an excerpt:
Epistolary to the Woman Across a Continent
Dear Eula,
You should know that we do not know each other. Perhaps you know it. Still, I am writing with the best wishes for your well-being. I am well.
I am writing because I want to know if you believe in fate. I need to know this. Often, I find myself sure of this idea that we are locked in life like a maze and there is only one correct path, despite the allusion that we have choices.
Allow me to explain. Once, my sister and I were riding in my grandfather’s green station wagon. He had picked us up from our house so we could spend the weekend with him. It was one of my favorite things to do. Anyways, we were riding in the car and I noticed that we were not taking any of the routes I’d known to get to the cul-de-sac on which my grandparents lived. I inquired our destination from the back seat. My sister, older and up front, said nothing – seemingly annoyed she’d spend another weekend on my grandparent’s couch.
I asked why we were going this way, and my grandfather said something to the effect of there being multiple ways to skin a squirrel (maybe I’ll tell you one of the ways I know in my next letter), and that all roads lead home. My sister told him she was familiar with this route, and that he was going the wrong way. Imagine that: two girls having never held the steering wheel of anything giving directions. We reached a stop sign and my grandfather acquiesced – she said fine, which way should I go? We’d look left, look right, and chose a path. He listened. We’d hit several dead ends and would have to turn around, return to the point we went astray. He’d go back to the last turn, and we’d choose another path.
I don’t remember how long this went one or if we finally found our way on our own, or if Grandpa gave up on the game we were playing and just drove us to this house. It was kind of like that maze I mentioned, like life, wouldn’t you agree? We think we should go one way and we do and then we reach the dead end and either choose to cast down our reigns and give up or we turn back.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Writing, day 3
an excerpt:
--------------------------
Believe
I admit, I am more gullible than most. I am a cynic and skeptic, too. I don’t know how both sides of the dichotomy exist within me without some internal combustion, but they do. Most times, I believe what I am told.
I only knew my grandfather as a retiree. I’ve heard stories and seen pictures of when he was in the army or when he sliced open the dead bodies of mental patients. Maybe, looking back, these are selective memories, what I choose to remember or file away in the card catalog of memories and deceased family members. I am guilty of that. Choosing things I want to remember: mostly the positive things. Once, my family was reminiscing about him – noting his absence – at a cook out. Everyone was throwing around a series of “do you remembers” followed by nothing that sounded like the man I knew. I refused to believe that. Here is where my skepticism kicked in. I refused to believe that he was a drunk, or that one time he set his Monte Carlo on fire while driving down South Carolina’s I-20.
The James – we called him Papa James – I knew spent his afternoons turning his suburban backyard into a farm. For me. Everything he did, he professed, he did it for me.
In my grandparents’ back yard, around the magnolia that is positioned right in the center, were the following (not all at once, but some permeation of the following based on the season and availability): chicks; ducks; a pond with carp, goldfish and two small turtles (my sister named them Thelma and Louise; I named them Felix and Otis); rabbits; a “jungle gym”; a picnic table and grill made of cinderblocks; a storage shed; a green house; a house where he put a TV, bed, and rocking chair; cats named Tom and Jerry – none of the animals except the finches were allowed inside; Iguanas; a small garden with various fruits and vegetables; a barrel opened on its side filled with a strawberry patch.
Over the summers, I would spend weeks at a time there; my grandfather and I both needed something or someone to occupy those empty days. My grandmother was still working and would be up and out of the house before I woke up and I would hear in my sleep the faint sounds of some lawn mower or gardening appliance. I’d wake up and make my way to the kitchen where a ritual breakfast of fried eggs, grits and sausage were waiting.
Eventually, I’d make it outside. By then the sun was up and out and my grandfather was done with his work for the day. He’d come inside and take a nap. I’d romp around from sprinkler to greenhouse to chicken shed to rabbit cage to the strawberry patch.
It wasn’t until I entered the house one day – my fingers and face marked – to find Papa James reading his Bible, preparing for his Sunday school teaching. He looked up and asked me what I had gotten into. I was sure that he’d still be napping and I could wash my face and hands and settle down to whatever lunch he had fixed. I couldn’t lie; I told him I tasted some of the strawberries. That was a lie. I had picked all of the red ones and eaten them right there, hovering the barrel.
He closed his Bible and began to fix my lunch. I rushed to wash up. He entertained my desire to watch cartoons, and I remember this particular cartoon was an episode of Rugrats. The trouble-maker girl – Angelica (of whom I related to most at times) was tormenting one of the younger kids because they had eaten the seed of some fruit. Watermelon, I believe. She told them that they should know you never eat the seeds of anything. Ever. That to eat the seeds of something would surely mean that you’d have the whole fruit growing inside of you. And you’d die.
Papa James took this opportunity to tell me that it was true. You never, ever eat the seeds. You could die. He then asked me if I ate the strawberries. I said yes. He said, soon there will be a strawberry patch growing in my stomach.
Scared of what that could mean – that my small frame would expand to explosion – I wanted to give every strawberry back. It was too late he said. We sat and watched the end of the cartoon, and he cleaned up and went outside to tend to his garden.
How did one avoid eating strawberry seeds? They were outside of the fruit; countless numbers embedded in the red flesh. I contemplated the thousand seeds I had consumed. How each one would grow and grow. I hadn’t believed the cartoon. It was a bunch of moving pictures and voice-overs and extreme scenarios enlarged by childish imaginations. But my grandfather had confirmed its truth. I believed. I was going to die.
--------------------------
Believe
I admit, I am more gullible than most. I am a cynic and skeptic, too. I don’t know how both sides of the dichotomy exist within me without some internal combustion, but they do. Most times, I believe what I am told.
I only knew my grandfather as a retiree. I’ve heard stories and seen pictures of when he was in the army or when he sliced open the dead bodies of mental patients. Maybe, looking back, these are selective memories, what I choose to remember or file away in the card catalog of memories and deceased family members. I am guilty of that. Choosing things I want to remember: mostly the positive things. Once, my family was reminiscing about him – noting his absence – at a cook out. Everyone was throwing around a series of “do you remembers” followed by nothing that sounded like the man I knew. I refused to believe that. Here is where my skepticism kicked in. I refused to believe that he was a drunk, or that one time he set his Monte Carlo on fire while driving down South Carolina’s I-20.
The James – we called him Papa James – I knew spent his afternoons turning his suburban backyard into a farm. For me. Everything he did, he professed, he did it for me.
In my grandparents’ back yard, around the magnolia that is positioned right in the center, were the following (not all at once, but some permeation of the following based on the season and availability): chicks; ducks; a pond with carp, goldfish and two small turtles (my sister named them Thelma and Louise; I named them Felix and Otis); rabbits; a “jungle gym”; a picnic table and grill made of cinderblocks; a storage shed; a green house; a house where he put a TV, bed, and rocking chair; cats named Tom and Jerry – none of the animals except the finches were allowed inside; Iguanas; a small garden with various fruits and vegetables; a barrel opened on its side filled with a strawberry patch.
Over the summers, I would spend weeks at a time there; my grandfather and I both needed something or someone to occupy those empty days. My grandmother was still working and would be up and out of the house before I woke up and I would hear in my sleep the faint sounds of some lawn mower or gardening appliance. I’d wake up and make my way to the kitchen where a ritual breakfast of fried eggs, grits and sausage were waiting.
Eventually, I’d make it outside. By then the sun was up and out and my grandfather was done with his work for the day. He’d come inside and take a nap. I’d romp around from sprinkler to greenhouse to chicken shed to rabbit cage to the strawberry patch.
It wasn’t until I entered the house one day – my fingers and face marked – to find Papa James reading his Bible, preparing for his Sunday school teaching. He looked up and asked me what I had gotten into. I was sure that he’d still be napping and I could wash my face and hands and settle down to whatever lunch he had fixed. I couldn’t lie; I told him I tasted some of the strawberries. That was a lie. I had picked all of the red ones and eaten them right there, hovering the barrel.
He closed his Bible and began to fix my lunch. I rushed to wash up. He entertained my desire to watch cartoons, and I remember this particular cartoon was an episode of Rugrats. The trouble-maker girl – Angelica (of whom I related to most at times) was tormenting one of the younger kids because they had eaten the seed of some fruit. Watermelon, I believe. She told them that they should know you never eat the seeds of anything. Ever. That to eat the seeds of something would surely mean that you’d have the whole fruit growing inside of you. And you’d die.
Papa James took this opportunity to tell me that it was true. You never, ever eat the seeds. You could die. He then asked me if I ate the strawberries. I said yes. He said, soon there will be a strawberry patch growing in my stomach.
Scared of what that could mean – that my small frame would expand to explosion – I wanted to give every strawberry back. It was too late he said. We sat and watched the end of the cartoon, and he cleaned up and went outside to tend to his garden.
How did one avoid eating strawberry seeds? They were outside of the fruit; countless numbers embedded in the red flesh. I contemplated the thousand seeds I had consumed. How each one would grow and grow. I hadn’t believed the cartoon. It was a bunch of moving pictures and voice-overs and extreme scenarios enlarged by childish imaginations. But my grandfather had confirmed its truth. I believed. I was going to die.
Writing day 2
an excerpt from yesterday's offering:
-------------------
Commitment Phobia
After the men delivered and assembled my bed in my first Harlem apartment, I sat on the bare mattress and cried.
Earlier that day I deflated the air mattress that I slept on for fifteen months: almost five hundred days sleeping six inches above hardwood floors. I had deflated and packed away this air matter my mother gave me when I left South Carolina for the Mid Atlantic. She asked me what I was going to sleep on. I hadn’t thought that far; most of my other housing situations came with some sort of sleeping situation already figured out. The day she gave me the air mattress, I had already packed my books first into my two-door Honda Civic; whatever room was left then got filled with clothes, my guitar and flute. I had no money to buy a bed as soon as I got there, so the air mattress would have to do for a few weeks or months.
I never owned my own bed despite having moved four times between two Carolinas over the course of two years. Priding myself on the knowledge my father bestowed me to be independent, I set out not to burden or inconvenience anyone. To acquire real furniture would be to have to coordinate and pay for movers. The easiest fix would be to keep my worldly possessions at a minimum. Could it fit in my car should I need to move tomorrow? I awaited the imminent possible displacement like some await the apocalypse, and like the believers, I had to be ready to go.
-------------------
Commitment Phobia
After the men delivered and assembled my bed in my first Harlem apartment, I sat on the bare mattress and cried.
Earlier that day I deflated the air mattress that I slept on for fifteen months: almost five hundred days sleeping six inches above hardwood floors. I had deflated and packed away this air matter my mother gave me when I left South Carolina for the Mid Atlantic. She asked me what I was going to sleep on. I hadn’t thought that far; most of my other housing situations came with some sort of sleeping situation already figured out. The day she gave me the air mattress, I had already packed my books first into my two-door Honda Civic; whatever room was left then got filled with clothes, my guitar and flute. I had no money to buy a bed as soon as I got there, so the air mattress would have to do for a few weeks or months.
I never owned my own bed despite having moved four times between two Carolinas over the course of two years. Priding myself on the knowledge my father bestowed me to be independent, I set out not to burden or inconvenience anyone. To acquire real furniture would be to have to coordinate and pay for movers. The easiest fix would be to keep my worldly possessions at a minimum. Could it fit in my car should I need to move tomorrow? I awaited the imminent possible displacement like some await the apocalypse, and like the believers, I had to be ready to go.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Writing
Yesterday, I set out to write an essay, and got it done. A first draft, at least. It's an idea I've been swimming around in my head for a while -- this idea that I do not have a history of oral tradition in my family. Being from the South, it is expected, almost -- at least outsiders expect it. But what I've discovered from writing and being able to write and be creative in that writing is that I have the freedom and the ability to create my own narratives based on the fragments of information I've collected along the way.
It felt good to write something. Even though it wasn't a poem. I haven't really been producing anything as of late, and I felt backed up. I can't really think of a poem to write, but I do have this desire to write a collection of essays, so I figured why not try that? At least, I mean, an essay.
Here's the first part: (there are 4 short sections) Oh, and the title is a working title.
------
Southern enough
“My family believed I’d have words for others.” Elizabeth Alexander
I.
I only know the truths they told me. My family isn’t particularly big on secrets, but hierarchies, we’ve got hierarchies. Age determines the amount of truths you get; I was a child when all of the good stuff happened.
I should clarify. By family, I largely mean my mother’s side. Most of my truths are one-sided.
When I was young, I never thought the truths I carried were sufficient. But because of the hierarchy, I was unable to ask questions for clarification. I was expected to take what I was given. But I was curious, and always found myself on the perimeter of adult circles snatching pieces of gossip or stories until I was discovered, admonished and told to go play. Even now, as I write this, I do not know if anything I have just revealed – that I used to snoop around like a truth-detective – is one-hundred percent truth, but I know I received information from somewhere and at some point. Perhaps they have told this to me too, and that is how I’ve come to know what I do – not experientially. I do not know which is true.
A truth I know: I’ve come to realize people in New York City expect me to have folklore ready on my tongue. This is outside of the fact that I am a writer – but maybe it is magnified because I claim to be one – but more because of the fact that I reign from the South. Upon identifying as a Southerner, the interested party will ask: “Will you tell me about The South?” And I suspect they want what I cannot deliver: some complete fable, rife with spirits and back roads, moonshine in mason jars, Klansmen and burned crosses, “For Whites Only Signs” above water fountains, a rural and backwards south, some romantic other-world.Most of these stories they expect to have been passed down orally from generation to generation – all the way back to Slavery. I tell them I can’t get my family tree past Georgia. Only four or so generations.
But I do give them the fragments that I have: my paternal grandmother attested to having seen several ghosts while working as a domestic on the waterfront mansions in Charleston, SC; my maternal grandfather performed autopsies on the mentally ill and would bring whole brains home in jars; my maternal grandmother washed and styled her dead mother’s hair the night before my great-grandmother Georgia Mae’s funeral.
It felt good to write something. Even though it wasn't a poem. I haven't really been producing anything as of late, and I felt backed up. I can't really think of a poem to write, but I do have this desire to write a collection of essays, so I figured why not try that? At least, I mean, an essay.
Here's the first part: (there are 4 short sections) Oh, and the title is a working title.
------
Southern enough
“My family believed I’d have words for others.” Elizabeth Alexander
I.
I only know the truths they told me. My family isn’t particularly big on secrets, but hierarchies, we’ve got hierarchies. Age determines the amount of truths you get; I was a child when all of the good stuff happened.
I should clarify. By family, I largely mean my mother’s side. Most of my truths are one-sided.
When I was young, I never thought the truths I carried were sufficient. But because of the hierarchy, I was unable to ask questions for clarification. I was expected to take what I was given. But I was curious, and always found myself on the perimeter of adult circles snatching pieces of gossip or stories until I was discovered, admonished and told to go play. Even now, as I write this, I do not know if anything I have just revealed – that I used to snoop around like a truth-detective – is one-hundred percent truth, but I know I received information from somewhere and at some point. Perhaps they have told this to me too, and that is how I’ve come to know what I do – not experientially. I do not know which is true.
A truth I know: I’ve come to realize people in New York City expect me to have folklore ready on my tongue. This is outside of the fact that I am a writer – but maybe it is magnified because I claim to be one – but more because of the fact that I reign from the South. Upon identifying as a Southerner, the interested party will ask: “Will you tell me about The South?” And I suspect they want what I cannot deliver: some complete fable, rife with spirits and back roads, moonshine in mason jars, Klansmen and burned crosses, “For Whites Only Signs” above water fountains, a rural and backwards south, some romantic other-world.Most of these stories they expect to have been passed down orally from generation to generation – all the way back to Slavery. I tell them I can’t get my family tree past Georgia. Only four or so generations.
But I do give them the fragments that I have: my paternal grandmother attested to having seen several ghosts while working as a domestic on the waterfront mansions in Charleston, SC; my maternal grandfather performed autopsies on the mentally ill and would bring whole brains home in jars; my maternal grandmother washed and styled her dead mother’s hair the night before my great-grandmother Georgia Mae’s funeral.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Back in NYC
I'm back in New York, and not a moment too soon. Today it was so beautiful outside. I broke out the sandals and dress. I had some work that I had to do that was due today so I decided if I was going to have to work, that at least I should look cute. So, I did. I went to a coffeeshop to grade papers. I ran into a friend there and chatted for a bit.
Another friend of mine had a BBQ in Brooklyn, and I was determined to make it, so that gave me some incentive to get everything done and in early so I didn't have to worry about anything later tonight. So I went over to brooklyn for some Uno and grilled veggies and meats and then another friend called for a movie tonight, Sugar, about a Dominican baseball player. It was a good movie, but I think a little too much to see late night, b/c it was all in subtitles. Then we walked around the city to grab a cup of coffee and then walked back to the train and headed home. I was surprised when I walked into my apartment and my clock said 2am. I'd had a full day: running, grading, bbqing, movies, etc.
Monday I have to enter the world of reality again. I've been off from my regular jobs for two weeks. One week was my tour, the other week my students were on vacation and I had the DC reading anyways. I don't know what I did with the days inbetween, but they passed. Now I have to figure out how to have the book in the world and be a regular citizen. A whole new game.
Right now I'm working on some interview questions for a friend. It is interesting to think about my work in a critical way. I never really thought about my work in these ways, but it's healthy and good. It gives me insight. It opens me up and opens my eyes. Maybe we can land the interview in a magazine. If not, look for links to his blog, soon.
In other news, I'm interested in seeing reviews/comments/etc about the book. I'm a bit anxious, to tell you the truth. It scares me a bit that people are out there formulating their own opinions about my work, and I cannot defend it. Not that I should have to, but you know.
I'm all over the place. Maybe it's because it's 2am and I had coffee all day. I doubt that I'm going to be able to run in the morning. Maybe walk to church. I haven't been there in a few weeks, and I find myself excited to get back there, as well.
More thoughts on my take on religion and writing later. A question for the interview got me to thinking. It might be a separate essay all together.
Another friend of mine had a BBQ in Brooklyn, and I was determined to make it, so that gave me some incentive to get everything done and in early so I didn't have to worry about anything later tonight. So I went over to brooklyn for some Uno and grilled veggies and meats and then another friend called for a movie tonight, Sugar, about a Dominican baseball player. It was a good movie, but I think a little too much to see late night, b/c it was all in subtitles. Then we walked around the city to grab a cup of coffee and then walked back to the train and headed home. I was surprised when I walked into my apartment and my clock said 2am. I'd had a full day: running, grading, bbqing, movies, etc.
Monday I have to enter the world of reality again. I've been off from my regular jobs for two weeks. One week was my tour, the other week my students were on vacation and I had the DC reading anyways. I don't know what I did with the days inbetween, but they passed. Now I have to figure out how to have the book in the world and be a regular citizen. A whole new game.
Right now I'm working on some interview questions for a friend. It is interesting to think about my work in a critical way. I never really thought about my work in these ways, but it's healthy and good. It gives me insight. It opens me up and opens my eyes. Maybe we can land the interview in a magazine. If not, look for links to his blog, soon.
In other news, I'm interested in seeing reviews/comments/etc about the book. I'm a bit anxious, to tell you the truth. It scares me a bit that people are out there formulating their own opinions about my work, and I cannot defend it. Not that I should have to, but you know.
I'm all over the place. Maybe it's because it's 2am and I had coffee all day. I doubt that I'm going to be able to run in the morning. Maybe walk to church. I haven't been there in a few weeks, and I find myself excited to get back there, as well.
More thoughts on my take on religion and writing later. A question for the interview got me to thinking. It might be a separate essay all together.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
On the Road, again
Today I got two phone calls almost in quick succession from two friends who teach full time down south. Being that I work part time, I definitely do not have to be up as early as they were calling me (first phone call at 7:30am) but, I got up and talked and figured it would be good to get an early start on my day.
When I got off the phone with them, I decided I needed to get my endorphines going, and decided to go for a run. There is a park about a mile long 2 blocks from my house, and if you run along the perimeter, the sidewalk is consistent, and there are no street lights. It's quite nice, to have almost like a track to run down. So I ran down and back. Two miles this morning.
Now, I face a day of grading and errands and getting things done. Hopefully. That would mean getting out of the house within the next hour for me to have enough time to do anything that means something for the day.
Tomorrow I head to DC to give a reading and have a discussion about the book. I am working on an interview for a friend, which is good, because it's giving me time to really sit down and think about these questions and formulate some answers that I had never really been forced to do. So it's good practice.
Too, I received a box from the press yesterday. It turns out they give you 500 postcards with the cover of the book. What on earth does one do with 500 post cards? Let me know!
When I got off the phone with them, I decided I needed to get my endorphines going, and decided to go for a run. There is a park about a mile long 2 blocks from my house, and if you run along the perimeter, the sidewalk is consistent, and there are no street lights. It's quite nice, to have almost like a track to run down. So I ran down and back. Two miles this morning.
Now, I face a day of grading and errands and getting things done. Hopefully. That would mean getting out of the house within the next hour for me to have enough time to do anything that means something for the day.
Tomorrow I head to DC to give a reading and have a discussion about the book. I am working on an interview for a friend, which is good, because it's giving me time to really sit down and think about these questions and formulate some answers that I had never really been forced to do. So it's good practice.
Too, I received a box from the press yesterday. It turns out they give you 500 postcards with the cover of the book. What on earth does one do with 500 post cards? Let me know!
Monday, April 13, 2009
To get from here to there
While on the road, I forgot to mention that I definitely bought loads of books. Too many. I bought them like I was buying souveniers. "Here's a book I got from Quailridge Bookstore" or "Here's a book I got from Busboys and Poets" or "Here's a book I got from the Bullshead Bookshop".
Here's the final count:
Elizabeth Alexander's "Power and Possibility"
Anne Carson's "decreation"
Saadi Youseff's "Without an alphabet, Without a land"
June Jordan's "Affirmative Acts"
Elizabeth's and June Jordan's books are strictly essay books. I am wanting to get back into essay writing. I would like a book of essays soon. I bought Elizabeth's because I admired her book "The Black Interior" and because (despite the fact that it worked out she chose my book!) I secretely want to be her in a way. This was pre-inaugural fame. This was pre "How God Ends Us" -- I just always liked her historical take on poetry and how history informed her poetry, etc etc. So now I'm looking at her critical analysis of poetry and people.
I bought June Jordan's book "Affirmative Acts" strictly because I knew it contained her essays on Palestine. I've been reading and enjoying all the other essays, but I remember encountering a few people who mentioned it, and I had the hardest time finding the book (even in NYC!) and when I walked into Busboys & Poets and it was just right there on the shelf, I had to take it home. Look for more essays and greater writings on Palestine and abroad.
Anne Carson will be teaching at NYU now. Many friends told me I should be most excited to work with her; they think we can be a good fit. I figured I should pick up something by her. Too, I've been looking around NYC bookstores casually, and have turned up empty-handed. What DO we have here?
Saadi Youseff was a purchase continuing in the tradition of buying non-western poetry. It feeds me.
This was supposed to be a post about what else I've been reading. Namely, this memoir: "Bitter is the New Black" I think I have 10 or so pages left. It's my subway reading. It what I do to create a buffer between home and work, work and home. It's like watching a soap opera. I get on the train and enter this world. It's pretty entertaining. I don't want to say it's "mindless", but it is, sort of, for me, because it's the only thing lately I've found that I can read without thinking it or making it feel like work. I've decided, I think, to keep this tradition up. I need to find the next book.
Here's the final count:
Elizabeth Alexander's "Power and Possibility"
Anne Carson's "decreation"
Saadi Youseff's "Without an alphabet, Without a land"
June Jordan's "Affirmative Acts"
Elizabeth's and June Jordan's books are strictly essay books. I am wanting to get back into essay writing. I would like a book of essays soon. I bought Elizabeth's because I admired her book "The Black Interior" and because (despite the fact that it worked out she chose my book!) I secretely want to be her in a way. This was pre-inaugural fame. This was pre "How God Ends Us" -- I just always liked her historical take on poetry and how history informed her poetry, etc etc. So now I'm looking at her critical analysis of poetry and people.
I bought June Jordan's book "Affirmative Acts" strictly because I knew it contained her essays on Palestine. I've been reading and enjoying all the other essays, but I remember encountering a few people who mentioned it, and I had the hardest time finding the book (even in NYC!) and when I walked into Busboys & Poets and it was just right there on the shelf, I had to take it home. Look for more essays and greater writings on Palestine and abroad.
Anne Carson will be teaching at NYU now. Many friends told me I should be most excited to work with her; they think we can be a good fit. I figured I should pick up something by her. Too, I've been looking around NYC bookstores casually, and have turned up empty-handed. What DO we have here?
Saadi Youseff was a purchase continuing in the tradition of buying non-western poetry. It feeds me.
This was supposed to be a post about what else I've been reading. Namely, this memoir: "Bitter is the New Black" I think I have 10 or so pages left. It's my subway reading. It what I do to create a buffer between home and work, work and home. It's like watching a soap opera. I get on the train and enter this world. It's pretty entertaining. I don't want to say it's "mindless", but it is, sort of, for me, because it's the only thing lately I've found that I can read without thinking it or making it feel like work. I've decided, I think, to keep this tradition up. I need to find the next book.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
I almost forgot
my book is being featured as the book of the week on Kathryn Stripling Byer's (NC Poet Laureate) website. Check it out here.
How God Ends US
How God Ends US
post-road update
I won't take the time to update you all on every single step of the rest of the tour, but I will say that I went on to perform at UNC's Bullshead bookshop, which was probably one of my favorite readings, and then to Quailridge Bookstore, then swept up to DC to read at Busboys and Poets. I had great, great food all around. Especially of note is the Ethiopian restaurant in DC - Dukem - that my friend from High school, Zemar, took us to. The lamb tibs were/are to die for!!
I'm back in NYC. It's Easter Sunday. I am thinking about John 3:16, and thinking about the capacity to love so hard. I'm a bit exhausted from being on the road, but I'm going to try and make it to the church I've been attending the past couple of weeks. I was supposed to play flute today, but I wasn't sure that I would be back in town.
But not for long. I have another reading in Washington, DC on Thursday night. I just booked my tickets for the bus ride down. This will be my first time traveling (outside of my train ride from SC to NYC) outside of the city on my own without my car. I'm a bit.....scared, to tell you the truth. I think it's a control thing. I cannot control a bus. I cannot say, "I will get off on this next exit and take a break, get something to drink or snack on". Either way, I'm thankful for the opportunity to share my words with others, so I'm going. I'm adventuring out.
So upcoming readings:
April 16, 2009
The Charles Sumner Museum School (Washington DC)
6:30-9pm
Reading/Discussion/Question and Answer
May 1, 2009
Adelphi University
Cave Canem Workshop Participant reading
7pm
May 20, 2009
Center for Book Arts
Reading with Thomas Sayers Ellis and Matthea Harvey
6:30pm
(there will be broadsides for sale for a poem that is not in my collection How God Ends Us).
I'm back in NYC. It's Easter Sunday. I am thinking about John 3:16, and thinking about the capacity to love so hard. I'm a bit exhausted from being on the road, but I'm going to try and make it to the church I've been attending the past couple of weeks. I was supposed to play flute today, but I wasn't sure that I would be back in town.
But not for long. I have another reading in Washington, DC on Thursday night. I just booked my tickets for the bus ride down. This will be my first time traveling (outside of my train ride from SC to NYC) outside of the city on my own without my car. I'm a bit.....scared, to tell you the truth. I think it's a control thing. I cannot control a bus. I cannot say, "I will get off on this next exit and take a break, get something to drink or snack on". Either way, I'm thankful for the opportunity to share my words with others, so I'm going. I'm adventuring out.
So upcoming readings:
April 16, 2009
The Charles Sumner Museum School (Washington DC)
6:30-9pm
Reading/Discussion/Question and Answer
May 1, 2009
Adelphi University
Cave Canem Workshop Participant reading
7pm
May 20, 2009
Center for Book Arts
Reading with Thomas Sayers Ellis and Matthea Harvey
6:30pm
(there will be broadsides for sale for a poem that is not in my collection How God Ends Us).
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
On the Road
Yesterday was my first stop on the book tour with Raina J. Leon. It wasn't Raina's first stop. Sunday we were at Penn State. Monday morning we left to drive 8 hours to Chapel Hill. We got in just enough time to hang out for a bit. Raina had a reading. I still have some friends living here in Chapel Hill, so we parted ways and I was able to watch the Championship game with old friends. It was quite good to be home.
Yesterday I slept in late and did some grading. Raina had to be on campus, so I decided to go onto campus and walk around and continue to miss Chapel Hill. I made sure to stop at Cosmic Cantina (oh, oh oh), then the Daily Grind, then I went around and looked for my friend working at the Student Stores and we chatted for a bit, and I sat in the bookshop (the site of today's reading!) and read.
We got to Southern Village really early (if you know Raina, you know this is her style...like, hours early)...but that gave me an opportunity to figure out my set list and time some poems and chill out a bit. A lot of friends came. It was great.
Here's a set list (I suppose if you have the book you can "read along", haha)
1. It is Written
2. The body as a House
3. Body, an elegy
4. All Hallows Eve
5. Lament
6. Underneath the Brown
7. Backseat Savior (which is becoming everyone's favorite, I'm told)
8. This Sacrifice, This Love
I also read some poems from Cartographer. But those are top-secret now.
Today I read at the Bullshead Bookshop....so great to be back on campus.
Tonight in Raleigh at Market Steet Books
Tomorrow we leave for DC and read at BusBoys and Poets tomorrow night.
Yesterday I slept in late and did some grading. Raina had to be on campus, so I decided to go onto campus and walk around and continue to miss Chapel Hill. I made sure to stop at Cosmic Cantina (oh, oh oh), then the Daily Grind, then I went around and looked for my friend working at the Student Stores and we chatted for a bit, and I sat in the bookshop (the site of today's reading!) and read.
We got to Southern Village really early (if you know Raina, you know this is her style...like, hours early)...but that gave me an opportunity to figure out my set list and time some poems and chill out a bit. A lot of friends came. It was great.
Here's a set list (I suppose if you have the book you can "read along", haha)
1. It is Written
2. The body as a House
3. Body, an elegy
4. All Hallows Eve
5. Lament
6. Underneath the Brown
7. Backseat Savior (which is becoming everyone's favorite, I'm told)
8. This Sacrifice, This Love
I also read some poems from Cartographer. But those are top-secret now.
Today I read at the Bullshead Bookshop....so great to be back on campus.
Tonight in Raleigh at Market Steet Books
Tomorrow we leave for DC and read at BusBoys and Poets tomorrow night.
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