Be aware.
The facts in review:
1. Trump fires all Ambassadors and Special Envoys, ordering them out by inauguration day.
Source article: "In Break With Precedent, Obama Envoys Are Denied Extensions Past Inauguration Day"
Source link: "Trump won't give grace period to Obama's Ambassadors"
2. House brings back the Holman rule allowing them to reduce an individual civil service, SES positions, or political appointee's salary to $1, effectively firing them by amendment to any piece of legislation. We now know why they wanted names and positions of people in Energy and State.
Source link: "GOP Revives Rule Allowing $1 Salaries For Government Employees"
3. Senate schedules 6 simultaneous hearings on cabinet nominees and triple-books those hearings with Trump's first press conference in months and an ACA budget vote, effectively preventing any concentrated coverage or protest.
Source link: "President-Elect Donald Trump Will Hold First Press Conference Since Before Election"
Source link: "Senate Confirmation Hearings to Begin Without All Background Checks"
4. House GOP expressly forbids the Congressional Budget Office from reporting or tracking ANY costs related to the repeal of the ACA.
Source link: "ACA Repeal CBO Exemption Rules Package"
5. Trump continues to throw the intelligence community under the bus to protect Putin, despite the growing mountain of evidence that the Russians deliberately interfered in our election.
Source link: Trump tweets about IC, Putin, and Toyota on his account (requires Twitter login)
6. Trump breaks a central campaign promise to make Mexico pay for the wall by asking Congress (in other words, us, the taxpayers) to pay for it.
Source link: "Trump Asking Congress, Not Mexico, To Pay For Border Wall"
7. Trump threatens Toyota over a new plant that was never coming to the US nor will take jobs out of the US.
Source link: Trump tweets about IC, Putin, and Toyota on his account (requires Twitter login)
8. House passes the REINS act, giving them veto power over any rules enacted by any federal agency or department--for example, FDA or EPA bans a drug or pesticide, Congress can overrule based on lobbyists not science. Don't like that endangered species designation, Congress kills it.
Source link: "House Passes REINS Act In Response to Obama's Executive Power Abuse"
Posted 1/10/2017
Compiled by a friend, name omitted to protect from harassment/trolls.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Sunday, March 16, 2014
In Pursuit of Living Dreams
Today is New Year's Eve. We're leaving 2013 behind and moving forward into 2014. I went to the movies to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
and was thrilled by it. The film is a perfect end-of-the-year feature
to enjoy and propel oneself into the resolution-making joys of the new
year. The story is uplifting, thoughtful without being
overly-philosophical, and possesses a soundtrack selection that makes
one smile while watching. Just listen to Arcade Fire's "Wake Up."
I'm not here to review the film. I am thinking about resolutions and how we come to create that list each year and at some point discover we've lapsed in obtaining each goal, or at least I do. So this year I am writing a Walter Mitty inspired list:
"Resolutions for Stop Dreaming, Start Living"
1. Pursue artistic outlets.
Try out some acrylic painting and see how I like it. Make some MS designed journals and tapestries to sell in MS. Learn more embroidery stitches.
2. Pursue publication of Rise When the Rooster Crows
Do not self-publish this book. Send individual poems to lit journals. Send entire manuscript to potential presses. Hope.
3. Stop saying "my writing is stagnant" and start writing.
I've hardly written anything new the whole 5 years I lived in Oklahoma and I blamed it on claiming I was uninspired, unmotivated, and out of place. Whether any of that is true or not, it is not an excuse for not attempting to write regularly, nor trying to self-motivate through meeting often with writer friends and going to readings. I have ideas of new projects; I think I've just not started them for fear of not making something I deem good. It won't become good if I don't start somewhere. And like a fellow friend's dad told him: "You can't call yourself something you're not actively doing." I call myself a poet and I'm not actively writing poetry? That's not right.
4. Don't be afraid to try.
I'm looking at job opportunities which describe duties and tasks for which I have some experience -- and feel I am capable of managing, learning, succeeding if given a chance -- although I do not have as much experience in that area as others. It cannot hurt to apply; An interview might still happen. An offer might happen. There might be a co-worker I can learn from, a plan or routine already in place, and room to grow. Or I might not get the interview, but nonetheless, I won't know if I don't try.
5. Pursue the big dream, the big project, the big idea.
Get started on writing up the overall project plan for the big idea. Once I have envisioned and mapped out the whole thing, other proponents will come into place. I'll be able to use all or chunks of it for grant proposals, synopsis, reports, and it will guide the overall action of the project. It might change, but it will motivate and keep the project from seeming overwhelmingly large and impossible for one person to bring it to fruition. And all these "oh, and this can be done in the project too!" ideas have got to get down on paper! It can and will be done.
6. Stop drinking soda/coke/pop/soft drinks
It is bad for you.
I'm not here to review the film. I am thinking about resolutions and how we come to create that list each year and at some point discover we've lapsed in obtaining each goal, or at least I do. So this year I am writing a Walter Mitty inspired list:
"Resolutions for Stop Dreaming, Start Living"
1. Pursue artistic outlets.
Try out some acrylic painting and see how I like it. Make some MS designed journals and tapestries to sell in MS. Learn more embroidery stitches.
2. Pursue publication of Rise When the Rooster Crows
Do not self-publish this book. Send individual poems to lit journals. Send entire manuscript to potential presses. Hope.
3. Stop saying "my writing is stagnant" and start writing.
I've hardly written anything new the whole 5 years I lived in Oklahoma and I blamed it on claiming I was uninspired, unmotivated, and out of place. Whether any of that is true or not, it is not an excuse for not attempting to write regularly, nor trying to self-motivate through meeting often with writer friends and going to readings. I have ideas of new projects; I think I've just not started them for fear of not making something I deem good. It won't become good if I don't start somewhere. And like a fellow friend's dad told him: "You can't call yourself something you're not actively doing." I call myself a poet and I'm not actively writing poetry? That's not right.
4. Don't be afraid to try.
I'm looking at job opportunities which describe duties and tasks for which I have some experience -- and feel I am capable of managing, learning, succeeding if given a chance -- although I do not have as much experience in that area as others. It cannot hurt to apply; An interview might still happen. An offer might happen. There might be a co-worker I can learn from, a plan or routine already in place, and room to grow. Or I might not get the interview, but nonetheless, I won't know if I don't try.
5. Pursue the big dream, the big project, the big idea.
Get started on writing up the overall project plan for the big idea. Once I have envisioned and mapped out the whole thing, other proponents will come into place. I'll be able to use all or chunks of it for grant proposals, synopsis, reports, and it will guide the overall action of the project. It might change, but it will motivate and keep the project from seeming overwhelmingly large and impossible for one person to bring it to fruition. And all these "oh, and this can be done in the project too!" ideas have got to get down on paper! It can and will be done.
6. Stop drinking soda/coke/pop/soft drinks
It is bad for you.
Write a Letter
A little back-story: Once I lived in a small town and fell in love
with a young man who didn't have the same feelings for me, however we
were close friends. Once he confided in me that he was seeing this one
young woman but had heard some rumors about her previous relationships.
He came to ask my opinion, what he thought he should do. He was angry,
hurt, and had been seeking out, finally, someone whom he could
sincerely feel love for. I told him to ask her about it. Maybe she had
changed. This would be an opportunity for her to make new. I put aside
my own feelings for him (not yet confessed) because I wanted him to be
happy. So, the couple dated seriously for a few more months and
eventually it ended that summer. A few years later I confessed my
feelings for him, and he said that he was flattered but that he could
not love me like that (in so many words, he was really just saying he
wasn't physically attracted to me). Nevertheless, that small town young
woman he fell for became some sort of jealous ideal for me. Not her
personality, because I saw through her manipulative nature and what she
did to other people I knew after my friend loved her. No, her style and
beauty, somewhat earthy classic. Petite, curvy. Racy red lipstick,
red dress, dark hair pinned up kind of classic, but also she could pull
off country girl in gingham shirt and overalls just as well, a little
ivy in her hair. She is the kind of beauty an average girl envies.
So, I suggest discovering the person you once/or still do envy in some way. And do yourself a favor. Write a letter. You don't ever have to send it. Actually, it is best that you don't because the envy won't end if you start a little feud with this person. But write an honest letter explaining what it is about them that you envy, and what holds you back from attaining that same trait. Recall honestly how others may have been hurt by this person, and how you'd never have done those things. This can be a really long letter, but the key here is honesty, mainly with yourself.
Maybe you'll burn the letter, and feel some relief of finally having said all that you said. Maybe you can let it go and focus on what you are attaining in your life for yourself and loved ones.
Maybe you will find some statements that will lend itself to a short story, novel, group of poems.
No matter, once you've had your say, let it go. Envy can do nothing but hurt you.
So, I suggest discovering the person you once/or still do envy in some way. And do yourself a favor. Write a letter. You don't ever have to send it. Actually, it is best that you don't because the envy won't end if you start a little feud with this person. But write an honest letter explaining what it is about them that you envy, and what holds you back from attaining that same trait. Recall honestly how others may have been hurt by this person, and how you'd never have done those things. This can be a really long letter, but the key here is honesty, mainly with yourself.
Maybe you'll burn the letter, and feel some relief of finally having said all that you said. Maybe you can let it go and focus on what you are attaining in your life for yourself and loved ones.
Maybe you will find some statements that will lend itself to a short story, novel, group of poems.
No matter, once you've had your say, let it go. Envy can do nothing but hurt you.
The Photograph, The Photographer, The Persona, The Poem
I’ve learned the camera well—the danger
of it, the half-truths it can tell, but also
the way it fastens us to our pasts, makes grand
the unadorned moment.
—Letters from Storyville, December 1911
This quote is from the voice of a character created in Natasha Trethewey's book of poems Bellocq’s Ophelia. Read it a few times, then free-write your impressions of the speaker, or continue her thoughts further. What experiences does she have with the camera? How does she interpret the stories it captures? Is she the model or the photographer?
of it, the half-truths it can tell, but also
the way it fastens us to our pasts, makes grand
the unadorned moment.
—Letters from Storyville, December 1911
This quote is from the voice of a character created in Natasha Trethewey's book of poems Bellocq’s Ophelia. Read it a few times, then free-write your impressions of the speaker, or continue her thoughts further. What experiences does she have with the camera? How does she interpret the stories it captures? Is she the model or the photographer?
Learning to Draw a New Map
My writing has been stagnant for the last 2 years. When I first moved here I was still trudging down the country road of Rise When the Rooster Crows,
a collection of poems about love, hard work, disappointment, hope,
resentment, and making new memories out of the tattered remains of the
old ones. There were gaps in the story to imagine and fill, so I had a
map by which to continue walking as I write. That lasted for a year
until I felt the collection was complete, edited several times (read:
many times). I packed up my belongings and moved into the place I was
currently living.Now I look around and I see a big city pulsating with buildings, roads that need repair, music in living rooms, craft fairs in the streets, farmers' markets on nearly every day of the week, restaurants that beg for a lunch date, museum exhibitions whispering to visit before they travel onward, art receptions and wine tastings to meander, and coffee houses to hide in for a few moments to think, write, listen to music, and maybe chat with a new friend. Oklahoma City is a good place no matter how much I miss what I remember about Berea, Kentucky, a place that is quickly changing and erasing any resemblance of concrete memories I revisit emotionally from time to time.
So for two years I have not felt drawn to a particular writing project or theme. My hand is lonesome for writing words. When I first moved to Kentucky I didn't write much either, until I read an obituary which struck me. It was about the cholera epidemic of the early 1830s in the Eastern State Hospital, also referred to as an insane asylum to some. I researched other deaths in the area, and began writing poems in the voice of similar people experiencing similar fates, though some poems were historic persons such a Laura Clay. Thirty poems later -- Lexington Lives -- and I was done; The collection was largely based on research but it provided a foundation which enabled me to explore a new map for the next collection, resulting in Rise When the Rooster Crows. I had made some friends in the English department at the local college and had a niche for feeling as though I was a writer, a poet, a person of words. Since moving to Oklahoma I have very slowly found individuals who correspond to these seats in my circle, though I have yet to make it feel as though they are family. That may take more time.
Over
the course of the last six months I have begun paving a new map, also
based on researched information for the basis of poetic imagery, themes,
voices, and memories, but nonetheless, I may have finally opened the
door to Oklahoma. The new idea, which involves oral histories about
centennial farms, may provide an aerial view of the place I am beginning
to know and accept. Through their stories, and through the people I am
beginning to know and love, I may begin a new map to draw out by hand
in poetic verse, lines that will weave across the printed page to tell
stories I hope Oklahomans will recognize, verify, and accept. I think I
have a few friends here who will honestly tell me when I have strayed
and when I have revealed a true-to-the-region voice sharing his or her
story.
Lyric Mimic
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqlxJ48wzOc?rel=0&w=480&h=390]
I love this song by Iron & Wine, "Walking Far From Home", which is on the new album Kiss Each Other Clean. Inspired by it, for a couple of weeks now I have been thinking about list poems, which is a tool I think Sam Beam used in writing these song lyrics.
So I decided to use the song as a writing prompt. I started with the first line of the song and a few of its style traits, but the imagery all come from personal experiences, stories, and sights I or my friends have seen. I haven't worked it into the same syllabic rhythm Sam Beam has for the song, which is mostly 8, 10, 8, 6&4 (10). The last line repeats the last 4 words/syllables of the 6, making the entire line 10. And it's okay if from time to time the line is 7 instead of 8, or 11 instead of 10, if it still flows right.
For example, a verse from "Walking Far From Home":
I saw sunlight on the water (8)
Saw a bird fall like a hammer from the sky (11)
An old woman on the speed train (8)
She was closing her eyes, closing her eyes (6, 4 =10)
So here's my own little writing exercise, rough draft.
I was walking far from home
where streetlights were dim
and evenings breathed wind on my back,
and I saw the moon whisper in Orion's ear.
I saw on a woman's face a tear
and a dream written in a book,
pages creased to hide anger and regret.
I saw seagulls shield against lake wind in January
and I saw a sunset fold like red quilts across the sky.
I saw a flame flicker in a coffee house,
two people, four hands, and the wick dies.
I saw a man strum a guitar,
an ache like a thorn in his side,
song of his bottle dreams.
I saw a man drink whiskey,
his father's voice, his mother's touch,
and sleepless nights wandering.
I saw a girl hold a man's hand,
a mother whispered broken promises,
and a forgotten guitar in the back room.
I saw boats sailing west by the lighthouse,
and couples huddled on hillsides fading into dusk.
I saw a painter and easel at sunrise,
a weeping willow leaning lakeside,
a canvas and brush in a box.
Saw a flock flying south for the winter,
Saw a child help a fallen bird,
a broken wing and pillow box.
Saw day lilies bloom in the shade,
and then they were gone.
Saw a hiker climb a rocky hill
to watch the last sunset of summer.
I saw a woman's hair turn white,
her stories the same every day.
Letters and photos carried in a box.
I saw myself in his glasses,
a father's smile hidden in his beard,
and people were walking to the market.
I saw a man kick a dog at the door,
beaten and huddled in a corner,
whimper and piss at tenderness.
I saw a girl pluck an old banjo song,
daffodils by the road were swaying
and the crickets hummed the chorus.
Saw a man unhook an ax from a tree,
back bent down to carry it over
to the winter's woodpile.
I saw a musician on a big stage
and the audience clapped so loud.
She said the devil was in her fiddle.
I saw dresses hanging on a wall,
saw scarves draped on lampshades,
saw a girl asleep on the roof,
her dreams written by the moon.
I saw a black dog walk dizzy circles,
saw a cat chase a German Shepherd.
I saw raccoons feast on a porch,
old woman watching at the window.
I saw a curly-headed man paint a woman,
she was holding flowers like chili peppers,
and he loved her in his dreams.
I love this song by Iron & Wine, "Walking Far From Home", which is on the new album Kiss Each Other Clean. Inspired by it, for a couple of weeks now I have been thinking about list poems, which is a tool I think Sam Beam used in writing these song lyrics.
So I decided to use the song as a writing prompt. I started with the first line of the song and a few of its style traits, but the imagery all come from personal experiences, stories, and sights I or my friends have seen. I haven't worked it into the same syllabic rhythm Sam Beam has for the song, which is mostly 8, 10, 8, 6&4 (10). The last line repeats the last 4 words/syllables of the 6, making the entire line 10. And it's okay if from time to time the line is 7 instead of 8, or 11 instead of 10, if it still flows right.
For example, a verse from "Walking Far From Home":
I saw sunlight on the water (8)
Saw a bird fall like a hammer from the sky (11)
An old woman on the speed train (8)
She was closing her eyes, closing her eyes (6, 4 =10)
So here's my own little writing exercise, rough draft.
I was walking far from home
where streetlights were dim
and evenings breathed wind on my back,
and I saw the moon whisper in Orion's ear.
I saw on a woman's face a tear
and a dream written in a book,
pages creased to hide anger and regret.
I saw seagulls shield against lake wind in January
and I saw a sunset fold like red quilts across the sky.
I saw a flame flicker in a coffee house,
two people, four hands, and the wick dies.
I saw a man strum a guitar,
an ache like a thorn in his side,
song of his bottle dreams.
I saw a man drink whiskey,
his father's voice, his mother's touch,
and sleepless nights wandering.
I saw a girl hold a man's hand,
a mother whispered broken promises,
and a forgotten guitar in the back room.
I saw boats sailing west by the lighthouse,
and couples huddled on hillsides fading into dusk.
I saw a painter and easel at sunrise,
a weeping willow leaning lakeside,
a canvas and brush in a box.
Saw a flock flying south for the winter,
Saw a child help a fallen bird,
a broken wing and pillow box.
Saw day lilies bloom in the shade,
and then they were gone.
Saw a hiker climb a rocky hill
to watch the last sunset of summer.
I saw a woman's hair turn white,
her stories the same every day.
Letters and photos carried in a box.
I saw myself in his glasses,
a father's smile hidden in his beard,
and people were walking to the market.
I saw a man kick a dog at the door,
beaten and huddled in a corner,
whimper and piss at tenderness.
I saw a girl pluck an old banjo song,
daffodils by the road were swaying
and the crickets hummed the chorus.
Saw a man unhook an ax from a tree,
back bent down to carry it over
to the winter's woodpile.
I saw a musician on a big stage
and the audience clapped so loud.
She said the devil was in her fiddle.
I saw dresses hanging on a wall,
saw scarves draped on lampshades,
saw a girl asleep on the roof,
her dreams written by the moon.
I saw a black dog walk dizzy circles,
saw a cat chase a German Shepherd.
I saw raccoons feast on a porch,
old woman watching at the window.
I saw a curly-headed man paint a woman,
she was holding flowers like chili peppers,
and he loved her in his dreams.
Dream Eudora
In this dream I was driving along a country road, maybe somewhere in the Mississippi Delta or maybe in an undetermined locale that had southern landscape elements. I saw a car by the road, steam and smoke rising from under the hood, a woman somewhere in her 50s standing by it. She was wearing beige and her hair was styled like it is in this photo. She had a large purse. I pulled over, asked her if she needed a ride, and she thanked me. I helped her get a couple boxes of books from her trunk into my trunk. She'd just published another book. A novel. I don't recall which one, if ever I knew in the first place. In the dream, I knew who she was but I didn't let on that I knew. I had several of her books. We talked a little bit but we were mostly quiet, enjoying the countryside. I don't know what we talked about; I never remember exact phrases and conversations from my dreams, just the idea of it. I woke before we reached our destination, wherever that was according to Ms. Welty.
I've never had a dream before about authors, real authors, or authors that I admire. I have not been reading anything by Welty and no one has mentioned her name to me recently. This cameo appearance in my dream is completely unrelated to anything going on in my life right now. That's interesting to me because it seems that would validate it more as a message from within my psyche or desire or dreams or the collective consciousness. A message I should take seriously. What is the message? From one successful Mississippi author to one unpublished aspiring Mississippi-roots poet:
Get back to your writing, dear. Get back on your path.
Dear Me...
You need to change things up now. How long are you going to sit
around wishing your poems would get published in a journal or as a
book? It's not going to happen if you're not sending it off someplace,
be it by snail mail or electronic. So start getting some manuscripts
ready and send them off. Pronto. I give you a week to prepare and a
week to mail. Most of the deadlines you saw last night are end of this
month and end of February. So get to it, girl.
Also, you've been thinking about downsizing all the crap you own. Stop thinking about it and do it. Go through each room once a week and toss out that junk. Goodwill will appreciate. Besides, if you're still thinking at the end of February that you'll be moving into a smaller home, you will have less to move. Less is good.
You need to schedule your hobbies. Prioritize. Writing is number 1. Photography is number 2. Video is number 3. Crafting is number 4. This is how these things are tiered in importance to you. You're giving more time to some projects than what you'd like because you're distracting yourself away from what really gives you pleasure. Writing is priority number one. Do you need to wake up in the morning earlier to get some of this writing bug done? Do it.
Get your accounts in order.
Calendar. It is a good thing. Use it.
Get yourself into a gallery this year for your crafty art-stuff. Make some videos to accompany, maybe. Storyboard your video and fabric art projects and do them. Won't know what they might be like until you do them.
Get energy. Somehow. Gym? Lake walking? Be healthy about it.
Get a check-up. Find out about thyroid tests, etc, and see if that's a concern. Lose weight eventually.
Like your shape as it is for now. Accept. Maintain. Smile.
Sincerely,
You
Also, you've been thinking about downsizing all the crap you own. Stop thinking about it and do it. Go through each room once a week and toss out that junk. Goodwill will appreciate. Besides, if you're still thinking at the end of February that you'll be moving into a smaller home, you will have less to move. Less is good.
You need to schedule your hobbies. Prioritize. Writing is number 1. Photography is number 2. Video is number 3. Crafting is number 4. This is how these things are tiered in importance to you. You're giving more time to some projects than what you'd like because you're distracting yourself away from what really gives you pleasure. Writing is priority number one. Do you need to wake up in the morning earlier to get some of this writing bug done? Do it.
Get your accounts in order.
Calendar. It is a good thing. Use it.
Get yourself into a gallery this year for your crafty art-stuff. Make some videos to accompany, maybe. Storyboard your video and fabric art projects and do them. Won't know what they might be like until you do them.
Get energy. Somehow. Gym? Lake walking? Be healthy about it.
Get a check-up. Find out about thyroid tests, etc, and see if that's a concern. Lose weight eventually.
Like your shape as it is for now. Accept. Maintain. Smile.
Sincerely,
You
submissions
Listening to Ben Sollee's Daytrotter Session recording for the first
time and it is slightly distracting as I came to blog about submissions
but my mind keeps wandering into inquisitive mode about his music and
lyrics. I'll try to stay on track.
I bought the Jan/Feb issue of Poets & Writers with intent to mark and scratch off contest submissions for whole poetry book competitions. I have two unpublished cohesive collections that stand well as a group but probably not so well as single pieces as people might be curious as to why I'd write what I wrote without knowing the rest of the collection's intent. I've considered publishing Lexington Lives myself through a print-on-demand site, but I think I could see it drown in a puddle because no one would actually purchase it, and no bookstores would know about it, and it wouldn't get any publicity whatsoever. I'd rather like to see a publisher in Kentucky pick it up.
My wish is the same for Rise When the Rooster Crows but by a Mississippi press since I set the story in the Delta primarily. Wouldn't it be great if UM Press, my Alma mater's university press, picked it up? Daydreaming.
I do have a small selection of poems that stand alone and that I could use to send off for one-poem-at-a-time poetry contests. Besides, I probably should revise Lexington Lives again before I try submitting it for a competition. I have sent Rise When the Rooster Crows to Yale Younger Poets, so I will have to wait to hear about that.
I bought the Jan/Feb issue of Poets & Writers with intent to mark and scratch off contest submissions for whole poetry book competitions. I have two unpublished cohesive collections that stand well as a group but probably not so well as single pieces as people might be curious as to why I'd write what I wrote without knowing the rest of the collection's intent. I've considered publishing Lexington Lives myself through a print-on-demand site, but I think I could see it drown in a puddle because no one would actually purchase it, and no bookstores would know about it, and it wouldn't get any publicity whatsoever. I'd rather like to see a publisher in Kentucky pick it up.
My wish is the same for Rise When the Rooster Crows but by a Mississippi press since I set the story in the Delta primarily. Wouldn't it be great if UM Press, my Alma mater's university press, picked it up? Daydreaming.
I do have a small selection of poems that stand alone and that I could use to send off for one-poem-at-a-time poetry contests. Besides, I probably should revise Lexington Lives again before I try submitting it for a competition. I have sent Rise When the Rooster Crows to Yale Younger Poets, so I will have to wait to hear about that.
Warmth
I want to write about warmth, heart, poetry, love, but there's no limbs and branches to gather to build the fire.
I need a woodpile waiting to burn...
When I sleep I feel the fire flicker brightly in my dreams, and when I wake the day brings with it a smoldering and smokey haze.
I need a woodpile waiting to burn...
When I sleep I feel the fire flicker brightly in my dreams, and when I wake the day brings with it a smoldering and smokey haze.
waiting on weight
I don't like what has happened. I looked at pictures from 6 years
ago, ones I shot of myself in my little apartment in graduate school one
autumn. Thin arms, narrow shoulders, slimmer face, a sparkle in the
eyes. The last 3 months in that apartment with only a minimal part-time
job, post-graduate, waiting to hear about job applications I had sent,
and then finally resolving to move back to Jackson until I found work. A
month and a half later I was in Kentucky. I didn't know anyone and at
first I was a homebody, cooking a lot, and thus eating more. And I
wasn't running around town, up and down stairs, etc. And I was hitting
my late twenties.
Now I am in my mid-thirties looking back on photos of myself in my mid-twenties thinking, where did it come from? But I know where it came from. Evenings spent watching episodic television and rented movies, hours on the computer chatting with friends, writing whining journal entries, and sitting, sitting, sitting. For a short while I tried running. I tried to go to the gym. I just didn't stick with either. I tried intense yoga. Gave it up and opted for the two-hour absorbing movie instead.
2011. I'm going to try a little harder to change a little more of what I have tried before.
Now I am in my mid-thirties looking back on photos of myself in my mid-twenties thinking, where did it come from? But I know where it came from. Evenings spent watching episodic television and rented movies, hours on the computer chatting with friends, writing whining journal entries, and sitting, sitting, sitting. For a short while I tried running. I tried to go to the gym. I just didn't stick with either. I tried intense yoga. Gave it up and opted for the two-hour absorbing movie instead.
2011. I'm going to try a little harder to change a little more of what I have tried before.
writing groups
Recently a friend posted about some "promises to the muse" and some
items on the list made me yearn for the little pool of creativity and
friendship we had for a year or two or three. I thought I would write
about how I feel looking back on those experiences.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Wednesdays and Saturdays... Towards the end of my time in small town Kentucky I would look forward to those two days with such anticipation that I wished there were no days in between. Wednesdays were never as productive for me as Saturdays, though. One of us would bring a prompt, oftentimes me. I'd try to create a structure out of it on paper, a little brick and mortar wall or pedestal. But whatever blueprints I drew out on those evenings never built anything that withstood stormy weather; The first wind gust knocked it down. I suppose evenings were not my best time to be a wordsmith. Those evenings were more about seeing the faces I loved, hearing the voices -- in writing and from persons. Afterward some of us would visit a while longer, talk about what we'd been reading, classwork, music, daily lives. Going out into the night under a canopy of southern oaks and distant stars, I'd feel giddy with a sense of place that fluttered in my hands and heart. We'd say our goodbyes and I would wait for Saturday.
Wednesdays were a teaser that satisfied me like a warm cup of coffee on a cool morning until Saturday arrived. Those mornings we usually met at a coffee shop. The last year I would wake, dress, and eagerly step out bundled up in warm coats into the cold to walk a mile to the coffee shop on one of the main thoroughfares through town. I'd ponder the neighborhoods and front porches I'd pass, the railroad tracks and iron nails, great oak trees and stone walls, until I stepped on the pea gravel in the back lot and pulled on that door that always required an extra bit of strength to yank it open. I'd walk around the corner and see the table set, 5 or 6 chairs already pulled into place, and a couple of our group sitting with warm coffee cups in their hands, faces warm with its glow. There was always a friendly hello, one so warm and welcoming as if they hadn't seen me in months. What a way to feel at home! I'd order my cafe mocha, another his espresso, another her coffee with creamer, another her hot tea with honey, and so on. Some of us would get a pastry or flapjack. Sometimes the breakfast lasted into the writing time; It didn't matter. Sometimes I brought a prompt I found as quote in a book or as a found object along the path. Others brought prompts, starters, jumper cables, anything that would break creative monotony. We'd introduce the prompt and a quiet hush would fall upon us as we rested our minds and let the ideas begin to open doors and point out pathways. Then pens and pencils would begin scratching on worn journal pages, some of us sitting square at the table with cup and plate crowding our space but we wouldn't notice because the scene was opening and we were writing it down to remember. Others angled away from the group a little, journal resting on knee and backs arched to over absorb the shock of places and people jotting across the pages. I'd look up from time to time to see a quiet face staring off into a history that was both real and created with eyes warm and concentrated on thought. I kept the timer, though I never set it to have a noisy alarm to signal the end of 20 minutes. I didn't want to jolt anyone out of a word landscape that was comfortable and welcoming like an alarm clock shakes you out of a dream that you wanted to live in. The twenty minutes quietly came upon each of us and when we were ready we each began to look to each other, smile, whisper, nod, eat our pastries, and drink coffee, until everyone had resurfaced. Someone would volunteer to go first. She'd read aloud an excerpt or all of what she wrote during those twenty minutes. We'd listen with captivated ears, both listening to her voice, the persona in the story, the rush of air through the door when someone entered the coffee shop, and to our own thoughts continuing about what we'd written. We'd blink when she read aloud a sentence or phrase that sounded musical and vibrated like a plucked stringed instrument. We'd remember those moments and recall them back to her when she finished reading, watching her face flicker warmly with the appreciation. Then another person would read, and another. Sometimes the moment brought something too personal and private, so a writer would pass on reading; That was okay because the next Saturday they'd find something they could share. And other times the writer would preface with their own criticism of what they wrote only to find the listeners found pieces in it that glowed like the rising sun. After everyone had had his or her turn to read their writing, we'd chatter for a few more minutes, then some of us would leave to meet friends for lunch, run errands, continue on with our day. Others might carry-over the warmth over another cup of coffee, talking about poetry book projects and current reading and philosophies. And then we'd break away to turn to our own daily tasks and wait for the next Saturday to arrive.
These were the free-writing group days I miss.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Wednesdays and Saturdays... Towards the end of my time in small town Kentucky I would look forward to those two days with such anticipation that I wished there were no days in between. Wednesdays were never as productive for me as Saturdays, though. One of us would bring a prompt, oftentimes me. I'd try to create a structure out of it on paper, a little brick and mortar wall or pedestal. But whatever blueprints I drew out on those evenings never built anything that withstood stormy weather; The first wind gust knocked it down. I suppose evenings were not my best time to be a wordsmith. Those evenings were more about seeing the faces I loved, hearing the voices -- in writing and from persons. Afterward some of us would visit a while longer, talk about what we'd been reading, classwork, music, daily lives. Going out into the night under a canopy of southern oaks and distant stars, I'd feel giddy with a sense of place that fluttered in my hands and heart. We'd say our goodbyes and I would wait for Saturday.
Wednesdays were a teaser that satisfied me like a warm cup of coffee on a cool morning until Saturday arrived. Those mornings we usually met at a coffee shop. The last year I would wake, dress, and eagerly step out bundled up in warm coats into the cold to walk a mile to the coffee shop on one of the main thoroughfares through town. I'd ponder the neighborhoods and front porches I'd pass, the railroad tracks and iron nails, great oak trees and stone walls, until I stepped on the pea gravel in the back lot and pulled on that door that always required an extra bit of strength to yank it open. I'd walk around the corner and see the table set, 5 or 6 chairs already pulled into place, and a couple of our group sitting with warm coffee cups in their hands, faces warm with its glow. There was always a friendly hello, one so warm and welcoming as if they hadn't seen me in months. What a way to feel at home! I'd order my cafe mocha, another his espresso, another her coffee with creamer, another her hot tea with honey, and so on. Some of us would get a pastry or flapjack. Sometimes the breakfast lasted into the writing time; It didn't matter. Sometimes I brought a prompt I found as quote in a book or as a found object along the path. Others brought prompts, starters, jumper cables, anything that would break creative monotony. We'd introduce the prompt and a quiet hush would fall upon us as we rested our minds and let the ideas begin to open doors and point out pathways. Then pens and pencils would begin scratching on worn journal pages, some of us sitting square at the table with cup and plate crowding our space but we wouldn't notice because the scene was opening and we were writing it down to remember. Others angled away from the group a little, journal resting on knee and backs arched to over absorb the shock of places and people jotting across the pages. I'd look up from time to time to see a quiet face staring off into a history that was both real and created with eyes warm and concentrated on thought. I kept the timer, though I never set it to have a noisy alarm to signal the end of 20 minutes. I didn't want to jolt anyone out of a word landscape that was comfortable and welcoming like an alarm clock shakes you out of a dream that you wanted to live in. The twenty minutes quietly came upon each of us and when we were ready we each began to look to each other, smile, whisper, nod, eat our pastries, and drink coffee, until everyone had resurfaced. Someone would volunteer to go first. She'd read aloud an excerpt or all of what she wrote during those twenty minutes. We'd listen with captivated ears, both listening to her voice, the persona in the story, the rush of air through the door when someone entered the coffee shop, and to our own thoughts continuing about what we'd written. We'd blink when she read aloud a sentence or phrase that sounded musical and vibrated like a plucked stringed instrument. We'd remember those moments and recall them back to her when she finished reading, watching her face flicker warmly with the appreciation. Then another person would read, and another. Sometimes the moment brought something too personal and private, so a writer would pass on reading; That was okay because the next Saturday they'd find something they could share. And other times the writer would preface with their own criticism of what they wrote only to find the listeners found pieces in it that glowed like the rising sun. After everyone had had his or her turn to read their writing, we'd chatter for a few more minutes, then some of us would leave to meet friends for lunch, run errands, continue on with our day. Others might carry-over the warmth over another cup of coffee, talking about poetry book projects and current reading and philosophies. And then we'd break away to turn to our own daily tasks and wait for the next Saturday to arrive.
These were the free-writing group days I miss.
Driving thoughts
There were times I could have stolen a kiss and waited to see what
that meant to you. It crossed my mind so often I was paralyzed by what I
feared. And now I am still pondering my "what if...?" and "why didn't
I?" as I drive to my empty house under the layers of night stretched
across a western sky. Sometimes my mental conversations with you feel
vivid in emotion as if you, too, converse with me from your solitary
place far from here. I imagine... If I had stolen a kiss would this
moment be different?
cycles
I do have cycles. They're seasonal and I am only just beginning to
recognize when they happen. Two years ago I commented to a friend that I
noticed I get more reflective, more moody and introspective in June and
July. During the day I will work and talk when needed to get a point
across, and may occasionally get excited about something and be chatty
about it. Usually, though, I am more quiet than usual and evenings tend
to lapse into solitary time of reading, writing, creating things,
listening intently to music to saturate myself in memories and thought.
Last year I considered that I might have another lapse sometime in Autumn, probably mid-October through late November or even mid-December. Holidays place in me an emotional conflict: I love seeing my family and visiting them, but there also is a disruption in my usual routine of thought and action that I feel a little in limbo and want to be alone even though I ought to spend all that holiday time with family since I see them only once or twice a year. I even felt that way when I last visited Berea. I wanted to visit with a few particular people but when I spent some time in the coffeeshop or with groups I knew it was no longer a place I inhabited.
I've been walking at night now. I've picked up a thought-provoking book (yes, it was recommended by a friend, one who gives suggestions I tend to follow up quite eagerly). I've been immersed in the lyricism of Alexa Woodward and Ray LaMontagne. I'm thinking and feeling and repositioning myself emotionally. It takes time.
And so, if I have this phase in June-July, and then again October-November, it's possible it happens again sometime in February-March. Is this usual for others? Do anyone else pause and reflect on the subtle shifts of self?
Last year I considered that I might have another lapse sometime in Autumn, probably mid-October through late November or even mid-December. Holidays place in me an emotional conflict: I love seeing my family and visiting them, but there also is a disruption in my usual routine of thought and action that I feel a little in limbo and want to be alone even though I ought to spend all that holiday time with family since I see them only once or twice a year. I even felt that way when I last visited Berea. I wanted to visit with a few particular people but when I spent some time in the coffeeshop or with groups I knew it was no longer a place I inhabited.
I've been walking at night now. I've picked up a thought-provoking book (yes, it was recommended by a friend, one who gives suggestions I tend to follow up quite eagerly). I've been immersed in the lyricism of Alexa Woodward and Ray LaMontagne. I'm thinking and feeling and repositioning myself emotionally. It takes time.
And so, if I have this phase in June-July, and then again October-November, it's possible it happens again sometime in February-March. Is this usual for others? Do anyone else pause and reflect on the subtle shifts of self?
forest from the fires
"You could leave: Save the forest from the fires, go to sleep beneath
the trees and swallow your desires, your desires...." - Alexa Woodward,
"Swallow" from album "An Early Dream"
She walked out into the piney woods, the same trails winding into the shadows and scattered light that she knew when she was seven years old. That Thanksgiving she and her cousin hiked into the woods, alongside the creek, getting their shoes soaked. They climbed over fallen tree trunks that made natural bridges. She found a big oak tree with root growth like tiny hills under her feet. Her cousin kept hiking and sloshing through the creek, but she wanted to stop here. Let's stay here. But I want to know what's ahead... Come on, let's go see. So they kept going, watching out for snakes. She never thought about ticks and spiders or even leeches. Sometimes the creek water would be up to their knees, and other times they tramped alongside the crooked edge staying clear of poison ivy. But since that Thanksgiving day she had not been allowed into the woods. She and her cousin had hiked 2 miles away from home and onto someone's property, possibly even hunting land. She hasn't been home in a long time and she wonders if the tree with root hills still stands. The limbs were grand and wide, probably a southern red oak, and she had felt awe there, a fire of warmth and desire that she swallowed when her cousin wanted to continue hiking for more adventurous places. Ever since then she has been swallowing desire, suffocating forest fires that smolder in her breast when she feels awe.
She walked out into the piney woods, the same trails winding into the shadows and scattered light that she knew when she was seven years old. That Thanksgiving she and her cousin hiked into the woods, alongside the creek, getting their shoes soaked. They climbed over fallen tree trunks that made natural bridges. She found a big oak tree with root growth like tiny hills under her feet. Her cousin kept hiking and sloshing through the creek, but she wanted to stop here. Let's stay here. But I want to know what's ahead... Come on, let's go see. So they kept going, watching out for snakes. She never thought about ticks and spiders or even leeches. Sometimes the creek water would be up to their knees, and other times they tramped alongside the crooked edge staying clear of poison ivy. But since that Thanksgiving day she had not been allowed into the woods. She and her cousin had hiked 2 miles away from home and onto someone's property, possibly even hunting land. She hasn't been home in a long time and she wonders if the tree with root hills still stands. The limbs were grand and wide, probably a southern red oak, and she had felt awe there, a fire of warmth and desire that she swallowed when her cousin wanted to continue hiking for more adventurous places. Ever since then she has been swallowing desire, suffocating forest fires that smolder in her breast when she feels awe.
the bride's alley evening
On the road in-between mountains and valleys where the sun appears
only once a week when the wind blows just as the right angle, the moment
is like a bride walking down an alley to the backdoor of her wedding
day. She pulls on the handle, breathes in a long drink of damp air,
swallows the urge to gag on the prickling nerves, the stench of sour
beer spilled across cobblestones, and laundry drying in stagnant air.
She strides into the warm glow of candlelight and altar-glow, and the
calla lilies are tinted in her evening vows.
what makes a heart ache
There is a crack in the apple's flesh, a glimpse at the sweetness
that my childhood memories ache for as the moon wanders across an
evening sky when spring breaks into summer. I may be 33 but I will not
ever think of myself as an adult, but instead a child forever learning
what makes a heart ache, what sweetens the song, what stirs a whisper,
what pulls the blanket 'round.
There's electricity in the clouds that filters down until it is in my blood. The Oklahoma wind that restrains itself before the storm arrives is like a child running between his dream and his parents: Is it time? Is it now? And though I dream of some wind-blown connection that knotted us together, a country road girl with a forest creek boy, there isn't one to speak of that doesn't untie in the twist of a tornado. There is no folk song, no fiddle whine, no banjo twang, no omen that foretells this will come to pass. It may not, and it is best to not recognize that it may. May is a month of hope that falters in its step the more it walks toward doubt. The love may only be that of two stars who are always in the sky, always the same distance, always shining, but never any closer to each other than when they first shone.
written 5-12-2010
There's electricity in the clouds that filters down until it is in my blood. The Oklahoma wind that restrains itself before the storm arrives is like a child running between his dream and his parents: Is it time? Is it now? And though I dream of some wind-blown connection that knotted us together, a country road girl with a forest creek boy, there isn't one to speak of that doesn't untie in the twist of a tornado. There is no folk song, no fiddle whine, no banjo twang, no omen that foretells this will come to pass. It may not, and it is best to not recognize that it may. May is a month of hope that falters in its step the more it walks toward doubt. The love may only be that of two stars who are always in the sky, always the same distance, always shining, but never any closer to each other than when they first shone.
written 5-12-2010
Altruism
I've been thinking about the word "altruism" lately. Earlier this week someone's use of the word reminded me of something another person once said to me.
In both cases the friend speaking to me used the word to describe me. The first friend is someone I admire and treasure our friendship during all its distance and long silences that are interrupted with conversations as if we just spoke the day before. I don't remember what activity or project I was working on for him to comment on my altruistic actions. But I was flattered that he thought so kindly of me. The second friend is a musician and an acquaintance than a close friend as we've never confided in each other about anything sentimental or emotional. I think that he is a talented musician and a friendly guy around town who knows a good many people. Upon discussion of my video-recording of house concerts and a little freebie of music videos I created for him from recordings of a recent concert, he described my actions as altruistic. I had forgotten what the word meant and I finally looked it up in the dictionary:
Altruism (pronounced: pronounced /ˈæltruːɪzəm/) is selfless concern for the welfare of others. Altruism is the opposite of selfishness. The term "altruism" may also refer to an ethical doctrine that claims that individuals are morally obliged to benefit others. (link Wikipedia)
I've always wondered if that could be entirely true, because no matter what we do for others there is still the smallest part within us that is begging to at least recognition, and if we happen to receive recognition I think the next impression is how do we receive it. Do we bask? Do we humble? I think that it makes a difference and most people will be annoyed by those who bask in recognition for their altruistic actions, which then becomes not so altruistic. Because no matter what I do, I want whatever it is to be a gift, and for myself all that I ask is the simplest of gratitude, a spoken "thank you." And if I do not gain a verbal thank you of recognition but I am able to witness the receipt of whatever my altruistic actions made, a fluttering smile across a face suffices more than any satisfying sweet desert. Is knowing that you've helped someone else anonymously and seeing them joyful and grateful still altruistic? I hope so.
In both cases the friend speaking to me used the word to describe me. The first friend is someone I admire and treasure our friendship during all its distance and long silences that are interrupted with conversations as if we just spoke the day before. I don't remember what activity or project I was working on for him to comment on my altruistic actions. But I was flattered that he thought so kindly of me. The second friend is a musician and an acquaintance than a close friend as we've never confided in each other about anything sentimental or emotional. I think that he is a talented musician and a friendly guy around town who knows a good many people. Upon discussion of my video-recording of house concerts and a little freebie of music videos I created for him from recordings of a recent concert, he described my actions as altruistic. I had forgotten what the word meant and I finally looked it up in the dictionary:
Altruism (pronounced: pronounced /ˈæltruːɪzəm/) is selfless concern for the welfare of others. Altruism is the opposite of selfishness. The term "altruism" may also refer to an ethical doctrine that claims that individuals are morally obliged to benefit others. (link Wikipedia)
I've always wondered if that could be entirely true, because no matter what we do for others there is still the smallest part within us that is begging to at least recognition, and if we happen to receive recognition I think the next impression is how do we receive it. Do we bask? Do we humble? I think that it makes a difference and most people will be annoyed by those who bask in recognition for their altruistic actions, which then becomes not so altruistic. Because no matter what I do, I want whatever it is to be a gift, and for myself all that I ask is the simplest of gratitude, a spoken "thank you." And if I do not gain a verbal thank you of recognition but I am able to witness the receipt of whatever my altruistic actions made, a fluttering smile across a face suffices more than any satisfying sweet desert. Is knowing that you've helped someone else anonymously and seeing them joyful and grateful still altruistic? I hope so.
'til the wheels come off
"I want to love you 'til the wheels come off." - Tom Waits
When the highway doesn't speed under my tires,
When the interstate doesn't connect the dots,
When all the signs don't point in one direction,
When the tires of my old car start falling off,
I will stop loving you.
9-19-2010
When the highway doesn't speed under my tires,
When the interstate doesn't connect the dots,
When all the signs don't point in one direction,
When the tires of my old car start falling off,
I will stop loving you.
9-19-2010
Searching for inspiration
I've been wondering how long it is going to take this state to
inspire me. That's kinda selfish, though, to think that it's an
obligation for a new place to inspire creativity. Laughable. But I fear
that some of my latest concerns will cause me to forget creativity and
settle for humdrum monotony. Walking for an hour listening to music on
my iPhone... That draws imagery of suburbanite for me. That's not me.
I am words. Music. Sunsets and moonrises. Yellow flowers by the road. Scratched out lines of prose working into poetry. I am organizer and idea lightbulb. But I am not motivation and I am slow action. Sometimes I perform the time-consuming mindless mundane before I attempt the challenging creative fun of physically making art out of language or crafts. And I need the inspiration to move out of stagnation into motivation.
I am words. Music. Sunsets and moonrises. Yellow flowers by the road. Scratched out lines of prose working into poetry. I am organizer and idea lightbulb. But I am not motivation and I am slow action. Sometimes I perform the time-consuming mindless mundane before I attempt the challenging creative fun of physically making art out of language or crafts. And I need the inspiration to move out of stagnation into motivation.
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