he has that, to me, has so much heart, so much open heart. I play the song over and over, and imagine the words, and in the context of relationships (perhaps ours) I imagine him saying "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I'm so sorry that I hurt you" and it fits. My lyrics, to his playing. So I wondered what a poem written with this feel, this mood would feel like. So I started freewriting. With the song on repeat I freewrote for a couple of minutes. Then I used that material to lift out phrases to build a poem with later. I did this for 6 songs. I got sing poems..each I feel captured the feel of the song.
What was on the playlist you ask? (I'm leaving said friend out of this...so only 5 songs)
Maiden Voyage/Everything in its place -- Robert Glasper
Perazuan -- Esperanza Spalding
Thinking one thing and doing another -- Miles Davis
Days of Wine and Roses --
August Blues --
I forget right now who did the last two ones. Updates later. But it's a nice exercise. If you try it, let me know how it turns out!
I have also been doing some crazy, crazy reading up here. Marilyn Nelson has a biggg library. All you can eat. Plus more. So, I go to the shelves and pick books for the day and then read them. I have this project I started (e-mail me if you want an invite) where I decided to gather some cool poet-lovers and suggested we share our favorite poems, or poems that make us say "Damn" or just poems that we think need to be out in the world. So an online poetry anthology, if you will. "Unthemed" except to say we thought we liked them enough that we wanted to share them with each other. This has brougt up some interesting conversations and interesting moments of, "oh, I've never heard of this poet" or "oh! I like this poem, too!"...surely there can be some misjudgment and people may say "this did not make me say 'damn'" and that's fine too -- this space is just a collection of poems to make us think, because I want to be well-read, but I don't always know what to dip into. I have some new names to check out, recommended by some really great poets. Come join the fun.
What else? Today I only wrote one poem. Which is like....way below record. But I did finish my play, so I'll take that. I also woke up late thanks to this wonderful rain. It happened so, that I thought it was a dream. I woke up to the sound of rain and thought, "I should pull down the window, maybe turn off the fan" and then went right back to sleep. Rain will do that. By the time I actually got up and decided to get on with my day, the sun was out, the deck was dry -- there was no evidence of this rain that kept me in the bed longer. So my schedule was off. So I just read some, and played with the play (my first ever. although i don't think anything will become of it, i can just say that i've written a play now...which i couldn't say before here)...and listened to stories. I cooked dinner for everyone. Then we sat around and had a "reading" -- Hermine and Karma and Marilyn and myself. We all read things we were working on at the moment. I read some of my animal poems, mainly animals inspired by the environment...ones I had actually seen from my room window (badger/woodchuck, small-mouthed bass, io moth, turkey vulture, spider). Then I read some of the poems from the jazz stuff, some other non-related poems (when I broke off from doin the animal poems, I decided to use Neruda's questions to mull over for a bit and maybe inspire a poem in response to the question)....then, I got to read some of my novel with them. They seemed to enjoy it. There were some questions, which is understandable; I still don't have some things planned out yet, nor have I really sat down and said, "I'm going to begin editing," but it was good to get some writerly ears listening, in conversation.
6 days left. I suppose after the week-remaining mark you start counting down? Instead of saying Day 14, I opted to say, "six days left" -- and I can't decide if it is equivalent to the "glass half-empty" or what. Just this fact: there are six days left here. Who knows what or who will come or visit in those days.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
day 12
There is something to be said about this experience, the first time around. I have never done a residency like this before. I've done three years of Cave Canem now, three summers, rather, three weeks. Essentially my time here at Soul Mountain is the sum of my time at Cave Canem, except the time passes differently here. It is a different experience, a lonely existence.
Maybe it is I am reverting to what brought me to writing in the first place, loneliness. And maybe it is I am afraid of that space, having felt that I successfully left it for this life of constant people around me, of constant love. I always say of Cave Canem that it is my big family that I always wanted. There is/has been always someone around me from that family..or someone I am trying to get into this family.
There are Cave Canem family members here, but it is different. We are not required/expected to interact with each other. So this voyage is one done alone. As with most things I embark on, I am noticing, I begin a thing with such exuberance, such momentum, such excitement, that I am unaware of the impending danger. I don't see the caution signs or the beware, rocky roads ahead sign. I just keep driving with the wind in my face, the sun on my shoulder, my arm out the window. And then the gas light comes on. And then the wilderness and all I've got with me is a pack of cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of water...and no cars for hours or miles.
It's day 12. I have 8 more days to go. I have reached a wilderness of sorts. Maybe it is because energy has shifted in the house? One of the residents left yesterday, so today was a new day in this same place. It was different. I woke up with a headache that I couldn't explain. I woke up, ate breakfast, finished this book I was reading, and went back to sleep until lunch time. I woke up from lunch time and sat around with a couple of books and beginnings of poems that have yet to formalize into actual poems. All except for one. One about the body. I have tricked myself into thinking/believing the one about solitude is a poem, but it's not, really. I pretend it is. Right now, I have written 32 poems in 12 days. I guess there is a breaking point for the body/mind? Maybe I have reached it. Then, what to do for these last 8 days? Maybe this is opening a space for the novel. Maybe. We'll see what words come to me tomorrow.
Maybe it is I am reverting to what brought me to writing in the first place, loneliness. And maybe it is I am afraid of that space, having felt that I successfully left it for this life of constant people around me, of constant love. I always say of Cave Canem that it is my big family that I always wanted. There is/has been always someone around me from that family..or someone I am trying to get into this family.
There are Cave Canem family members here, but it is different. We are not required/expected to interact with each other. So this voyage is one done alone. As with most things I embark on, I am noticing, I begin a thing with such exuberance, such momentum, such excitement, that I am unaware of the impending danger. I don't see the caution signs or the beware, rocky roads ahead sign. I just keep driving with the wind in my face, the sun on my shoulder, my arm out the window. And then the gas light comes on. And then the wilderness and all I've got with me is a pack of cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of water...and no cars for hours or miles.
It's day 12. I have 8 more days to go. I have reached a wilderness of sorts. Maybe it is because energy has shifted in the house? One of the residents left yesterday, so today was a new day in this same place. It was different. I woke up with a headache that I couldn't explain. I woke up, ate breakfast, finished this book I was reading, and went back to sleep until lunch time. I woke up from lunch time and sat around with a couple of books and beginnings of poems that have yet to formalize into actual poems. All except for one. One about the body. I have tricked myself into thinking/believing the one about solitude is a poem, but it's not, really. I pretend it is. Right now, I have written 32 poems in 12 days. I guess there is a breaking point for the body/mind? Maybe I have reached it. Then, what to do for these last 8 days? Maybe this is opening a space for the novel. Maybe. We'll see what words come to me tomorrow.
Friday, July 11, 2008
More Questions (thanks to Neruda)
from Neruda's "The Book of Questions"
-Tell me, is the rose naked/ or is that her only dress?
-Is there anything in the world sadder/ than a train standing in the rain?
-For whom do the pistils of the sun burn/ in the shadow of the eclipse?
-Is the sun the same as yesterday's/ or is this fire different from that fire?
-Who shouted with glee/ when the color blue was born?
-How did the abandoned bicycle win its freedom?
-Is it bad to live without a Hell:/ aren't we able to reconstruct it?
-Where is the center of the sea?/ Why do waves never go there?
-Yesterday, yesterday I asked my eyes/ when will we see each other again?
-Why did the grove undress itself/ only to wait for the snow?
-And why is the sun such a bad companion/ to the traveler in the desert?
-Was it where they lost me/ that I finally found myself?
-Does he who is always waiting suffer more/ than he who's never waited for anyone?
-Perhaps heaven will be/ for suicides, an invisible star?
-Where is the child i was,/ still inside me or gone?
-Why did we both not die/ when my childhood died?
-Did autumn's hairdressers/ uncomb these chrysanthemums?
-Why do the waves ask me/the same questions i ask them?
-And why do they strike the rock/ with so much wasted passion?
-Don't they get tired of repeating their declaration to the sand?
-Tell me, is the rose naked/ or is that her only dress?
-Is there anything in the world sadder/ than a train standing in the rain?
-For whom do the pistils of the sun burn/ in the shadow of the eclipse?
-Is the sun the same as yesterday's/ or is this fire different from that fire?
-Who shouted with glee/ when the color blue was born?
-How did the abandoned bicycle win its freedom?
-Is it bad to live without a Hell:/ aren't we able to reconstruct it?
-Where is the center of the sea?/ Why do waves never go there?
-Yesterday, yesterday I asked my eyes/ when will we see each other again?
-Why did the grove undress itself/ only to wait for the snow?
-And why is the sun such a bad companion/ to the traveler in the desert?
-Was it where they lost me/ that I finally found myself?
-Does he who is always waiting suffer more/ than he who's never waited for anyone?
-Perhaps heaven will be/ for suicides, an invisible star?
-Where is the child i was,/ still inside me or gone?
-Why did we both not die/ when my childhood died?
-Did autumn's hairdressers/ uncomb these chrysanthemums?
-Why do the waves ask me/the same questions i ask them?
-And why do they strike the rock/ with so much wasted passion?
-Don't they get tired of repeating their declaration to the sand?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
neruda's questions
i pulled these questions out....
- "am i allowed to ask my book/ whether it's true i wrote it?"
-"is it because i must die/ or because it must die?"
-"do you have room for some thorns?/ they asked the rosebush."
="Whom does the magnolia fool/ with its fragrance of lemons?"
-"why do assemblies of umbrellas/ always occur in London?"
-"why does it not dawn in Bolivia/ after the night of Guevara?"
-"and does his assassinated heart/ search there for his assassins?"
-"will our life not be a tunnel/ between two vague clarities?"
-"What did the tree learn from the earth/ to be able to talk with the sky?"
-"who was she who made to love you/ in your dream, while you slept?"
-"did spring never deceive you/ with kisses that didn't blossom?"
-"what does it mean to persist/ on the alley of death?"
-"at dawn, which smooth syllables/ does the ocean air repel?"
-"with which stars do they go on speaking/ the rivers that never reach the sea?"
-"How do the seasons know/ they must change their skirts?"
LXVII
Can you love me, syllabary,
and give me a meaningful kiss?
Is a dictionary a sepulchre
or a sealed honeycomb?
In which window did i remain
watching buried time?
Or is what i see from afar
what I have not yet lived?
- "am i allowed to ask my book/ whether it's true i wrote it?"
-"is it because i must die/ or because it must die?"
-"do you have room for some thorns?/ they asked the rosebush."
="Whom does the magnolia fool/ with its fragrance of lemons?"
-"why do assemblies of umbrellas/ always occur in London?"
-"why does it not dawn in Bolivia/ after the night of Guevara?"
-"and does his assassinated heart/ search there for his assassins?"
-"will our life not be a tunnel/ between two vague clarities?"
-"What did the tree learn from the earth/ to be able to talk with the sky?"
-"who was she who made to love you/ in your dream, while you slept?"
-"did spring never deceive you/ with kisses that didn't blossom?"
-"what does it mean to persist/ on the alley of death?"
-"at dawn, which smooth syllables/ does the ocean air repel?"
-"with which stars do they go on speaking/ the rivers that never reach the sea?"
-"How do the seasons know/ they must change their skirts?"
LXVII
Can you love me, syllabary,
and give me a meaningful kiss?
Is a dictionary a sepulchre
or a sealed honeycomb?
In which window did i remain
watching buried time?
Or is what i see from afar
what I have not yet lived?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Day 8
So I've been at Soul Mountain now for 8 days. It is easy to count my time here as it passes the way the month of July passes...slow nectar with each rise and fall of the sun.
There is much to be thankful for, this I know. This time, though often I find myself bored and lonely, is something to be thankful for. I am. I was in a rut for a little bit, looking for things to write about, and even still now I find myself looking for the next poem, but know that something magical happens when you allow yourself to stop life for a moment and really just give yourself to your art, your craft. Exposure like this can be daunting. It has been for me, learning things about myself that I was not sure I was ready to deal with. But, I survive.
Over the past few days I've started and finished Claudia Rankine's _Don't Let Me Be Lonely_ and I will say right now, I believe in its brilliance. I want to say I wish I had the capacity to write something equally brilliant. I cannot say that before my week at Cave Canem with her that I would have picked up this book and attempted to read it; in fact, I had the book for a while before I read it. Being on a mountain top affords you a lot of time to read things you never thought you'd give yourself to reading before. Anyways. Read it. Let's talk about it.
Also while here I embarked on a larger project which included investigating animals. It isn't as Discovery Channel as it sounds, but it is a collection of poems in which the titles are different animal species and I have moved on to investigating different landscapes. Of course, they have a specific De'Lana turn. What would a poem written by me be like without it?
What else is there? I started and finished a short story between yesterday and today. I started a play and an essay. I have the desire to write a long poem and I think I have the idea for it. I will spend tonight mapping it out. It will be my endurance test. I think my poems are indicative of my mild ADD. They are short. They rarely - unless a sestina which the form forces its length - go beyond the second page. To think that I could find an idea that could sustain more than say...50 lines, is amazing. and I'm going to try it. I'm going to try and write something or start something while here that is going to be the longest poem I've ever written. What that will do for me, I'm not sure, other than break past this imaginary wall that seems to draw itself about halfway down the page and dares my pen to cross it, and I usually don't. But I'm on a mission to cross that frontier, and to do it with a stunning poem. Watch out now.
There is much to be thankful for, this I know. This time, though often I find myself bored and lonely, is something to be thankful for. I am. I was in a rut for a little bit, looking for things to write about, and even still now I find myself looking for the next poem, but know that something magical happens when you allow yourself to stop life for a moment and really just give yourself to your art, your craft. Exposure like this can be daunting. It has been for me, learning things about myself that I was not sure I was ready to deal with. But, I survive.
Over the past few days I've started and finished Claudia Rankine's _Don't Let Me Be Lonely_ and I will say right now, I believe in its brilliance. I want to say I wish I had the capacity to write something equally brilliant. I cannot say that before my week at Cave Canem with her that I would have picked up this book and attempted to read it; in fact, I had the book for a while before I read it. Being on a mountain top affords you a lot of time to read things you never thought you'd give yourself to reading before. Anyways. Read it. Let's talk about it.
Also while here I embarked on a larger project which included investigating animals. It isn't as Discovery Channel as it sounds, but it is a collection of poems in which the titles are different animal species and I have moved on to investigating different landscapes. Of course, they have a specific De'Lana turn. What would a poem written by me be like without it?
What else is there? I started and finished a short story between yesterday and today. I started a play and an essay. I have the desire to write a long poem and I think I have the idea for it. I will spend tonight mapping it out. It will be my endurance test. I think my poems are indicative of my mild ADD. They are short. They rarely - unless a sestina which the form forces its length - go beyond the second page. To think that I could find an idea that could sustain more than say...50 lines, is amazing. and I'm going to try it. I'm going to try and write something or start something while here that is going to be the longest poem I've ever written. What that will do for me, I'm not sure, other than break past this imaginary wall that seems to draw itself about halfway down the page and dares my pen to cross it, and I usually don't. But I'm on a mission to cross that frontier, and to do it with a stunning poem. Watch out now.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
notes from Soul Mountain
-I wish I had something profound to say here.
-Today is day 5/20. I have written about 11 animals since I've gotten here.
-I started a play about two artists trying to make life and family work while staying committed/true to their art.
-I started an essay about my ability to re-create my own personal history because of my inability to access my actual personal history and what freedoms or burdens that affords me.
-I've watched fish jump out of the pond that is right outside my window, and written about it.
-an unfinished joke: Why did the turkey cross the lawn? or the woodchuck?
-I've been chased out of the woods by territorial bees.
-I've had the desire to want to write something profound.
-I had dreams about people I never expected to dream about...and those dreams have happened multiple times.
-I've called people despite my day of silence, because the silence was too much.
-Today is day 5/20. I have written about 11 animals since I've gotten here.
-I started a play about two artists trying to make life and family work while staying committed/true to their art.
-I started an essay about my ability to re-create my own personal history because of my inability to access my actual personal history and what freedoms or burdens that affords me.
-I've watched fish jump out of the pond that is right outside my window, and written about it.
-an unfinished joke: Why did the turkey cross the lawn? or the woodchuck?
-I've been chased out of the woods by territorial bees.
-I've had the desire to want to write something profound.
-I had dreams about people I never expected to dream about...and those dreams have happened multiple times.
-I've called people despite my day of silence, because the silence was too much.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Invitation to the Game
In 6th grade I remember reading this book "Invitation to the Game" and discussing it in the "advanced placement" class that I had been in since 4th grade or so. That year, we read several science fiction novels and went to the Kennedy Space Center -- we were all about space and the "final" frontier.
I didn't think how...odd it was, space, until I was riding the A train and the advertisements there are showing this Discovery Channel program about space travel and they've titled it, "When we left Earth" and then it makes me think how...amazing. How...out of this world (literally) the concept that we decided through some efforts and years of being discontent with where we were to leave the place designated for us and venture out.
Anyways. Last night, citing boredom and after I finished my first-ever graphic novel (more on that later) I decided to watch several episodes of Lost. I know. I'm behind. I don't have a TV and the only shows I watched were Grey's Anatomy and Ugly Betty. I remember reading a review and someone was speculating that they were all dead and it was some middle world between Heaven and Hell. Looking at this, though, I thought about this book that I read back in middle school, and how...it reminded me so much of it.
So this book. It's about some kids who graduate either from college or high school. It's set about 150 years in the future so robots are doing most of the work, and so there's little work for humans to do. Kids graduate from school and are automatically entered into the unemployment bucket, and must live in a welfare area. This is the status of most, not a few, people. While here, and living a pretty meaningless existence, they receive an invitation to "The Game". I should also mention that despite being on welfare and without jobs, they were the brightest kids in their class (although, I suppose then, it is only relative, right?). They go to this room where they sit with glasses on that project this world where their only efforts are to survive. Each session it gets harder and harder. If the player should hurt themselves or die, they wake up. Each person is placed in this game according to their worth, where their separate uses can combine. After a while, I forget what event happens that should have sparked the end of the "Game" for that session, but they don't wake up. It isn't until they try to look for recognizable constellations that they realize they're on another planet, in another world. And now they must start all over, using the skills, I guess you could call them, they recognized they had during the simulation.
I dunno. All of this reminded me of Lost. Starting all over, another world/realm/
I didn't think how...odd it was, space, until I was riding the A train and the advertisements there are showing this Discovery Channel program about space travel and they've titled it, "When we left Earth" and then it makes me think how...amazing. How...out of this world (literally) the concept that we decided through some efforts and years of being discontent with where we were to leave the place designated for us and venture out.
Anyways. Last night, citing boredom and after I finished my first-ever graphic novel (more on that later) I decided to watch several episodes of Lost. I know. I'm behind. I don't have a TV and the only shows I watched were Grey's Anatomy and Ugly Betty. I remember reading a review and someone was speculating that they were all dead and it was some middle world between Heaven and Hell. Looking at this, though, I thought about this book that I read back in middle school, and how...it reminded me so much of it.
So this book. It's about some kids who graduate either from college or high school. It's set about 150 years in the future so robots are doing most of the work, and so there's little work for humans to do. Kids graduate from school and are automatically entered into the unemployment bucket, and must live in a welfare area. This is the status of most, not a few, people. While here, and living a pretty meaningless existence, they receive an invitation to "The Game". I should also mention that despite being on welfare and without jobs, they were the brightest kids in their class (although, I suppose then, it is only relative, right?). They go to this room where they sit with glasses on that project this world where their only efforts are to survive. Each session it gets harder and harder. If the player should hurt themselves or die, they wake up. Each person is placed in this game according to their worth, where their separate uses can combine. After a while, I forget what event happens that should have sparked the end of the "Game" for that session, but they don't wake up. It isn't until they try to look for recognizable constellations that they realize they're on another planet, in another world. And now they must start all over, using the skills, I guess you could call them, they recognized they had during the simulation.
I dunno. All of this reminded me of Lost. Starting all over, another world/realm/
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I'm sort of using this blog for multiple uses. Mainly, right now, I turn to it to chart how I am coming with yoga.
Today was day 6. It hasn't been straight and in a row, these days, but it was the sixth day that I entered that 105 degree room and stayed there for 90 minutes and asked favors of my body.
There is only one pose left for me to master. Today I breathed through the pain for one that had been bothering me for a while -- one that I knew I should be able to do. I can't recall the pose names, but just know that I hope within the next couple of sessions to be able to walk away saying: I've done all 26 poses. Another difference I noted today was I didn't require or desire as much water as I have in past sessions. I believe that has something to do with hydration before the workout. I'm learning, I'm learning. Today, though. Today in the first backward bend, we're asking our body to bend over backwards in a standing pose, and go as deep and as far back as you can, keeping your eyes open, focusing on the back wall. Something in my back and chest opened up and in the second set, I leaned so far back that I was able to see where the wall met the carpet. I came back up smiling.
I've discovered, though, that I need a new hobby. Something to invest myself creatively in. Well, maybe not invest like do, but participate? I'm not sure -- but yesterday I found myself wanting to get out of the house but not really feeling like writing. And I was at a loss of things to do. Going out by myself is no longer that much of a hindrance. I just need to find places to go, things to get into and enjoy -- maximize my full creative potential.
I leave for Cave Canem in a week. Yep. Exciting.
Then 19 days in the mountains, solo.
Today was day 6. It hasn't been straight and in a row, these days, but it was the sixth day that I entered that 105 degree room and stayed there for 90 minutes and asked favors of my body.
There is only one pose left for me to master. Today I breathed through the pain for one that had been bothering me for a while -- one that I knew I should be able to do. I can't recall the pose names, but just know that I hope within the next couple of sessions to be able to walk away saying: I've done all 26 poses. Another difference I noted today was I didn't require or desire as much water as I have in past sessions. I believe that has something to do with hydration before the workout. I'm learning, I'm learning. Today, though. Today in the first backward bend, we're asking our body to bend over backwards in a standing pose, and go as deep and as far back as you can, keeping your eyes open, focusing on the back wall. Something in my back and chest opened up and in the second set, I leaned so far back that I was able to see where the wall met the carpet. I came back up smiling.
I've discovered, though, that I need a new hobby. Something to invest myself creatively in. Well, maybe not invest like do, but participate? I'm not sure -- but yesterday I found myself wanting to get out of the house but not really feeling like writing. And I was at a loss of things to do. Going out by myself is no longer that much of a hindrance. I just need to find places to go, things to get into and enjoy -- maximize my full creative potential.
I leave for Cave Canem in a week. Yep. Exciting.
Then 19 days in the mountains, solo.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
seven days to a new me
today was my last day in the trial period for yoga, and i'm sad. i want to have money that flows and flows so that i can just have this place to go to whenever i want. but i understand that folks gotta get paid. everyone has to get paid. the place has to get paid in order to stay available. yes. i know.
it's interesting to think about the transformation between last week and this week. I don't know what the click was, but I was just ready to do some things differently than I have in the past, and these new patterns are ironically freeing.
Don't get me wrong. I am aware that this honeymoon phase will be over, and there are still some rocky roads coming up, but...i have faith that things will get better and better, and I can resurrect my mantra: every day a little closer.
And it's interesting that mantra that I adopted at the beginning of the year and seeing it put to work. In yoga, especially, I see it in work. I see it in the body, how everyday you ask the body to do a little bit more, to bring your back to curve like a c so that you can bend your torso back over your butt and touch your heels. and you'd never thought that you could bring your eyes to see the back corner of the room while the rest of you is pointing forward. and four days ago you got nauseous when you attempted this, but today, today was the day you get a little bit closer. yep
everyday a little bit closer.
it's interesting to think about the transformation between last week and this week. I don't know what the click was, but I was just ready to do some things differently than I have in the past, and these new patterns are ironically freeing.
Don't get me wrong. I am aware that this honeymoon phase will be over, and there are still some rocky roads coming up, but...i have faith that things will get better and better, and I can resurrect my mantra: every day a little closer.
And it's interesting that mantra that I adopted at the beginning of the year and seeing it put to work. In yoga, especially, I see it in work. I see it in the body, how everyday you ask the body to do a little bit more, to bring your back to curve like a c so that you can bend your torso back over your butt and touch your heels. and you'd never thought that you could bring your eyes to see the back corner of the room while the rest of you is pointing forward. and four days ago you got nauseous when you attempted this, but today, today was the day you get a little bit closer. yep
everyday a little bit closer.
Monday, June 9, 2008
rachelle ferrell
If I've ever gotten into a music conversation with any of you, you'd know that I absolutely love Rachelle Ferrell. That is interesting for me to admit. Honestly, I can't remember how I got a hold of her. I believe it was my early days surfing the web afterschool, and reading a review of her album. Then, somehow, I was looking for CDs and found hers, and bought it because I remember the review and the rest, is history.
My friend in the city, Jennifer, was walking by the Blue Note on Friday and told me that Rachelle Ferrell was playing there and she remembered how much I liked her. What good friends I have. Granted, I walk by the Blue Note a lot. I do. I even sometimes look in to see what's going on, but I never figured anyone that I'd really want to see would be there. But Rachelle!
I contemplated the next two days if I would go. It was too late for Friday, Saturday I had to work. Sunday was the last day. I decided on Sunday, if I were to go, and even still it was a toss up because I am in no position to splurge on a concert, however, tickets weren't that much if you sat at the bar...
Did I mention that it was my first NYC show? Did I also mention that it was, in fact, my first show going to solo? Yes, I called two people to see if they would be interested in going, but I had made up in my mind that I was going solo. I did. So add that to the list of yoga, bars, concerts solo.
Later on, I'll update with my thoughts about the concert, but let me just say...amazing. I wished she had played my favorite song, but there's (hopefully) other chances to see her, enjoy her.
Cassandra Wilson is playing tonight. I can't afford it. Too bad.
My friend in the city, Jennifer, was walking by the Blue Note on Friday and told me that Rachelle Ferrell was playing there and she remembered how much I liked her. What good friends I have. Granted, I walk by the Blue Note a lot. I do. I even sometimes look in to see what's going on, but I never figured anyone that I'd really want to see would be there. But Rachelle!
I contemplated the next two days if I would go. It was too late for Friday, Saturday I had to work. Sunday was the last day. I decided on Sunday, if I were to go, and even still it was a toss up because I am in no position to splurge on a concert, however, tickets weren't that much if you sat at the bar...
Did I mention that it was my first NYC show? Did I also mention that it was, in fact, my first show going to solo? Yes, I called two people to see if they would be interested in going, but I had made up in my mind that I was going solo. I did. So add that to the list of yoga, bars, concerts solo.
Later on, I'll update with my thoughts about the concert, but let me just say...amazing. I wished she had played my favorite song, but there's (hopefully) other chances to see her, enjoy her.
Cassandra Wilson is playing tonight. I can't afford it. Too bad.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
boundaries crossed
An amazing thing happened today. I went for my third day of bikram yoga (that should say enough..) and got in there and thought, I'm really sweaty and hot (note to self: NEVER stand under the lights, as if the heat of the room isn't enough already) and my tanktop, sticking to me, is getting on my nerves. So. I took it off. I contemplated it for a good first 25 minutes of the set. Then I thought: we're all in here sweating and focus should be on ourselves only and not anyone else. I took off the tanktop and focused my eyes on my body as I watched it go in and out of the poses.
It was an interesting freedom I was afforded just then - the freedom to take off my tanktop in a space where I felt I had room to. It was mostly for comfort - the shirt was soaked through and wet on my skin, and I didn't like the feeling. It was also to see if I would do it, because i could...I could have started with the shirt on and kept it on. I could have started with the shirt off, then I wouldn't have to go through the whole agony of deciding on whether or not to take it off. Still, I decided it's my comfort, my body. No one else should be looking at it at this moment but myself. And I have to be able to look at it.
So, I'm hooked to this bikram yoga. I've gone three times and had three different teachers. I've decided that I like the teacher that talks really fast, that goes through it motorcycle-style and revs up the engine. He, however, teaches at 6:30am on tuesday/thursday. When my trial period is up, I'm going to have to figure out a way to do what I want...so that I can be there like i'd want to be.
It was an interesting freedom I was afforded just then - the freedom to take off my tanktop in a space where I felt I had room to. It was mostly for comfort - the shirt was soaked through and wet on my skin, and I didn't like the feeling. It was also to see if I would do it, because i could...I could have started with the shirt on and kept it on. I could have started with the shirt off, then I wouldn't have to go through the whole agony of deciding on whether or not to take it off. Still, I decided it's my comfort, my body. No one else should be looking at it at this moment but myself. And I have to be able to look at it.
So, I'm hooked to this bikram yoga. I've gone three times and had three different teachers. I've decided that I like the teacher that talks really fast, that goes through it motorcycle-style and revs up the engine. He, however, teaches at 6:30am on tuesday/thursday. When my trial period is up, I'm going to have to figure out a way to do what I want...so that I can be there like i'd want to be.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Early morning yoga, growing up.
So Thursday was a day of firsts for me. Yep. My coworker invited me last weekend to try this yoga class that was/is right around the corner from our houses. I agreed. It meant waking up at 6am. It meant going to do yoga for 90 minutes in essentially a sauna, heated to 105 degrees.
I've done some yoga practices before, but not in a studio, not with a real, live person in front of me. There is something to be said about that experience, but I'm not sure what yet. Maybe that, I don't listen well (but I knew it) and need someone to actually do the poses so that I can see it. I have to see it.
I also know it was an interesting experience to look at yourself, full-bodied, in a mirror for 90 minutes. It felt good to sweat though, I love to sweat. It's interesting to watch yourself contort into the various poses, like standing on your right leg while you reach behind you for your left ankle, and you raise your right arm in the air and then charge your body forward and your left ankle towards the ceiling and you see, almost for the first time, the sole of your foot in the air, in the mirror.
Here I am, sitting on my couch, a bit sore, but proud of myself. I didn't know my body could do some of the things I asked it to do. I thanked it for bending my forehead to my knee, thanked it for bringing my hands, clasped around the ball of right my foot, raised in the air while my left leg stayed planted straight into the ground to hold me up. I went again today, and learned that I prefer yoga if there are less people, and already have made in my mind what kind of teacher I like...yesterday, the guy was talking too fast, today the woman was talking too much, too slow. It made the 90 minutes feel like 90 minutes, and what's interesting is that the one today was later, and I was more tired today than yesterday. Tomorrow I rest.
Another thing about growing up and doing things you never thought you'd do would have to be going to bars by yourself. Add on to that, going to bars by yourself in NYC. I set in my mind this week that I was going to go to a bar by myself. Tuesday, my friend was DJing around here and invited me. I agreed. He said he'd be unavailable to talk so I thought, perfect. So I went, his equipment wasn't working and so he was down in the lounge, and immediately I didn't want to be there anymore. I pulled out my moleskin and started writing. Some friends were eating dinner around the corner, and ended up meeting up with me so I wasn't really at the bar alone.
Thursday, after my yoga success, and after work, I decided to go to a bar, by myself. I was tempted to call people. I was, I'm not going to lie. But I wanted it to be a conscious decision that I go to the bar by myself, not for the situation to be that I was going because there was no one to go with. Anyways, I walked a good distance and went to three different places before I decided on a bar. It was a place I had gone to with a friend a few months back. I remember their happy hour being late and nice and so I said I could go there and do my alone bar time with some cheap drinks. And lo, the only seat in the bar available was next to this lone guy with dreadlocks down his back, and I thought, how ironic. I sat down and ordered my drink, and sat. Just sat. Then I was like, this is boring. And I looked at the guy next to me. And I didn't say anything. Secretely I wanted him to notice me and speak to me. He didn't. Finally, halfway into my Jameson, neat, I decided to speak up and say something. I spoke to him, asked him about his locks. We just went from there....I ended up staying in the bar for a couple of hours. It wasn't so bad afterall. I didn't die.
I've done some yoga practices before, but not in a studio, not with a real, live person in front of me. There is something to be said about that experience, but I'm not sure what yet. Maybe that, I don't listen well (but I knew it) and need someone to actually do the poses so that I can see it. I have to see it.
I also know it was an interesting experience to look at yourself, full-bodied, in a mirror for 90 minutes. It felt good to sweat though, I love to sweat. It's interesting to watch yourself contort into the various poses, like standing on your right leg while you reach behind you for your left ankle, and you raise your right arm in the air and then charge your body forward and your left ankle towards the ceiling and you see, almost for the first time, the sole of your foot in the air, in the mirror.
Here I am, sitting on my couch, a bit sore, but proud of myself. I didn't know my body could do some of the things I asked it to do. I thanked it for bending my forehead to my knee, thanked it for bringing my hands, clasped around the ball of right my foot, raised in the air while my left leg stayed planted straight into the ground to hold me up. I went again today, and learned that I prefer yoga if there are less people, and already have made in my mind what kind of teacher I like...yesterday, the guy was talking too fast, today the woman was talking too much, too slow. It made the 90 minutes feel like 90 minutes, and what's interesting is that the one today was later, and I was more tired today than yesterday. Tomorrow I rest.
Another thing about growing up and doing things you never thought you'd do would have to be going to bars by yourself. Add on to that, going to bars by yourself in NYC. I set in my mind this week that I was going to go to a bar by myself. Tuesday, my friend was DJing around here and invited me. I agreed. He said he'd be unavailable to talk so I thought, perfect. So I went, his equipment wasn't working and so he was down in the lounge, and immediately I didn't want to be there anymore. I pulled out my moleskin and started writing. Some friends were eating dinner around the corner, and ended up meeting up with me so I wasn't really at the bar alone.
Thursday, after my yoga success, and after work, I decided to go to a bar, by myself. I was tempted to call people. I was, I'm not going to lie. But I wanted it to be a conscious decision that I go to the bar by myself, not for the situation to be that I was going because there was no one to go with. Anyways, I walked a good distance and went to three different places before I decided on a bar. It was a place I had gone to with a friend a few months back. I remember their happy hour being late and nice and so I said I could go there and do my alone bar time with some cheap drinks. And lo, the only seat in the bar available was next to this lone guy with dreadlocks down his back, and I thought, how ironic. I sat down and ordered my drink, and sat. Just sat. Then I was like, this is boring. And I looked at the guy next to me. And I didn't say anything. Secretely I wanted him to notice me and speak to me. He didn't. Finally, halfway into my Jameson, neat, I decided to speak up and say something. I spoke to him, asked him about his locks. We just went from there....I ended up staying in the bar for a couple of hours. It wasn't so bad afterall. I didn't die.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
LouderArts
Monday I had the chance to feature at Bar13, LouderArts. It was fun. I basically had all the poems I was going to read in this green folder with me and I paced around and around until it was time for me to go up. As soon as I step onto the stage, my eye starts to freak out, just one eye, and it waters for a good five minutes. Luckily, God has given me two, and the ability to see without needing both, and so the show still went on.
Before my reading, I was supposed to have a poetry elective class. My student and I were headed to the Starbucks - because it's only appropriate that one should hold a writing class in a coffeeshop - and got onto the elevator at my job and ended up getting stuck. For an hour. Yes. Stuck. Being the traveler that I am, I had plenty of reading material that I needed to focus on to keep from freaking out. I am mildly claustrophobic, and it is sparked when I can't see or feel or hear air flow. So to keep from thinking I was going to suffocate to death, and my last time on earth was going to be in this damned elevator, I decided to read some of the things I had with me. Of them, an essay about the Holocaust and how poetry - the embodiment of poetry - helped some of the concentration camp prisoners survive, how it sustained them. I thought it interesting that I should choose this essay at this time to read, and I pulled out some excerpts to frame my reading. It worked relatively well.
So. I read a billion poems. I don't believe it felt as long as it was. Everyone in the room was quiet and listening. My roommate came and recorded it, and it sounds amazing, and I hope to find a way to get it up here so that others can listen (if only in parts) if they want to.
I have this thing with poetry readings...it's why I like to have a weekly spot to read at, or why I like to do a lot of poetry readings - I want to read new work in front of an audience. New work. But then I realized, this is a prelude into what my own readings will be like when I have my book out, so I figured it only fair most of them come from there. So I did, but I still read new work...and I loved it. They loved it. Patrick Rosal and Aracelis Girmay were there. My roommate and several of my friends were there. It was a nice and lovely and just grand time.
I'll let you know if I get the audio up and running.
Before my reading, I was supposed to have a poetry elective class. My student and I were headed to the Starbucks - because it's only appropriate that one should hold a writing class in a coffeeshop - and got onto the elevator at my job and ended up getting stuck. For an hour. Yes. Stuck. Being the traveler that I am, I had plenty of reading material that I needed to focus on to keep from freaking out. I am mildly claustrophobic, and it is sparked when I can't see or feel or hear air flow. So to keep from thinking I was going to suffocate to death, and my last time on earth was going to be in this damned elevator, I decided to read some of the things I had with me. Of them, an essay about the Holocaust and how poetry - the embodiment of poetry - helped some of the concentration camp prisoners survive, how it sustained them. I thought it interesting that I should choose this essay at this time to read, and I pulled out some excerpts to frame my reading. It worked relatively well.
So. I read a billion poems. I don't believe it felt as long as it was. Everyone in the room was quiet and listening. My roommate came and recorded it, and it sounds amazing, and I hope to find a way to get it up here so that others can listen (if only in parts) if they want to.
I have this thing with poetry readings...it's why I like to have a weekly spot to read at, or why I like to do a lot of poetry readings - I want to read new work in front of an audience. New work. But then I realized, this is a prelude into what my own readings will be like when I have my book out, so I figured it only fair most of them come from there. So I did, but I still read new work...and I loved it. They loved it. Patrick Rosal and Aracelis Girmay were there. My roommate and several of my friends were there. It was a nice and lovely and just grand time.
I'll let you know if I get the audio up and running.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
process: interviewing poems
I love reading writer's blogs. I do. I love reading blogs that have some substance. This includes Palestinian blogs, though I haven't read them in a while, but I will return to them as I am about to return to my project of telling that story through poems. But back to my original thought: I've decided to utilize this blog more about process, to start a dialogue about process and what's going on in this mind of mine, and hopefully yours.
There's this thing that I've begun to do with poems as I am starting them. First, I have to have an idea. Once I have the idea down, but not much else, I sit down with the poem and interview it. I write out the five W's and an H. Who, what, where, when, why, and how (sometimes not applicable)...and because the majority of my poetry is narrative, this framework works, because it establishes the story I wish to tell. It helps me get a better view on placement, on characters, on why this event is happening, what sparked this event, etc. It sets up the world for me, this world I will be attempting to describe a little more poetically later. Generally, this is my second-stop approach. If I can't decide how the poem is going to start, then I ask it questions, demand it offer some information if it's not going to give me a first line, and generally from there -- most times a half a journal page or a whole journal page of notes -- I can find an opening to the poem I was wanting to write.
Now, this process only comes when I am wanting to write a poem but can't find a way in. This, I find, is happening more and more as I am working on this novel, but I started this before I started writing my novel. Really, I got it from the summer I worked at a newspaper. I spent my days asking people questions in order to get quotes and ideas with which to find an angle into a story that should be written from the answers provided. How writers find a way out of no way, yes? Who would have thought I could use that summer, now. I thought that was 8 weeks wasted, save for the clips that I have saved, but have not found a job with which to use it yet. Who knows.
Anyways, I always suggest this too, with my writer friends who find themselves stuck. I ask them if they've interviewed their character, or their poem. Have you?
There's this thing that I've begun to do with poems as I am starting them. First, I have to have an idea. Once I have the idea down, but not much else, I sit down with the poem and interview it. I write out the five W's and an H. Who, what, where, when, why, and how (sometimes not applicable)...and because the majority of my poetry is narrative, this framework works, because it establishes the story I wish to tell. It helps me get a better view on placement, on characters, on why this event is happening, what sparked this event, etc. It sets up the world for me, this world I will be attempting to describe a little more poetically later. Generally, this is my second-stop approach. If I can't decide how the poem is going to start, then I ask it questions, demand it offer some information if it's not going to give me a first line, and generally from there -- most times a half a journal page or a whole journal page of notes -- I can find an opening to the poem I was wanting to write.
Now, this process only comes when I am wanting to write a poem but can't find a way in. This, I find, is happening more and more as I am working on this novel, but I started this before I started writing my novel. Really, I got it from the summer I worked at a newspaper. I spent my days asking people questions in order to get quotes and ideas with which to find an angle into a story that should be written from the answers provided. How writers find a way out of no way, yes? Who would have thought I could use that summer, now. I thought that was 8 weeks wasted, save for the clips that I have saved, but have not found a job with which to use it yet. Who knows.
Anyways, I always suggest this too, with my writer friends who find themselves stuck. I ask them if they've interviewed their character, or their poem. Have you?
Friday, May 30, 2008
packing/cleaning
so i am the queen of waiting until the last minute to do something. like packing. like waiting until the day i have to move to get things together and throw stuff away and pack up my life, again, into my two-door honda.
im not moving far. i'm moving across a river, to another state, to new york city. to harlem, to be exact. manhattan. who would have thought? i've lived so close for almost a year, and now i get to experience living in it for at least a year. it sucks you in, i've learned. you get sucked in.
i'm still sort of in transition for a few weeks. then in transition for another few weeks. two months total. this time in august, i hope to be settled down and in my own space and spreading my arms out wide in a room in nyc that is mine. all mine.
but before i get there, i'm going through this life i've piled up in new jersey over the last 10 months. and you make yourself believe that it's not much, that you haven't acquired anything, and then you start trying to break it down and compact it and you realize you have thousands of poems and papers and books....clothes and clothes....and shoes and things here and there. i don't want to have to make two trips. but i might have to. i'm going to try and fit everythinggggg into my car and say there. i'm done.
i'm almost done.
im not moving far. i'm moving across a river, to another state, to new york city. to harlem, to be exact. manhattan. who would have thought? i've lived so close for almost a year, and now i get to experience living in it for at least a year. it sucks you in, i've learned. you get sucked in.
i'm still sort of in transition for a few weeks. then in transition for another few weeks. two months total. this time in august, i hope to be settled down and in my own space and spreading my arms out wide in a room in nyc that is mine. all mine.
but before i get there, i'm going through this life i've piled up in new jersey over the last 10 months. and you make yourself believe that it's not much, that you haven't acquired anything, and then you start trying to break it down and compact it and you realize you have thousands of poems and papers and books....clothes and clothes....and shoes and things here and there. i don't want to have to make two trips. but i might have to. i'm going to try and fit everythinggggg into my car and say there. i'm done.
i'm almost done.
Monday, May 26, 2008
shedding winter skin
this weekend was about the sun.
what i mean is, i look forward to the days when i get sun on my shoulders and get a little browner. i don't mind it. i enjoy shedding my winter skin. That's what i set out to do today. i went into the city and went to bryant park and posted up at a table without an umbrella...i wore my strapless top to save any stupid tan lines, and i proceeded to read and write a bit. i stayed out there for a couple of hours. i moved to the grass and lounged a bit and continued reading...and when i got hungry enough, i headed up to harlem (soon to be home!) and went to this vegetarian juice bar and treated myself to a large dinner and larger dessert....then headed back down to the part...and read some more and watched some guys play this game that includes smallish lead/metal balls that you throw bowling ball style...i dont know. but it made me miss shot put so so so much. and i was just glad to be outside.
although lonely. these next couple of months, i feel it, are going to be excruciatingly lonely. maybe this was prep for my residencies coming up? I find myself getting more and more fed up and frustrated with friends and i wonder why we keep things around us that are hindering us? just because they have a hold on how long they've been in your life doesn't necessarily mean that it is healthy for you to continue to keep them in your life. and i'm learning that. learning to let go. let go and be comfortable with being alone.
yeh. i said it. now, ifi can just put it into practice.
what i mean is, i look forward to the days when i get sun on my shoulders and get a little browner. i don't mind it. i enjoy shedding my winter skin. That's what i set out to do today. i went into the city and went to bryant park and posted up at a table without an umbrella...i wore my strapless top to save any stupid tan lines, and i proceeded to read and write a bit. i stayed out there for a couple of hours. i moved to the grass and lounged a bit and continued reading...and when i got hungry enough, i headed up to harlem (soon to be home!) and went to this vegetarian juice bar and treated myself to a large dinner and larger dessert....then headed back down to the part...and read some more and watched some guys play this game that includes smallish lead/metal balls that you throw bowling ball style...i dont know. but it made me miss shot put so so so much. and i was just glad to be outside.
although lonely. these next couple of months, i feel it, are going to be excruciatingly lonely. maybe this was prep for my residencies coming up? I find myself getting more and more fed up and frustrated with friends and i wonder why we keep things around us that are hindering us? just because they have a hold on how long they've been in your life doesn't necessarily mean that it is healthy for you to continue to keep them in your life. and i'm learning that. learning to let go. let go and be comfortable with being alone.
yeh. i said it. now, ifi can just put it into practice.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
feng shui?
so i've been in a funk lately.
i believe this funk has a lot to do both with the weather and why i haven't felt any sun on my shoulders yet, and with the energy that i've kept/keep around me.
i admitted this to a friend who said i should look into this book "clear your clutter with feng shui" and while this same friend suggested i read the secret and i've been rejecting it since, i did decide to hear her out on this one and went and bought the book.
it's interesting how it described your living space as containing 9 different aspects of your life. i did the chart based on my bedroom and realized i had clutter and poetry books where there should be "space" for relationships....and old clothes where there should be space for friendship...things that used to be clean are now a bit funky, where i had elders and family and creativity and projects...
next week i move and i have about 2 months before i'm secure in any one place so i can't really put this into too much work right now....but it's definitely something i'm going to consider - the way energy works and is blocked and stopped and held up.
i believe this funk has a lot to do both with the weather and why i haven't felt any sun on my shoulders yet, and with the energy that i've kept/keep around me.
i admitted this to a friend who said i should look into this book "clear your clutter with feng shui" and while this same friend suggested i read the secret and i've been rejecting it since, i did decide to hear her out on this one and went and bought the book.
it's interesting how it described your living space as containing 9 different aspects of your life. i did the chart based on my bedroom and realized i had clutter and poetry books where there should be "space" for relationships....and old clothes where there should be space for friendship...things that used to be clean are now a bit funky, where i had elders and family and creativity and projects...
next week i move and i have about 2 months before i'm secure in any one place so i can't really put this into too much work right now....but it's definitely something i'm going to consider - the way energy works and is blocked and stopped and held up.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
the distance
i never appreciated distance with writing. many writers will tell you that you need to let something sit before you go back and make changes. I never appreciated that, along with revision...I always said I hated revision. I still dislike it, but I appreciate its worth.
Right now I have 125 pages of a novel I started back in March. I was supposed to be done with the first draft on Sunday. I guess you could call this my first draft, but no. I still think I have another 75-100 pages left to go before what I imagined to be the narrative arc to be finished. But I'm sort of stuck, you see. I know why I'm stuck, I just haven't really found the way out. Kind of like when you're in a patch of really soft, muddy land in your car and your back tires just can't get enough friction to get out...so you're spinning and revving your engine and keep trying to get your wheels to turn but you just can't. You just can't get out. You know why you're stuck...sure. It's the mud. It's the lack of friction. But no matter how hard you press the gas, until you add that wood plank or until someone comes and pulls you out, you are going to go no where.
That's where I am.
But what I decided to do instead of waste my gas in a world where gas is $4.00 a gallon (or more!), was turn off the engine, rest. I decided not to call the guys to come and pull me out just yet.
Right now I'm slowly editing the first part of my novel, in what I imagine will have 5 parts, I believe. At first i thought three. Then I thought four. But I don't think a novel would feel right with four parts. I think either 3 or 5. So I'm going with five. I think. The first part is 47 pages, though with all of the text I'm writing in the novels and with some of the spaces I still have to fill, the questions I am able to ask now that I have some separation and some forsight on at least the next 75 pages, I think this section will definitely grow. It's growing. I see it. I sense it. My novel.
Some goals for the next few months:
Get to 150 pages BEFORE Cave Canem. That means 25 pages in a month. Come on. A page a day. That's nothing compared to my rate that I pumped out the first couple hundred pages!
I have to say before Cave Canem, because literally, I have a day after CC and then I'm off to Connecticut for my Soul Mountain retreat for 2.5 weeks. There, I would like to have my draft FINISHED as well as a chapbook. And some new headway on my Palestine project which is looking more and more like a realistic thing.
Other things I would like for the second half of 2008 as far as career and writing go:
A literary agent. Know one? Send them my way.
Book Five Poetry readings in 2009.
Get more fiction accepted for publication. Which means write more fiction, send more fiction out!
More poetry publications.
Yep.
Right now I have 125 pages of a novel I started back in March. I was supposed to be done with the first draft on Sunday. I guess you could call this my first draft, but no. I still think I have another 75-100 pages left to go before what I imagined to be the narrative arc to be finished. But I'm sort of stuck, you see. I know why I'm stuck, I just haven't really found the way out. Kind of like when you're in a patch of really soft, muddy land in your car and your back tires just can't get enough friction to get out...so you're spinning and revving your engine and keep trying to get your wheels to turn but you just can't. You just can't get out. You know why you're stuck...sure. It's the mud. It's the lack of friction. But no matter how hard you press the gas, until you add that wood plank or until someone comes and pulls you out, you are going to go no where.
That's where I am.
But what I decided to do instead of waste my gas in a world where gas is $4.00 a gallon (or more!), was turn off the engine, rest. I decided not to call the guys to come and pull me out just yet.
Right now I'm slowly editing the first part of my novel, in what I imagine will have 5 parts, I believe. At first i thought three. Then I thought four. But I don't think a novel would feel right with four parts. I think either 3 or 5. So I'm going with five. I think. The first part is 47 pages, though with all of the text I'm writing in the novels and with some of the spaces I still have to fill, the questions I am able to ask now that I have some separation and some forsight on at least the next 75 pages, I think this section will definitely grow. It's growing. I see it. I sense it. My novel.
Some goals for the next few months:
Get to 150 pages BEFORE Cave Canem. That means 25 pages in a month. Come on. A page a day. That's nothing compared to my rate that I pumped out the first couple hundred pages!
I have to say before Cave Canem, because literally, I have a day after CC and then I'm off to Connecticut for my Soul Mountain retreat for 2.5 weeks. There, I would like to have my draft FINISHED as well as a chapbook. And some new headway on my Palestine project which is looking more and more like a realistic thing.
Other things I would like for the second half of 2008 as far as career and writing go:
A literary agent. Know one? Send them my way.
Book Five Poetry readings in 2009.
Get more fiction accepted for publication. Which means write more fiction, send more fiction out!
More poetry publications.
Yep.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Purple nail polish
i was feeling relatively down earlier this week with all the drama going on in my life. there is good stuff going around, don't get me wrong, and on some days the good overshadows the bad...things like stressing over who to thank on an acknowledgements page or who to blurb your published book, or what your cover is going to look like, etc etc. good things. but then the other stuff, the heavier stuff comes in a like an unexpected rain storm and stays for a while and rains all day on your one day off (sorry, i'm bitter: it's friday, and it rained today, as it did last friday...my one day off!) and you realize that everything that came before doesn't really matter in that moment that you're soaking wet and walking down the streets of harlem looking to eat at this vegetarian restaurant.
i don't know where that's going.
but, earlier this week my friends were getting manicures and pedicures and i didn't want to spend all that money, so i just got a nail color change. i picked up this fuschia-colored nail polish that is funky and girly and makes me smile when i look at it. i think i'm going to get this done more often....go and just have someone do something for me for a few minutes that will last for a while.
i'm always doing things for others...
i don't know where that's going.
but, earlier this week my friends were getting manicures and pedicures and i didn't want to spend all that money, so i just got a nail color change. i picked up this fuschia-colored nail polish that is funky and girly and makes me smile when i look at it. i think i'm going to get this done more often....go and just have someone do something for me for a few minutes that will last for a while.
i'm always doing things for others...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
drowning
i forgot for most of the day that i dreamt last night that i was drowning. that is, until i got to work and things were hitting the fan from left and from the right and i remembered maybe it was referencing my job, this drowning feeling that i had. basically i was in shallow water where i could see that someone was sitting on a pier right where i was drowning, and i couldn't really do anything. ironically, i had a dream about this, and was thinking about an important part in my novel that i am writing, a part that talks about how the infant is so used to water b/c while in the womb, it breathed it in through its mouth and nose. so that's how i didn't panic, i was filling my body, through my mouth and nose with water. when i realized that it wasn't keeping me alive, i still didn't panic. i still was moving this water, and it was slowing me down and i felt my body shutting down, and finally i move myself, underwater still, nearer to the pier, where right before i think that i'm going to die, i do the one thing i can do and that's lift my hand above the water and hope the person sees and pulls me out. and they do. and then i guess i either woke up or switched gears in the dream.
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