Spring Fever

Something about May and Arkansas turning wet, lush, and green makes me want to read Henry Miller's novels or Anais Nin's journals. Charlotte gave me both Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn for my birthday several years ago, and I bought every book Anais Nin ever wrote, from her study of D.H. Lawrence to her last diary, in a used book store on Martha's Vineyard the summer after my freshman year in DC. I had to ship every one back to Arkansas in tightly packed, heavy boxes. Thank goodness for book post. I also have the diaries of Rilke I've been meaning to read, and while on Martha's Vineyard I poured over the drawings in the journal of Frida Kahlo, which wasn't mine and I've always wanted to order ever since I left and wrote "Alas Rotas" over all of the pages of my own diary from those months. I should just declare this the summer of journals and devote myself to devouring all of them.

Speaking of summer... it' can't possibly come fast enough.

Stop it.

This is my heart.

Worrying About All the Wrong Things

Rather than worry that my poem is fully memorized and performable for tomorrow evening, I have instead put together my imaginary perfect poetry reading outfit. Yes, I want to channel the romantics, apparently. Too bad my own closet is rather lacking in things I actually like anytime I'm flustered by something. Thus, I hate everything I own, (and solidify my girliness).

Third Eye Blind has come onto Pandora Radio. Flashback to eighth-twelfth grade and a wardrobe of character t-shirts and black. I don't envy my students; high school was hard.

We were broken, didn't know it
I can go nowhere
I burn candles and stare at a ghost
Deep inside of you.

Myself & Mr. Moon, circa 2001. Sans black.

Let It Roll

by Prescience

One day left to memorize my poem before Friday. The organizers told us there would be 400 people in attendance. I may exhibit a public projectile vomiting in place of a poem. For the sake of the first row, I hope not. Fear of a jinx aside, it seems that once I memorized the initial draft of the poem, remembering the changes and edits I've made has been relatively easy. Adding logical transitions between each stanza also made it easier from the original draft. Luckily I have people in my life willing to listen to me recite the stupid thing over and over and over and over and... etc. till I get it right.

Oddly, the most difficult part has/will be trying to accept that it's ok to take up space with my body and make large gestures with the intention of holding people's attention. My usual tendency is to try a successful disappearing act into the nearest wall. Thus, the question I get seems to be: "so, why slam?" I don't know. When I see other people slam and do it well, I get anxious and annoyed that I have to stay seated, and I want to pretend I don't have horrible stage fright and participate. And, hopefully, be as good as they are. Patience and practice.

I really, really want these:

Getting Settled

This is the new place. It's a carriage house and we have the whole thing to ourselves, so that means I can play Pandora Radio as loud as I want! We've spent the past week unloading boxes in between all of the poetry slams that went on - the Hendrix Kitty Week slam, the slam team prep meetings, and the slam against Pine Bluff High School on Friday. The poem I wrote, loosely titled "Definitive Endings" won a slot in the Mosaic Templars spoken word contest being held on Friday, so if I could only memorize it, I would be excited. With the Arkansas Literary Festival starting on Thursday, it's going to be another busy week, but that keeps me from getting bored. That, getting my credit card stolen and finding out $600 was charged to it, and drag shows at Disco at 2:30AM. Guess which of those two I prefer.

This is the outside of my last apartment. Quite possibly the most beautiful apartment complex in Little Rock. It was originally a Methodist Church in the 1800's, then the Greek Orthodox Church, and then in 1984 it was converted to the Cathedral Park apartments. It shall be missed.

The poets from both the CHS slam team and the PBHS team. All stellar. Although PBHS is holding the trophy, so that's going to have to change next time...

Moving Up

Despite arranging for movers who have a four hour minimum for payment, Michael and I spent the evening packing boxes with books and dishes to deliver to the carriage house. Michael is very methodical and measured every piece of furniture and the wall space between windows, then drew a diagram of each room to plot out where everything will go. I would never do this. I don't even know how to use a ruler. I love that he is the opposite of me in this way.

April is National Poetry Month, and I've noticed that on facebook, many people are writing a poem a day and posting them in their notes. I haven't had two seconds to sit down, until now, but I'd like to share in the NPM spirit, so here is a poem I started writing after moving my mom's things out of my parent's old house in Texas.

this is called: unloading your clothes at the goodwill.

I handed your shirts in stacks,

the slight warmth of your body
still clinging to pilled fleece and fibers.
we cleaned your closet out in one fatal blow –
ordaining the racks of a thrift store with
designer jackets and heels,
cracked leather running shoes,
your black pants with the strawberry print.
It feels like I'm stealing from you,
giving your clothes to the poor.
Creating space between each of dad's polos,
an entire bar devoted to hangers.
I look for you in your bedroom behind the door,
speak to the wire mouths of empty hangers,
the carpeted floor where your bare feet
stood to pick out a shirt every day.
They only tell me you
don't live here anymore.

Journal scan, July 2004

Goodbye, Bachelorette Pad

The books, knick-knacks, and not much else are now in boxes. By early Saturday morning everything will be packed. It's almost sad, I only moved in here November 1st. This apartment is amazing because it's in a renovated cathedral from the 1880's. This particular unit is in the back, where offices and rooms would have been. It has been dubbed "the cave," though, as it does not receive very much sunlight. This is an aspect I will not miss. Everything else, though, I will. I'm going to be optimistic and plan on this being my last bachelorette pad ever. Michael and I get the keys to our carriage house tomorrow. I'm excited for two bathrooms and sunlight. And him, of course.

My 1980's era kitchen. Complete with dragonfly lights and pretentious wine book.

Yes, that is a giant pile of clothes on the floor. And yes, it lives there.

My "dining room." Also known as my desk. Who cares for the computer armoire right next to it. I prefer dinette sets. And the boy waving from the kitchen.

The windows on the side are the original tall church windows. The stained glass windows are in the apartments that were built into the sanctuary.

Luckily, we are only moving across the highway, and about two blocks over. More space and splitting rent for lower payments each month are quite tantalizing. Plus, Michael currently rents a $600 dollar a month storage shed, because he doesn't live there, but this apartment is too small for his furniture and clothes. So, sad as I am to move out of my church apartment, a carriage house from the 1800's with original brick floor downstairs is still neat. (And yes, I said neat).

Half the Day at Work, Divided by Salary Divided by Hour Equals...

Today I spent twelve straight hours in my classroom. I arrived at school at 7:45AM, (chasing the bell, as usual), and left at 7:45PM, after the creative writing club meeting ended. The fact that the kids stay after school, (which ends at 3:30), that long just to read their poetry and listen to the poetry of their classmates, is amazing. Whenever I think I don't like my job, (usually at either 5:45AM when my alarm goes off, or Sunday night when I want to stay up late, or when there's a discipline issue in the room), I remind myself of how much fun working on poetry with the kids is, and sticking out the tough parts is made easier. That still doesn't negate beingcompletely exhausted after such a long day. Running in the evening gives me more energy, but there was not time for that today.

If I wasn't fascinated by "A Very Duggar Wedding," I'd be asleep right now. No kissing until the wedding day!? I remember events in my life based on who I was kissing at the time. Learning to drive? Chris. Quitting Naval ROTC? Dave. Etc. That means my life from the first one on is broken up into about forty segments. Good classification system. I suppose marriage will merit a new system, sadly. Or not sadly, actually. I'm learning simple is preferable, most of the time. ....As are qualifiers after every statement.

Michael and I move into our new, *two story* place on Saturday. I have not started packing yet. Procrastination leads to increased productivity when it really counts.

Trying to jump-start a high school poetry league in Central Arkansas, as well as work on becoming a writer with any sort of credibility in a world full of writers with impressive verse resumes, makes me feel about like this:

from unknown flickr account - need a credit!

Community Bakery Slam

Labels poem, from round 1. I NEED to learn how to stand up straight and not hunch over sloppily. And not sway side to side nervously. And do some crunches. And memorize. If I wasn't editing my poems up until the slam started, I might have actually attempted. Lennon hosted this slam, Michael sacrificed in round 2, and we had 10 poets competing from Hendrix Colege, Cabot High School, and one new face. I need to work on my marketing skills, (and my performance anxiety), and things will be amazing.

I spent round 2 fighting to be heard over a cappucino machine. So it goes.

Sunday Afternoon Visits

• This is what I need to do. It might make moving next Saturday much cheaper.


• Controlling relationships: I'm inclined to agree with her take on Bella & Edward


• Can not WAIT to see this movie! I will be wearing my Sendak shirt to opening night.


• I hate hate hate that teacher's are expected to censor themselves 24/7. Some of these stories horrify me, (some people got what they deserved, I'll admit, but others, no). Where is the ACLU when you need them...


• "People need the courage to be lonely"


• It's never too late to change your life - posted at iCing, well worth re-posting.


• Advice for reading poetry out loud - all things I wish some of my students would consider.

from ilove

Resolve

For tomorrow's slam at Community Bakery:

I also resolve to not compete with the same poems twice. ESPECIALLY not consecutively. I have two new pieces - and they may not be too terribly awesome, but I have worked hard on them. And I can't tell my students that hard work is a good system of measurement without applying it to myself. But with poetry, it's literally hard work, blood (paper cuts), and tears (self explanatory). Oh, and an absence of stage fright... work in progress. I also resolve to ignore the numbers or else I'll revert to childhood and reject future poetic endeavors because I didn't do "good enough." That in itself is no good, obviously.

Michael and I decided not to go to Cool Shoes tonight, (first time I've ever missed), in light of rest, refraining from spending money, and - for me, at least - time to work on poems. I love writing when I feel as though I can't NOT write. But if I could be in Atlanta right now with Joanie & Julia, I would - so come on Air Tran, fly to Little Rock! Digression.

In light of my fears of being sub-par and worthy of ridicule (although I know, by default as a human, I am), I shall repeat this to myself all day tomorrow:

"the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best."

- Henry Van Dyke

Poem in Progress

This is the efforts of today's vacation. Although, nothing is ever finished till you're dead. I read another new(ish) poem at The Poet's Loft tonight. Even though it was only an open mic, there were - at the most - fifteen people in the room, and I was standing behind a podium, my knees still shook. Weening myself off propanolol may take longer than I had hoped. Luckily, I have plenty for Saturday's slam, so no shake-n-bake here. Memorization is another story.

I have decided
I don’t like things with definitive beginnings and endings.
Final destinations and points of embarkment
Should be as difficult to distinguish
As finding the edge of a globe.
Clocks should become antiquated and rust
While calendar pages should track only dust.
And I should never be able to measure a heartache
From the moment he told me it wasn’t love till today.

But the days close like books on my ability to say that
After the end,
When I deleted his number even though he said
we could still be friends,
I weighed the value of each event spent together
and decided none are worth the rent
They pay to occupy space in my memory.
One an entrance clattering open like doors in a storm
And then the exit orchestrated like twenty cellos playing the wrong chord.
I have been jarred from my seat and shaken –
It wasn’t my heart he had taken
but the fluidity of my days.

Now, I like my fits and starts to blend smoothly and seamlessly
Into the next occurrence,
Like the edges of sheets overlapped in the laundry,
One long unfolding of days without birthdays,
Christenings, funerals or break ups,
Or any disturbance that corrupts with the abruptness of the unexpected.
I want one kiss to last until the next and
To not divide life into eras.
I do not want a fossil record of characters to collect and categorize.
I’d fail the test that required me to memorize
Where each face fits in.

If there were no endings,
there would be no date on a calendar
By which I can measure the length of his leaving.
When the screen door slammed behind him
And broke summer in half,
I heard the months of the calendar laugh at my attempts to
Divide the year into seasons,
To supply his absence with a reason.

Today, I will mark it on my calendar for something amazing to happen,
For a firework to hang stranded and suspended above my roof.
I’ll tether it to a string and present it as proof
That things don’t have to fade or end.
Linear time is a concept philosophy can’t defend.

I have classified my existence by landmarks,
Phases I label by the names of people I loved,
Our meetings and partings are commemorated like holidays.
But today I resolve to denounce anything that
Detracts from the sanctity of now.
Forever trails behind this second
Like a parent straitening a bicycle,
It grips the seat and promises to “not let go.”
I pedal the minute forward and keep eternity in tow.

I’m turning a new corner
Where anniversaries don’t exist.
There is only what is and always was.
Thus, if I love you now you may assume that
I always have and always will.
I will swallow eternity like a pill and
Insure that if I loved you before, then I do, still.
I refuse the exorbitant cost of an ending,
To watch something that soared descending.

Without a then or a now,
I already know all of the people I will ever meet.
Shaking hands will become a mere formality and
I shall refuse to accept absolutes as acceptable rationality.

I crumple the table of contents of life,
Erase the index and chronology,
And bend the time line into a revolving circle.
The only death I accept is that of definitives.
I close their door,
And welcome the infinite.

Favorite Things ...this week

• Sometimes it's hard...


• We forget these things sometimes


• Out of tragedy comes...


• Hamsa tattoo


• Tuber or not tuber, THAT is the question.


• The killer of girl love


• Bad/good news for non-profits & the arts


• Living Enlightenment
• Duck butt!

and finally....

from iLove

Resolution of the day:

Learn to "swallow the frog."

Frustrated Flower Flinging

Found journal entry. Circa 2004

These have been three of the most frustrating days in the year. Is it because spring break is around the corner and the universe knows it needs to get its kicks in while it can? Between parents with personal agendas, getting ready to move (again), not agreeing on logic with my landlord, bad communication, administration I don't get along with, other human beings who nobody can get along with... it's been a bit rough.
Today, though, it was finally spring weather. The bradford pear trees are changing from white to green and the petals are lining the street curbs like snow. Michael and I took Bella for a walk around the Quapaw district, and I picked up a handful and threw them at him. Unfortunatley, they literally back fired. There are still bradford pear tree petals in my hair.
In all the spare time I have, I am going to study this article. Perhaps implementing some of its advice would lessen a bit of the stress I feel under. Or I could get a hobby, like shooting handguns or cage fighting...

Love Notes; One Hundred Places

Fairy Chimneys - Cappadocia, Turkey: visited 9th grade, 1999

"I've only been to 6 of these places. You've been to way more. I need to catch up, or at least go to as many of these places with you as possible. Love, Michael"

Great Barrier Reef, Australia: adventure waiting to happen

Dear Third Quarter,

OUT!

I think you should know that I am tired of the paper weights that have been sitting beneath my ears like shoulder pads, weighing down my posture and my performance, possibly damaging my ability to think straight and reason like a sane person. I apologize for the grades not entered .2 seconds after being handed in, but my turn over rate tends to be slow as I am a methodical individual with more side projects than trolleys at a circus freak show. But now, at 11:30 PM, after much procrastination, pain, and perturbation, it is all finished. And now, maybe I will have time for poetry without guilt. For an evening without homework hanging over my head like branches - the twigs poking me in the eye. But I digress. It is finished. And there are no more worries or assignments to haggle and heartbreak over until morning, when fourth quarter rears its long, drawn out head. Here's to the last stretch of school till summer, and survival.

March 14, 1982

Happy anniversary, mom & dad. If I could subtract properly, I'd figure up how many years it would have been. I suppose it is inappropriate to call dad and tell him "happy anniversary" today, since it's been five years now, but I'll still think it for the both of you.

Susan & Jann @ our last house in Texas, circa 2003

Creating an Internet Presence

It's amazing how long some things take. Or perhaps I'm just slow... always a possibility.

Over the course of the past couple months, I've been learning about the organizaiton Poets in the Street, as the two founders and C.E.O.'s will be moving in June to Chicago. It has taken me an hour to create a facebook "fan" page for this non-profit, and the page is simply fill in the blank. Clearly, I will need help in setting up a .org web address.

Working with the slam team I founded with two of my friends at the high school where I work has been the highlight of my year, and now working with the P.I.T.S. organization only makes it better. If only I could convince all of the administration to become fans, I would be set.

The fruits of my labor: Facebook "fan" page

Existant publicity: Myspace profile page

Literary Love

I've spent the past 40 minutes browsing literary tattoos at Contrariwise. I want (almost) all of them. Maybe I can justify eating all the cookies in that it will give me more tattoo space. I couldn't choose a favorite, but this one, the infinite alphabet, seems to sum up everything:


I've already planned my next two tattoos. The first, on the side of my right wrist, will simply be "MD." Pure insider knowledge. The second will not, in fact, be "YEATS" even though that's technically what I said when I went to drop off the design, but it will be a Yeat's quote on my right hip. From "Who Will Go With Fergus Now," I want:

"All dishevelled wandering stars"

with a picture of the Amanda's Pennant (celithemas Amanda) dragonfly flanking the lettering. If only money were no object... although because it is, I save myself some skin for all the things I want permanently added in my 30's, 40's, etc. So, perhaps not a negative after all. I am still jealous of Stephanie's shoulder blade tattoo: "for life is not a paragraph / and death I think is no parenthesis." I gave that poem to my students earlier this year, and they were not nearly as receptive as I was when I first came across those lines in high school. They seem to find cummings "too confusing."
I remind myself to be patient.