Right on, Write on.

Keeping a blog is one of those things.  No, not those things. Those things.  One of those things that appear unnecessary and superfluous on the surface.  It "eats" time and takes energy that could and "should be spent elsewhere.  Such as in writing "legitimate" pieces, be they poetry, essays, letters, or even email correspondence.  But the fact is, as I often discount, keeping a regular journal -- online or otherwise -- often makes this other writing easier and more productive. 

Sigh.

Still, I have a terrible time allowing myself to write a blog or a friendly letter when I know I have so much else I "should be doing."  Such as paying work.  But I digress.  Here I am.

This past week was wonderful for planting seeds and for finding motivation to write.  Last Thursday I managed to make it to the local monthly poetry workshop group.  It's thanks to that group that I manage to write even one poem a month.  I mean, I have to have SOMETHING to share there.  So I usually write it in the 30 minutes before I have to leave.  I wish it was a bi-weekly group instead. Two poems a month would mean I would probably have enough for that collection I've been working on for about 5 years now...

On Saturday, thanks to my husband and a good friend who watched my kids for a couple hours, I managed to make it to the SCWW Writers Intensive workshop/lecture.  It was good, though I was only able to stick around for the first half, and I caught the speaker who was less relevant to my work.  Still, the opportunity to network was wonderful, and the speaker managed to convince me I need to do some work capturing and gathering some family memories, if only for the sake of handing the stories down to the next generation.  Ideally, though, I would love to write them into a Dave Eggers style novel/memoir.  I even went as far as to tell my mom the plan.  I'm not sure how on board she is, but I think she'll help.  I hope so.  She and her siblings will be essential to this.

On Sunday I had the privilege of attending a moonShine review release party.  The day was HOT, but there was a pool, wine, plenty of good food, and a crowd of people who I respect very much and whose work I enjoy.  Not the least of these people was the hostess of the party and chief editor of moonShine, Anne Hicks, who also edited my chapbook, Lemonade & Rumors.  It was wonderful to see her.  And, frankly, I ate up the encouragement she doled out, prodding me to get that second collection done.  She wants to edit it, which would be wonderful.  Her help with the last collection made the experience such a rewarding one.

Still, since Sunday, what have I written?  This.  Period. 

But at least I've written that much, right?

Dancing to the music of poetry

I am not sure where I am but I am in Massachusetts in an old mill, converted to gathering space. There is a bar. There are people, talking. And there is music here. Jazz. Poetry.

I am feeling the warmth of all of the above, including the low hum of one plastic cup of chardonnay. I am missing the words to this poem: they are playing the "da-daa da-daa" baseline of "Billie Jean," and it makes me smile.

I see Robert Pinsky talking with some bearded man I don't know. Really. And I think, "how different to be a poet." A rock star would not have this breathing room. He is alone now in the crowd, Mr. Pinsky, that is: the man with the beard is laughing with a woman now. I wonder if the Poet Laureate is alone out of respect or his fans' introversion. I suppose both.

There are drums now and woodwinds to charm a snake. I move my hips -- Mom used to call them "snake hips" -- and think, "this is the closest I will ever get to Java Joes," and I'm ok with that. This man is singing in bright exotic jazz tones about "the word."

I think of God.

The instruments have stopped, but the music continues with the buzz of conversation to soften it. My ears will ring when I leave here, filling the silence in the streetlight lit streets. The weight of words in my limbs.

Temptation on the Sixth Day

Here at the office, the monotony of the work lengthens the day, stretches it as if the tied to some archaic torture device, threatening to draw and quarter the hours. A good playlist can counter this, of course.

Well, for the first time since I started my fast, I was tempted to open my media player here at work. (Really, up til today, I had been busy enough and away from my computer enough that there was no point. That and the streaming radio at 1079thelink.com was pretty decent.) So I opened it to find the last played playlist: a mix of Jason Mraz, Jump Little Children , Jars of Clay, and Ari Hest. Rather than cull out the forbidden tunes, I figured it was time for something new altogether. So when I went to pick my ear-candy, I notice an "album" that I'd not listened to as a whole, and I figured it was about time.

Enter Billy Collins.

I have such respect for Billy C. His poetry is, at the same time, finely crafted and highly accessible. The poetry community should aspire to these traits, always and concurrently. By creating work that reveals the true beauty of "plain" language and thought, we all are given a flicker of the hope of creativity, maybe even enough of a spark to spur our own poet within.

I've read plenty of Billy Collins' work, but there's always something magical about hearing him, or really any fine poet, speak his own work. I took the 30+ tracks I had and made a playlist of only those. Wow. Good stuff.

If you're not yet a fan, or if you are but never thought to look for his spoken work, do yourself a favor and download a few (or all) here.

And on the sixth day, Billy C. saved me from temptation.

Conservatively, I speak

Some people are comfortable on the floor, be it a dance or a debate. Some like picking fights. Some simply aren't afraid of being heard.

Then there are the rest of us. Those who, no matter how comfortable they might feel in their own skin, would rather die than have a spotlight on them. We're the ones who would forget how to spell "the" at a spelling bee, the self-conscious stutterers, the stage-frightened, the wusses.

"Hi, I'm Julie, and I'm a chickenlittleshit."

I fool some people, sometimes. Maybe even most people most of the time. For instance, I stutter sometimes. Not often, but enough to be self-conscious of it, enough that I hear it and know to take my time speaking to avoid it; I don't think even my husband or mother has picked up on that. Also, I do pretty well at poetry readings. If I know and am comfortable with my material, I can "comfortably" speak in front of a crowd of thousands. I've done it. I was shaking, but my voice was steady.

However, I still avoid jumping into shark infested waters of public political or religious debate. Which is a shame. On some levels at least. No matter how adamantly I might oppose an opinion, I am more likely passively volunteer to be the attacked straw man than to be the vocal minority. Heck, I'm not even likely to be a member of the vocal majority.

So while I applaud and encourage the freedom of expression, I self-censor. I don't bring up the fact that I don't think Obama is a god, or that even though a close family member once admitted to thinking Hillary might be the Antichrist and another very Republican family member voted for Obama to thwart Hillary, I would rather have had Hillary as the democratic nominee than Obama. Nor do I mention that, given the options, I'll vote for McCain when the time comes.

But then I think about how much of elections is about name recognition and general publicity. And I wonder what Jane Undecided might think as she surfs through cyberspace. The "Yes McCain Can" posts are a little less visible than those on the other guy. Mostly because new things, new people, changes are exciting. So people will talk and write about the new thing more, with more passion. What happens to the old guy? What about those who just might vote for him?

I'm asking these questions of myself as much as they're rhetorical. A lot of this has to do with reconciling my own largely conservative -- though not necessarily "Republican"-- beliefs with the ballot I'll cast in November. And with each ballot thereafter. I do this in hopes that maybe once I know better what I believe and how those beliefs translate into political ideology, maybe then I'll be ready to voice them more freely, without fear of the inevitable cyber-smackdown.

*****

In other news, I wrote a poem today as promised; "Happen" (which may be retitled) can be read by logging into shakespearesmonkeys.com.

Laying it all out...

Though I was on the newspaper staff in middle school, did layout for my high school year book, and worked on my college's art & literature annual for three years, until recently I never fully appreciated the artistic merit of a good layout. Perhaps that would have been beaten into me more if I had taken more than one graphic design course in college. (One semester of typography -- better known as "how to xerox sharpie-drawn letters" or "where to find the best copy machines" -- was all I could stomach.)

Lately, though, I've been doing more and more layout. Most of that stems from working on Shakespeare's Monkey Revue, but I've also been doing a fair share of layout at work too: I've been working with HR to get our overdue Employee Handbook printed. While the layouts aren't exciting or unique -- nothing like layouts for a commercial magazine or newspaper -- the fact remains that a good layout allows the content to shine. Likewise, if the layout does not compliment the content, or if it is poorly done (typos, misalignment, etc.), it distracts & detracts from the content.

Then I got to thinking... isn't that a wonderful metaphor for people? Sometimes we get to be content, but sometimes we're "just" layout. When we're layouts, if we strive to be good layouts, we'll compliment the content we're in the presence of, be it our significant other, our children, our coworkers, our friends. And while it's not as glorious to be the silent partner, there's something humble about doing it well.

* * *

In other news, I heard back from Kakalak earlier this week! I had a poem accepted for publication ("Late but not running") and a piece of my artwork received an Honorable Mention! Once the book is in print, I'll make it public in my Shakespeare's Monkeys library. :)

something I won't even call a poem, let alone admit to (but I'm posting it anyhow)

A local radio station was holding a Love Poem contest for Valentine's Day. The catch is, the poem couldn't be about family, significant others, friends, etc. They didn't want "hallmark" poems. They had to be about, say, how you love your Starbuck's Venti Double White Mocha or House or pre-Scientology Tom Cruise.

Of course, the obvious answer for me had to be writing about Jason... (It doesn't help that "I'm Yours" was just officially released today, and I just got my copy of the Fire Relief cd yesterday -- "Silent Love Song" is so lovely.)

So without any further ado (or apologies), here is my terribly silly (and poorly written) O-dilly-day* to Mr. A-to-Z.

(* Get it? it's kinda a scat-ish way of saying "Ode." Clever, eh? eh? ok, nevermind.)

...

O-dilly-day to Mr. A-to-Z

Double entendres abound when he’s around,
and the sound of his voice makes me long
to be his cigarette or “One Love,” his favorite song.
His boyish smirk makes me grin as I blush
Like a teenybopper with her first crush.
Down to earth, yet he’s unattainable --
I’m happily married, so my obsession's unexplainable!
Still, with his smooth-scatting and R r-r-r-rolling art
Jason Mraz knows the way to my heart.

bubbly and vibrant, and multiple

So, this past week, I stumbled on a certain Bushwalla track featuring Jason Mraz... on the kaleidoscope. It has been stuck in my head all day. Particularly Bushwalla's "If you ask who I am/ I be Bush W the white rap man/ the acoustic rhymer..." and Jason's "do do do do do do do do do..." I can't help but grin like an idiot when I listen to it. This is now filed under happy songs. If you know the song, you know what I mean. If you're interested, look up "Titty Banging" by Bushwalla with Jason Mraz, specifically at Twiggs.

[LMS, if you're reading this, don't worry, I won't subject your daughter (or any of your future children) to this. Trust me, I'm still a good candidate for Godmother.]

******

I went to the open mic tonight at The Perk. It had looked like it was going to be a small group, -- no offense, but run-of-the mill -- but it turned out to be one of the best readings I'd been to at that locale. There was not a featured reader, but I think it's safe to say Develon and Paul stole the show. I look forward to running into them again. Meanwhile, I got to promote SMR a bit. I think I read more than my share, including a piece that I later realized was more of a piece for the page than presentation. It reads really well, but makes absolutely no sense unless you can see it on the page, punctuation and all. This was, as far as I can remember, the first time I've gone to an open mic and read but not any of my own work.

Before the reading I had the day to spend with my older son, and just him. We just ran errands, me and the 3½ year old, but it was really nice. He wanted to come with me, so I wasn't dragging him, and we weren't pressed for time, so we got to visit the toy aisle a bit too, so he was thrilled. Sometimes I feel I'm missing how #1 is growing up because #2 still demands so much attention. When I came home from the reading around 10:30, #2 was deep asleep (as expected) and #1 was awake in bed (as expected, though his bedtime is 9/9:30), waiting for me to hold him in the rocking chair. I did, longer than usual. He usually hugs me, and I hold him "like a monkey." But tonight I asked him if I could hold him "like a baby," cradled with his head against my chest. That was nice.

It's so cliché, but the idea of loving your children equally but differently is really starting to take hold for me. I'm harder on #1 because he's older of course, but I think too because he reminds me of me, being the oldest, doomed to be shorter than his younger brother. Meanwhile, #2 is still "the baby" and since his premature arrival, I've felt I do just that, baby him, maybe more than I should. That and I can clearly see he'll look like his handsome daddy.

We'll see how things change if/when a third child comes into play.

What does it all mean, Basil?

Maybe no one really cares, but since when has that ever determined whether something gets posted on the internet or not? So since it doesn't really matter if anyone's actually interested, I'll go on and explain where "digging cheese out of carpet" came from for my blog title:

From a poem I wrote a couple years ago, "Where Between."

That's it.

Ha! you thought I was going to actually enlighten you? well.

"Where Between" was written about our first child, when he was probably about 15 months old. The whole poem reads as one sentence composed of a series of items done during the course of the day, and "digging smashed cheese out of carpet" is on the list. Unfortunately, that's all too commonplace here: kid eats cheese and leaves "cheese crumbs" on the floor to be stepped on and tracked onto the carpet. Next thing I know, it's hard and crusty, and clinging to the carpet so tightly, scissors are tempting. It seems to be an exercise in futility, because I know that once I dig it out, I'll have another clump to clean up the next day, or something equally as bad.

"Digging cheese out of carpet" is something that needs to be done on occasion, something that could use a little ingenuity sometimes, or at least a spray bottle. And it's something that's laughable once you're done with it.

To read the poem, click here.

In other words, I am almost caught up with posting my old non-blogger blogs in here. I expect to wrap that up tonight.

Getting my butt in gear

The deadline for submissions for the annual KaKaLaK Anthology of Carolina Poets is sneaking up on me. Entries are due on Wednesday, and I still don't have them together, let alone turned in. So I'm sorta working on that tonight. It's kinda depressing, taking inventory of what worthwhile pieces I've written since last year. I've got a handful I'm happy with, but they all read the same. I mean, for the most part they're all confessional mommy pieces. Squishy Hallmark fuzzy (but not cute or quaint, I hope), but still... . But then, that's the sort that they've accepted of mine the past 2 years, so maybe it's the way to go. The only piece I'm considering that's an exception to that theme is one based on a dream and written in the vein of Denise Duhamel's "Sex with a Famous Poet." Except nowhere near as entertaining. And I'm not entirely sure I'd be ready for having my "Frenching a Famous Pop-Musician" in print. But I'll probably submit it anyhow: if the editors &/or judge thinks it's print worthy, it's time for me to get over it & myself.

I'll be able to pull together a reasonable poetry submission. Nothing, though, that I feel will qualify for a prize, unfortunately. But maybe something worth printing. The tough part comes in with the art entry I wanted to send in. I really have nothing but unimplemented ideas. Which stinks. Especially since I feel like I would have a chance if I'd send something.

Oh well. I'll kick myself if I don't get art together, but between work & clutter, I'm not sure how that can happen.

Expectant Realizations

Last week Peanut and I had our monthy check-up. It was extra quick
and everything's looking good. So there's not too much to say about that...

Peanut's been kicking and rolling and hiccuping and wiggling a lot lately.

Of course when Aunt Laura came to visit a couple weeks ago, that was when Peanut
decided to be much much "quieter" than usual. (I think the kid got worn
out from all the sommersaults the day before.) But lately, nearly anytime I sit
still, you can see my belly move like St. Nick's "bowl full of jelly."

I've been feeling like an Alien extra...

In other news, I've decided to post a poem I wrote a few months ago.

It just makes sense that it should be on Peanut's page. So... read on.

Expectant Realizations: Three Senryu

I.

Relativity

She’s only sixteen
months old; in just seven more
she will be an aunt


II.

Trade-off

Conception brings life
to the womb and death to the
mother’s appetite.

III.

Understanding

Parental joy comes
with the ready acceptance
of God’s surprises.

©JAC 11/26/2003