Taking on Water . . .

Dreams of the last nights are riddles, puzzles, mirrors, windows; if I can just decipher the code.

Four nights ago, on a windy dark road through a thick forest, no moonlight, I am driving. There is a female in the passenger seat; maybe Sara, Wendy, Susan - I don't know the woman, but I know she trusts me and she is counting on me for something. I am driving. But I am blind. I say, "I can't see yet."
"But you're eyes are open." She raises her hand to the wheel.
"Yes, but I can't see yet. I have a condition."
"A condition?" I can see her panic like a funnel cloud in the distance racing closer.
"It's okay really. I'm highly intuitive."
"What kind of condition?" she says and her voice is pitching higher than the strings.
"Delayed rotation."
"Can you see yet? Can you see the road?"
"No." I begin to doubt myself. My teeth clench and my shoulders turtle up. "But I'm on it." I swallow. "Right?"
"What is delayed rotation?"
"I open my eyes but my eyeballs are turned inward because it is my nature. Mine have become delayed. They take longer to turn out again."
"Do you know where you're going?"
Then I wake up. I open my eyes, grateful for the dark room but the grays of definition. How much do I need to see to know where I am? I walked through much of my childhood without the lights on and I'm thriving. I can walk in the dark. I can trust my feet.
Right?

Dream two:
Last night, sidewalks, trees, dark misty night, some chemical smell as if a refinery is not far, The air is dense. My thighs are loaded with lead; I'm no larger; but I cannot move. I need a machete to move through this thickness. My back bends and there is no relief and no end to the road, rolling out like a ribbon of gray taffy. There is no stopping, no resting place. There is only the hot tar road beneath the thin souled shoes and this weight. Is this how we move in the world? Is this where I have to be now. It is as if I am swimming toward a shore that recedes with every stroke. And I am not in a place that permits floating. So there is only moving, stroking, swimming.
I wake exhausted, beaten. There it is then; the thing that doesn't happen to Mary. I feel beaten. I know I am not - but right here, this night, this moment, the vessel is swamped and taking on water.

There comes a time . . .

At one point or another most of my children's generation contemplate or get a tattoo. My daughter, Sara, chose her 18th birthday to get one. My son, Dylan, has been talking about the one he wanted for over a year; one of his own design and meaningful to him; individual.

I shared with him that I believed the strongest statement he could make with his skin would be to be one of the very few of his generation who turned around at 35 or 40 years of age and did not have a tattoo or piercing; that who he is should speak so confidently that no mark or sign would better represent him.

He disagreed. He was determined and had decided he would get a tattoo when he was 18. So, I decided I would scope out local tattoo parlors, try to determine the cleanest, safest, and most talented ink artists. Once an 18 year old "child" decides a course of action, it seems the best alternative is to participate and guard and guide as much as they will permit. I was impressed with Dragon Moon Tattoo in Glen Burnie. They refused to tattoo Dylan prior to his 18th birthday. They check ID. They use the most recent and thorough of sterilizing devices for their needles and their ink! So here is Dylan, my Beamish boy, my brilliant son, bearing the ink that defines him, for today anyway. It is possible that this may be the ironic highlight that defines this part of his life.

Psyche's Dream

Psyche's Dream

As Psyche, the most
beautiful of mortals,
sleeps among the
flowers, she dreams
of beholding the
perfect face of
Eros, her lover.
Having found true love
in each other,
they float down the
river of life forever.

What resonates for me is that Psyche is dreaming, floating. It is very much how I move through any given day -- seeing the endless potential, the potential, the portent of the curve of the moment.

Hope on Fire

Sometimes our lives ignite.
Like tonight.
There is the personal and
the global.
First - I am unwilling -
but you knew that -
to ask for help, to be less
than my whole life - to do less
than breathe fire.
If not now - when?

We knew this moment - we smiled all this day - we were jubilant at the poll place - we danced in the streets - we were gleeful - we knew.

Now, harness the faith in your own desire, your own perfection, your own "everything." There is no need to compromise in your self. Celebrate - and then get to work. As my grandfather always said, "Life is work. Love your work."
Thanks, Pop-pop.

Don't Vote

I remember when the school system made a move to ban books by Stephen King. He was thrilled. He told them to go ahead; ban his books; remove them from the library. He smiled that crooked, wicked little smile and said, "Ban them and your children will seek them out, find them, and huddle beneath the covers with a flashlight and read them in the dark of night."

So I say to you, "Don't vote." It won't make any difference. Besides you haven't done enough research, and they are calling for rain later. Why don't you at least wait until after you get off work. Put it off. After all, you are just one person. How much could it possibly matter.

So stay home. Don't vote.

Haunted by Tail Lights

She doesn't stand at the door.
She doesn't watch people drive away.
She's not haunted by tail lights
trailing off down the dark country road
under a half-moon, neither waning or waxing.

She doesn't hold on too long.
She doesn't want the off-balance
of the early release, the tumble
seeking gravity. When she turns,
she just keeps going; no need to
check over her shoulder; rather use her
resources to shield the glare of the sun
streaming into her eyes.

Mary Buys a Kayak!

Mary Visits Jiffy Lube

I'm experimenting with making videos. Some things are bound to turn out better than others :-/

Read this right now!

Obama is recalling growing up, raised by his grandmother. She said to him, "Well, it's no picnic for me either." What I heard was, "My life ain't been no crystal stair/But I's still climbing...."

I dob't take anything away from McCain. I respect McCain. I admire his service to our country, his tenacity in surviving being held captive. I see a life well-lived, in so many respects.

BUT, he does not know my childhood or my friends lives. That doesn't make him a bad choice for a leader; but McCain is not my choice. Not just because we are not similar in our experience in America, but more because he chose, he "chose" Palin.

I had wanted Hillary to be the democratic candidates. I see now why she is not that candidate. I only say this so you see that my objections about Palin are not because she is female. My doubts are not that she is inexperienced with world leaders and even national politics beyond her peninsula. I wonder, however, if you put her in a room of 8th graders and they played, "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego", if Palin would be in the top three. I wonder if she played a game with sixth graders about the constitution and the amendments, if she would be in the top six. I am not willing to wonder that about my vice president.

Barack knows the constitution, knows he is not a perfect man, knows he needs guidance and help and will ask for the help he needs. I believe those things about him. I do believe that if he asks America to step up, that finally, we will "all" step up; all of those that are able.

Is this powerful media - YES, it is. This is a presidential candidate who understands that all of the citizens are at his disposal; this thirty minute spot is how he talks to everyone - not the people who can buy a plate at a dinner to support him that costs in excess of $500. He spent his campaigning dollar to talk to me, to you. What did he ask for in return?

Pay attention. Listen. Vote.

Crazy Kayak Girl

The summer of 2008, I went kayaking about six times. The Severn, the Magothy, the Bay, became as much my waterfront as any one elses. No cell phone, no moving quickly. The sun, the salty-ish air, the birds, and my sister and friends made for hours of paradise in my own neighborhood.

We'd typically meet at the Boatyard Bar and Grill in Eastport for their legendary Bloody Mary(s) and then walk down the block to rent kayaks from Annapolis Canoe and Kayak rentals. They hold an annual end-of-season kayak sale and I was among the handful of people anxiously waiting for them to open the doors on Sunday morning.

An hour later, I was a proud boat owner! My kayak is a blue Dagger 12 with a skeg. Now all I need is a paddle, a whistle, a bailing system (sponge or cup and sponge), and a life jacket!

There is one other small detail that I didn't think through - transportation. For now, my kayak is safely cradled at Annapolis Canoe and Kayak. Next weekend, I hope to recruit a friend with a large vehicle to help me get my boat home. It is just possible that this modest kayak may fit inside my vehicle with the hatch open, etc. We'll see. Until then, if you see me walking down College Parkway with a kayak trailing behind me, you'll know that I'm headed for water!

Long Nights

Take off your shoes
Pin up your hair
Don't worry about the crumbs
or the dog hair. Spill
your wine on the carpet

And don't worry about the
mail; this has been a long day
and it's gonna be a night
deep as hell.

There is no help at the door
and no one inside. All the window
are closed and the curtains
are blind. Sheets as cool as
a shroud and your lips wanting
a swell.

TV is chatter, night fog for the ear,
your skin has grown onion thin,
your heart a mollusk shell.

You just don't want to go,
and you'll die if you stay.
Those will be the words
on your dying day.

14 Hour day and still restless

Here is an indication of a lack of balance: the person who was up at 6 AM is still up at nearly midnight and worked two job and cannot settle down, cannot rest, cannot take herself upstairs to sleep. Oh, the snooze alarm will wink at me in the morning, entice me to tap it, tap it, tap it, til I go to work in wrinkled clothes and unruly hair and all the thoughts that would not settle down scribbled in the furrows of my brow.

Financial Forecasting

"There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures."

Julius Caesar Act 4, scene 3, 218–224
Brutus

Sarah Palin Debate Flow Chart

Okay, I didn't create it and probably won't leave it here long but you have to admit that it applies to plenty of other situations, not only during a debate.

Sally escaped in the woods

Not far from here is a wood, a conservation area off Log Inn Road; the wood is untamed for the most part except for a service path that cuts through the center and around the perimeter.

I was looking for an open, natural space to allow Sally off her leash, to ramble and race and run like a dog should: Well, at least as Sally should. So I parked on the side of the road, and we climbed over the low placed loosely fitted chain. Twilight coming on but still an hour hence, soft light filtered down through the leaves and the ground was forgiving from recent rains. After a few yards, I undid Sally's leash. Whenever she got a bit of distance between us, I called her to stay and sit. She did.

We traveled deeper into the wood. I threw a stick and she chased after and carried back the stick (or its cousin) several times. Then just beyond where Sally stood, I spied a burst of movement, tall and muscular, nearly invisible, blended with the palette of colors of the wood. "Sally stay," I commanded and thankfully she did as I envisioned her otherwise bounding off through the woods, relentless in her pursuit of a deer.

I secured her leash and walked a bit more. It seemed the deer (or it may have been Sasquatch - who appears sometimes when the air starts to chill) had left the area. So I let Sally free once more and she wandered and returned and wandered and returned. Although she was growing increasingly confident in the degrees of separation between us. So whenever she returned, I produced treats (ah, bacon).

The sun was moving closer to the horizon and I realized I might have started this adventure much earlier lest I find myself far from the gate and still in the woods (Sasquatch prefers company at sunset). It is at this moment, as my creative thoughts begin firing more brilliantly, that Sally races off into the wood, her nose twitching, her quarters leaping logs and brush as she manically pursues, a zig to the left and a zag to the right.

I shout, I cajole, I offer food. I run and yell, "C'mon Sally. Catch me." She is not interested in catching any human though as she has caught the scent of Sasquatch (okay, maybe it's a deer)and must find it, corral it. Soon I cannot see her and have to leave the access road/path and traipse through the brush, the prickly, the fallen limbs. After a bit, I cannot see the access path anymore even though I know it is there, even though I know if I keep going, I will come ot the access path on the far side, even though I know I am in a contained conservation wood not far from civilasation and will not be lost as I could be in the hills of North Carolina near Little Switzerland. "Sally!" I spot her and take off in that direction but she has hiding skills too and her invisibility coat is blending with the tree trunks and brush. "Sally. Come!" She does not. I go further in. What choice do I have? What else can you do when what you care about goes chasing after the scene of something unknown but has a primal urge compelling it to find the prey and contain it.

I spot her again and because she is dependent on me, because she is vulnerable among the wild things, I cajole her back, leash her up and lead her back out of the wood. I do know that she was joyous in her pursuit and would, no doubt, have responded well if she'd actually encountered Sasquatch - especially if he'd had bacon treats for her!

Why is it always that . . .

that sleep alludes me when work and life tax me the most?

My day started earlier than most because I'm presiding over a training seminar and then worked my days work and then taught my expository writing class; the late class that runs until 9:35PM and after the drive home, it is 10:45PM and even if I listen to a lullaby, my mind is racing with ideas of new class exercises and domestic tasks and missed birthdays and what to be for Halloween and you.

What surprises me the most . . .

Well, it surprises me (maybe not the most) is that I do find myself unattached now. This is how I thought I would write this when I was upstairs:

"People always seem surprised that I am alone. I admit that I have not spent much time examining it either; too afraid that I might discover the answer."

Mary - Featured Poet - October 10

Friday, October 10 6:30 - 8:30
POETRY AT BB BISTRO
Welcomes MARY BARGTEIL
Open Mic included.

Mary Lorraine Bargteil is troubled by her name, artifacts, and alignment.
Frequently inconsistent, her creative efforts have resulted in publication
in poetry, short story, novella, and essay. One of her creative
objectives it to make books from existing materials and to excavate
territories and characters where the artifacts are sketchy at best. Her
most recent poetry collection, “Artifacts” was discovered when she was
reading the unsubstantiated account of Lilith and broke her grandfather's
Baltimore and Ohio railroad official china egg cup. She finds
significance in things that are broken.
----
BB Bistro
112 Annapolis St.
Annapolis, MD
410-990-4646
DIRECTIONS

Binkys for All

“I’m frustrated by the war. Gas prices. A government that shoves rhetorical Binkys into our mouths to distract us from the dirty economic diaper in which we sit.”
Marc Davison

The Time to Make Up Your Mind About People is Never

I heard a quote about Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward and the success of their relationship. Paul Newman said he attributed their success to equal parts of desire and respect. I don't think that happens very often. His observation does compel me to sacrifice neither.

Training Wheels

For a long time, I've wanted to post a video. This was recorded a few years ago, when my son was learning this song. He may be unhappy about this video and I may end up having to take down this part of the process, the training wheels part.

The Point

When do you get to the point when you stop expecting someone to change?

Never. We change every day, sometimes a few times a day. We are hungry. We eat. We are tired. We nap. Then we are no longer tired or hungry. A fundamental change but if you have ever cared for a toddler who is tired and hungry, then you understand the way that these fundamental needs alter our rational thinking, our tenacity, our patience, our outlook, our hope.

We change in more significant ways; not in the moment but incrementally, by degrees, over a month, a year, a decade. So if you met me a decade ago, I am different now. You are different also.

Many books have been published that tell us that our moral and ethical foundation is set by the time we are six years old. I don’t dispute that the foundation is established. But a foundation is something upon which much more is constructed.

I’ve made some proclamations in my life; proclamations that have some validity but may have been limited by experience and understanding of my years. I am older now. I see things differently than I did twenty or more years ago. I have changed. Even in the last decade, the last few years, the last two months, the last two weeks.

If we stop expecting people to change, evolution ceases. Surely we are evolving – constantly, momentarily.

So I expect you to change. I expect to change. I expect change – unpredictable and surprising but not really frightening, not even in the frightening moments. Sometimes the frightening moments are the moments we discover our inner hero, leader, power.

Writer's dilemma

Here is what is difficult, for both writers and writers friends/family: people in our lives become characters, things become props, places become settings, real words exchanged become dialogue; all of that becomes story or poem. And ultimately, even when it is not, our friends/family sometimes believe the writing is about them or they wish it were about them. But the writing stands alone once it is done, no longer possessed by the writer or anyone else. What matter, ultimately, who wrote the collection of plays and sonnets we attribute to Shakespeare - it is the work that fascinates, resonates, entertains, touches, stimulates, just as much as if it were a living thing. That's why it is referred to a "creating" a story and/or poem. It becomes. Often it becomes something other than what the writer believed they had intended in the first place. Thus the writer's ego is no more or less than the writers' friends/family members when it comes to the actual work.

I have written on this topic before, but the cost of writing and publishing your work will always be that some will misunderstand.

Shoals

"[Thomas] Jefferson says, 'I've found the art of living is avoiding the shoals and the rocks. But the truth of the matter is none of us can avoid the shoals and the rocks.'"
Joe Kovac Jr.; This I Know: Max Cleland; Macon Telegraph (Georgia); Sep 14, 2008.

Given my recent sailing opportunities (more as ballast than effective crew member), I have been given to seafaring metaphor of late. I expect my poems to fill with it.

Essence

I’m celebrating – my second week of teaching as “Professor.” All the while, I adopt a posture that is not “Professor” but rather “professor.” What is the nature of the word anyway?

I have never stood in abject admiration and confidence with “doctors” who “practice” and would not expect anything more from my students. They should challenge, suggest, question, and inform me, as I do them. That is the dialogue that is learning.

As in every occasion when I've had the privilege to "teach," I find myself humbled by the experience and living more fully. This is not "lip service." Those who know me, know that would not be my way.

How do I write this post more effectively to eliminate the need for the previous sentence? Tell me, and I will change it. It is a self-serving sentence, yes? Maybe?

Question; push; challenge; "do not go gently into that good night"; ever.

Bon Anniversaire

It's been a month since I was visited from a dream such as I had today - at the moment, this post is a placeholder to remind me what I want to write - of wild strawberry bushes on a hillside overlooking a sea with tossed surf beside a declining house with faded shutters and weeds overgrown and a broken down pick up truck in the side yard and a real clothes line but no clothes.

Too late to be like yesterday

Clouded over moon
biting at my back
thinking of dawn,
warming light blushing
the bed covers.

Shattered thermometer,
mercury skidding across the
floor. Mercury sky at night,
women take flight. Cataloging
lost hearts on her sleeve.

Neurologist says . . .

Migraines - ocular migraines - no bad long term affects and no sinusitis (despite what Angie the office nurse said to me). I am vindicated - but more than that I am healthy - I am almost always healthy - perhaps why I tend to be impatient with doctors, hospital, required tests, and illness. "No, Angie. You are mistaken. They prescribed that antibiotic but I did not take it." And a good thing too as antibiotics bring me down hard. My reaction is always much worse than the malady.

Neurologist says factors to assess are; diet (erratic), sleep (anywhere from 3.5 hours to 9), exercise (some times 4 times a week then other weeks nothing), and stress (okay, I think we could be on to something here).

I work a lot. I take on a lot. When I reach a threshold and exceed it, migraine. I think he's right. My prediction - if I can situate my life in harmony then once this semester is over, no migraines. Til then, I need to pull the car over immediately if one starts up.

So weird to have migraines that are only inconvenient in that I can't see when I get them, but they are not particularly painful. Much better than the ones that visited me in my early 20's rendering me useless. This must be some mature migraine, knowing that life cannot afford to suspend for more than twenty minutes or so when what's left of life is not so long as it once was.

We want what we want - sometimes it overburdens the body.

Cleaning Up

Two bottles of wedding wine, empty now
and tossed into the recycling bin. St Lawrence
Valley could use a season off; her whites and
reds, cloying and a bit embarrassing.

She is cleaning house.

Easy

CAT scans are easy.
Paper sheet. Large empty room;
Donut of mysterious materials,
the size of a full moon.

Stillness is all that
is needed. And calm.
David Copperfield doesn't
elevate with such elegance,

Your head moved backward as the
images are captured; forward
and then back again. "You will
go in and out twice," Jennifer says.

CAT scans are easy. Not like
skinning the cat, palms
tender on the metal bars,
the bulk of your weight

suspended, slipped through,
gravity taking purchase,
recapturing ground in the cone
of possible collisions.

I told them I couldn't teach level 5

Once there was a fellow and his goal was to see me every day. Sounds obsessive, doesn't it? He told me, "I want to see you every day. Where do you live? I want to walk past your house and watch you water the plants or carry the groceries inside."

I kissed the top of his head, put my arm around his shoulders and said, "You don't want to do that."

"Why?"

"Because seeing people is not being with people. And you can even be with people who you can't see."

"I know," he said and linked his fingers between mine. "Last night when I couldn't fall asleep, I remembered you." His hair smells like toast left out overnight and his fingers are gummy with stickiness. "You said when I couldn't sleep, to remember my last happy day. To remember all of it." He smiled.

"That's good." I shook my head a bit and stared hard at the thin line of dark under his fingernails, his fingers wrapped onto my hand.

"Yeah.I asked you about your car?"

I nod, shake my head no, and then nod a bit more.

"It's a Dodge Caravan, 1990, red."

"Right."

"Well, that was my last happy day."

Ryan jumps up then and goes to stand with the other students lining up at the water fountain.

They shouldn't let me teach level 5. I'm not cut out for it.
My son, Dylan, was in fifth grade at that time. I came home from substitute teaching that day, told him I was proud of him, that we were lucky, the luckiest of the lucky.

Being Dylan, he pressed his lips together for a moment, then reached for the Pringles and said, "What grade did you teach today?"

I couldn't say anything.

"Was it level 5?"

I nodded.

Dylan hugged me. So Dylan's not here, but I don't miss him because I know he's here. He is at college now, learning and sometimes having to stand and wait for a water fountain. He's with me all the time. And somehow that other little boy, on that day, understood something that I thought I understood that actually took me a long time to really understand.

Blackberry Eating

It is haircut time of year; new shoes, back to school, a bouquet of freshly sharpened #2 pencils, a brand new notebook, and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper (they always taste better to me).

So I got a haircut but I still need to get the notebook and some wax paper to wrap sandwiches (and Oreo cookies but not applesauce). I put a new sticker on my car, University of Maryland for my beamish boy.

And the sun is setting just a little earlier every day, every day until the winter solstice (my favorite night of the year). Then the nights will grow leaner and the daylight hours more full. It’s the defining moment. Another favorite, like September. I wait for September. It's okay to begin again now.

I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry - eating in late September.
- Gallway Kinnell, Blackberry Eating

Borrowed this from a friend

A friend of mine recently posted this on 43 things:

“Moored” – safe in port, tied to a pier. nothing can go wrong that the city fire department can’t fix.

“Underway” – all lines taken in and afloat under own power. No dangers yet except for rocks and shoals.

“Risk of Collision” – there are two ships underway. By definition, there is some finite amount (above zero) that they will collide.

“Constant Bearing Decreasing Range” – the relative bearing to the other ship is constant, not drifting right or left, and the distance is shrinking. It’s a guarantee of a collision if one does not change course or speed. Without changes, the time of collision can be very easily predicted.

“Extremis” – the condition, after CBDR, when action by one ship alone is NOT sufficient to avoid a collision. BOTH ships must change course and speed to avoid the otherwise certain collision.

“Collision” – the failure of both ships in Extremis to avoid the collision. It’s always bad at sea.

It happens this way at sea. And in relationships. We just don’t always see it.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Just by coincidence I had occasion to go sailing yesterday (which makes me very happy). Or rather I am very happy when sailing.

In any case, yesterday I learned that boats should pass one another port to port – I learned to tack and adjust to safely sail and not damage other vessels. Most of the time, it was not difficult. Once in a while, a speedboat barreled quickly toward me and there was no time to make any adjustment but just wait and see what happened. They were fast but they maneuvered around ME. For those of us who prefer to take it slow, it mostly means less damage to other vessels (and time to think).The photo is dark - because it was just post sunset and then the lights mean things too; green light, red light. There are so many signals and stances in place to keep everyone safe and moving along on the same water undamaged.

Oh and it turns out - I'm incorrect. They are starboard to starboard. So two elegant expensive sailboats heading out after dinner, go starboard to starboard instead of port to port. "Learn something everyday." If I photoshop it, can I make it appear that I was correct? Does the eye reverse and reverse everything anyway? Stay tuned because tomorrow I learn more about my brain than I ever knew before. CAT scan. Maybe then I'll know more. Maybe not.

Maybe every thing is metaphor. Certainly, everything is connected.

Also I got to wear my new water shoes. I'm very keen on them as they are comfortable, utilitarian, and pretty. I like pretty. Oh and they are pink but they are showing up on this computer as blue while on my laptop, and camera, they are indeed pink. Very odd this. Maybe this computer just prefers blue.

Barack for Beamish

When Dylan was a baby, I wrote in his baby book about war – a war I didn’t want to be a part of his life. Today Dylan is a freshman at the University of Maryland – just. Classes have not started. I moved him in two days ago.

Tonight, Barack Obama is accepting the nomination for President of the United States. In my lifetime, this is a hallmark moment. A man of color is nominated. AND his biggest challenge was overcoming a woman, Hillary Clinton, for the nomination.

But Dylan does not think of this as a hallmark moment. He recognizes it never happened before. But so much that has happened in his life, in his friends’ lives never happened before. This young generation only knows a few things and one is that change is constant – not inevitable – but desirable. It’s called evolution. For Dylan, this is not momentous. Of course, a black man can be President. Of course, a woman could be President. Dylan and his generation do not see the barriers that his parent’s witnessed. This is their world.

I watch this moment. It matters to me on some level. Maybe because I came from an unconventional home. Maybe because my pedigree is not what I think is acceptable for the President of the United States. Maybe it is because despite my meager financial beginnings, my mother never stopped telling me that I could be whatever I dreamed. And she was right.

I have taken a long time with my dreams. Dylan has been on the fast track. We spent many an hour looking at politics, looking at life, at opportunity, at folly, at joy, at education, at love. This is another dream that I held in my life, to commune with my children, to love them, and share their lives on a daily basis.

So this time is odd for me: I watch this moment in my living room and my children are elsewhere – living their lives, strong, independent, happy, healthy, and safe. As I listen to Barack, I think he may be the President of their lives. It is possible that he is the leader for their lives, for change. They are accustomed to it.

In the cracks

I lost. Again.
I went on a trip with someone who is lost.
We went to San Juan.
I am faulted - but I am not untrue with my heart.
But
She is heart sick. It will take time. Her needs are
her infection. Maybe we are all afflicted the same.
The manifestations are not so important as the infection.
My infections have different tangled roots. We thought we
might help one another - a pretty fiction.

I came back from the trip
and lost again.
Well, I didn't lose because you can't lose
what you don't have. But I was sheltering myself in a
weak structure that afforded some quiet and some treading
of water in a placid pool and an avoidance of the tide.
We were both treading. For a time. Now we are not. He was a
pretty fiction, just a weigh station, a time of stillness.

Then, I went swimming, carelessly, beyond the breech, not
charted, and got caught
up in an undertow that beat my limbs against hidden
tree limbs and boulders, caught very briefly in the
horizontal vortex until I burst from the wormhole
and found the water break, the air, the shore. Except
for some fading remnant, I'm thinking I will learn to judge
the surf better and help protect others from swimming when
no lifeguard is on duty. If I have anything left to write,
it is the warning notice.

I've been packing up my son's belongings and watching
him slowly move his most precious things to his father's
house; his music, guitars, keyboard, recording elements, harmonica
now there. I've asked my daughter to get her things. My friend, Heather,
has been moving her things to her parent's house. I'm freecycling things
I thought I'd hold. They are whole, with all their pieces collected.

My life, my Blue Caravan, my life is a fiction.

It's the letting time. The Lady of Shalott needs only a vessel, a bit of breeze, a dram, and a wake.

Last Call

Full moon Friday and
August thick, gnats and all that
stickiness, sticky-ness, mess.

Praying mantis carcass dead on
the front stoop. Lock the door. Lock it again.
Bar the door, Katie. Final last call.
Keep an eye on the door til the
Lights come up again. Lock the
Door. Lock. Bar. Bolt.

Bury the carcass under the blossoming
hydrangea. Pray. Pray for rain. For
salvation. For redemption. For all the
things you don’t believe in, Katie.
What now has changed your mind about that?

Katie did. Katie did. Katie
did not see the bus, the train. Katie
missed the bus, caught up in the
gnats, the stickiness, the mess.
Katie call. Call Katie. Call.

Broken but unbowed . . ..

"You save yourself, or you remain unsaved."

Alice Sebold - "Lucky"

Life is a High Wire

For those days that seem the most difficult and fear has a chance of winning, of paralyzing, I watch this. For every woman who has been afraid, knocked down, got back up and kept moving forward:

Stockdale Paradox

"You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end - which you can never afford to lose - with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they may be."
This quote is attributed to the famed POW, Jim Stockdale.

It's much too late today to be like yesterday . . .

the lesson of the moth
By Don Marquis, in "archy and mehitabel," 1927

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires
why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense
plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves
and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity
but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself
archy

What Orwell Knew

"Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence. In other words, it is war minus the shooting." -George Orwell, writer (1903-1950)

And then this word of the day and the following quote - when life keeps sending messages like this, I have to listen.

vituperate:

"There are moments in life when true invective is called for, when it becomes an absolute necessity, out of a deep sense of justice, to denounce, mock, vituperate, lash out, in the strongest possible language."
-- Charles Simic, quoted in "The argument culture", Irish Times, December 17, 1998

Neither one of us can be found . . .

Amazing how each flower has something individual on their little face . . . . Yet if we fail to really look closely, we'd think they were pretty much the same. They are not the same.

So a musical artist (Meiko) wrote/requested that I become a friend - on MySpace. Here is something you might want to understand - I do not log onto MySpace and my profile says I am 99 years old and I don't know how this request came to me. BUT I a grateful. I like this musician; (her lyrics very much) and I trust her musicality will grow.

She has a voice though, idea, insights. Don't we all? My favorite tonight is the "Hawaii" or "Sleep" or "Piano Song" or the way that they are all tumbling in my sleepless tangled mind. A smart person would already be sleeping.
6

Eliot Leads Me Back

In 1985 I studied T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets and it became my bible. I have a paperback edition that has followed me into every classroom, that stays in my car when I'm not teaching, that is rarely beyond arm's length. The whole collection is always teaching me - and right now this is the passage from which I am learning, again.

"You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not."

Rotting Fruit

The pinching smell of fruit
not quite right, turned, not
too unsightly, but turning, and
perfuming the air, beyond the
wood floors and Persian carpets
and granite counter . . .
and cow dung, or dog feces, as
if barn animals slept within
bellowing or cowering, and his skin
always sweating ammonia, so she
turned her head into her own
shoulder, scoured and honey dusted,
for comfort.


Take a listen to Missy - doesn't that hit too close to home?

I am seeking a "Harbor"

I've been a harbor too long. I think it is time for me to sail for a while and maybe find someone who will harbor me when I am in need.

Retraction

Okay, so now I've discovered that the very talented Peter Cincotti is also very young (23). So he cannot be my latest crush. If his father is available and their is a strong family resemblance and if his father could play the piano like Peter plays the piano, then that would be a possibility. But now I just see Peter as a boy, a very talented boy who should probably be eating a little more and getting more sleep.

A co-worker suggested that age didn't matter. But let's suppose a man of my years in this office stated that he had a crush on Avril Lavigne; well, he be considered a crusty old guy letch lusting for someone likely to be his own daughter's age. More than once, women in their early 20's have expressed their disgust (and dismay) that someone their father's age might fantasize about them or make a pass at them.

Naturally, we can't really control our fantasy life. But we can control what we express. So my latest crush is NOT Peter Cincotti. He's just a young man whose musical capability I admire and recommend. I think he should meet Vienna Teng! Now that would be a beautiful union.

Don't Even Think of Competing

Well, it was bound to happen; I found a fellow and he's enthralled me. Don't even think of trying to turn my head. But you should take a listen to my latest heart throb - Peter Cincotti


And if you can take it, then you might listen to this, because this is the song that led me to him. It's his own song. So he wrote it, and he plays it; so it's all his; no matter who comes along and plays it later, it is still his.

I think I'll write poetry about Peter Cincotti; I even like to say his name; it has fricatives!

I think I'll be hearing some blues soon - it's been too long. I mean really a long time since I heard something that substantial.

Now, only listen to this one if you want to be very happy and smile. Smiling is something else I can use a bit more of lately.

insensate

Just another one of those times in a life when it's as if "word of the day" is watching my life.



insensate \in-SEN-sayt; -sit\, adjective:

1. Lacking sensation or awareness; inanimate.
2. Lacking human feeling or sensitivity; brutal; cruel.
3. Lacking sense; stupid; foolish.



The cutting room is a cruel place, where writing that may have cost blood to commit to paper is kneaded and pummelled like so much insensate clay.
-- Jasper Rees, "Blood and ink on the floor", Independent, April 13, 1997

Solo

I'm getting things in order;
clearing out the receipts the
old jasmine rice, old clothes
I'll never wear again, and
making sure the bills are paid
and that there are instuctions
for Sally's medication
and thoughts --
so many thoughts, written down.

I'm clearing the table, folding
the cloths, reshelving the books and
praying for rain, pounding rain,
hail the size of cantelope, and
wind screaming through the caulking,
and a bit of flooding or a whirlwind
that will lift my house off its hinges
and let me land where the tin man lives.


I've got courage and I've got smarts,
but a heart is just what is needed.
Right now, I could go trolling for
some heart, some artifice, some silly
but immediately satisfying
hug.

And i am sincerely in need of hugging.
But for me, whirlwinds and rainbows and
salt air and tilting into the wind is
only valuable when genuine, when my heart
is pressed to your heart. All else is lost.

i am getting my house in order.
My heart is solo.

Steppenwolf

"There was once a man, called the Steppenwolf. He went on two legs, wore clothes and was a human being, but nevertheless he was in reality a wolf of the Steppes. He had learned a good deal of all that people of a good intelligence can, and was a fairly clever fellow. What he had not learned, however, was this: to find contentment in himself and his own life.

The cause of this apparently was that at the bottom of his heart he knew all the time (or thought he knew) that he was in reality not a man, but a wolf of the Steppes."
from Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse

My son has this book on my desk, the desk we share in my downstairs office. He's read it. One of his great grandfathers was named "Wolf" - not Wolfgang or such but only "Wolf." And while that was not the impetus for me to post this quote, I find it touching and significant.

I realize this is a coyote, and that is more fitting at the moment.

What I know so far . . .

(this is a verse I wrote September 16, 2007 - it is what I knew then and I was clearing out some files on my laptop and rediscovered it.

This is what I know so far . . .


You have the smile of a 15 year old;
the veins on your forearms are the rivers of my dreams,
my favorite topography.
Your voice is a deep rumble as if a league of seas
surrounds us.
Your name is a single syllable, opening softly and
ending like the step off a cliff.
When you talk you words climb on one another, sentences
like a surfers wave approaching the shore.

This is what I know so far:
With you, I listen harder, tune the frequency
for the bass line.
I’ve taken to reading the international news
again, the second paragraph too.
When I saw the pencil on the floor of your car,
as we cruised lost in the streets of
the eastern shore,
my shoulders relaxed and I smiled.
The pound of your heart hooves a path
across my back as I lean against you, and
we listen to the Maynard’s trumpet.

I don’t know if you sleep through the night,
if you spoon or if you hug the edge of the bed
or if you take the lion’s share and dislike touch.
I don’t know if money is more important than vision;
If success is measured in 410k and trusts or in a life lived
without the need of medication or alcohol.
I don’t know if I can count on you to tell me the truth
or to lift me off the railroad tracks or to help me
when I ask.
I don’t know.

Here is what you might want to know
about me:
The light delicate touch transforms just as much as the anvil.

This is a work in progress

Shirts and Skins
The oldest is a white wife beater
narrow ribbed, hugging my hips,
tightening at the rib cage,
made for hot summer nights
in the deep south.

Here is the foil, all black, long,
extra long, high neck, long-sleeve,
still ribbed, but wide ribs and not
constricting but loose, catching on
the lift of my breast when I reach.

Next is the thread thin flannel
in red and black and white,
formal collar, buttons, cuffs
folded back, grazing my thigh
and the bottom of my buttocks.

Then a extra large denim blue
t-shirt, the Ellicott City emblem
nearly disappeared. Best worn with boy
shorts, great for napping and washing the
car, for when drying off from the shower,
answering the doorbell.

This on has the Harley emblem, not
yet faded. Long sleeves, rolled back,
an extra long for the tall, burgundy so it
conceals wine stains and blood. It taps the
very top of my thigh, the cups of my cheeks
slip out without discretion.

Night companions, comfort clothes, shackles
better burned. But I keep them, my polygamist
weakness seeking the one for this night and
that one for tomorrow.

Cleaved

The moon is halved
tonight; half luminous,
half blind.

Halved of face,
halved of tongue,
halved of heart,
halved.

It is no way to live.

In my basement, there is

a closet. Backpacks, two milk crates of electrical nuisance, more bags, a wooden rack that used to hold coffee mugs decades ago, in a kitchen in Chicago, in New Jersey, in Connecticut and now hold wine - wines I bought when my children were born, wines with Marilyn Monroe's image, wines that I hope to consume with family and friends in absolute celebration.

And a snapped trap.

Yes. A mouse trap. I happen upon it, after having put the trap there many weeks ago. I open the door, assuming nothing. Nothing is what I have become accustomed to. The bait, the stern steel bar, the block of wood, undisturbed.

Disturbed.

We can all use a little disturbance. A jar. A wake.

I sit here tonight beside the same closet door (my feet propped on an empty briefcase from my tiger lady days of the late 80's). This life is better.

Except for the snapped trap which hold a grey mouse body. I do not see it well and close the door on the demise as soon as I can, defeating detail. I am not good at seeing some things. And this is not necessary for me to see. I have seen enough.

My first thought is that I can do it - get the tongs, a paper bag, search the woods, find a place to leave this gentle creature in the woods to go to dust. But I do not want to open the door again, to really see this little being. If I see it, it will not leave me. I will have to carry it. Right now, it is a grey smudge, almost nothing, a non-familiar, not identified, splash of grey, and no, I remember now, was it mostly white, with grey at the sides, dressed as if for a morning wedding, a grey morning tux? Too much.

I leave the house. I have errands, places to be, things to do that will leave the closet closed. The closet is closed. I buy the paint, get the greeting cards, drop off the old bible to the original owner who will want the pages hand-written beginning in 1888 with births, marriages, deaths. There are even directions to the cemetery where the child, less than one year old, rests His mother needs them to know. They need to know. We all need to know. What it means to be here. We all need to be here.

Later, I come home, find my son. Dylan, I say. I need you to do something for me. It is a man thing. It is what men do. I need you to get rid of the mouse in the closet.

Dylan, his dark eyes do not blink often, says, "Okay." I tell him I will get a paper bag, a rubber glove, tongs if he wants them. He can put the whole thing in the bag and walk it into the woods.

He says, "I don't need the tongs."

I arrive downstairs just as he has dropped the mouse into the paper bag. "Let me see," I say.
"No." He fold the bag over.
"C'mon. I can do it," I say.
"No." he says. "You don't really want to see." He walks towards the back door, down the trail to the woods. He does not concede or discuss.

See how he becomes a man. He is right. I don't really want to see, not in a way that I have to really see.

As I write this, on the desk that we share, on the computer that belongs to him, this is what I think you should know:
- there is a copy of Hermann Hesse's novel Steppenwolf (if you have never read it, you may as well do it now), a graduation card from Uncle David and Aunt Sue, a steel slide thing guitar players use, headphones, a harmonica, a pencil only two and a half inches long but sharpened, his iPod charging, a tambourine, and speakers, printer, music mixer. This is the boy becoming the man - he took the mouse away today. What will he be able to do tomorrow?

What do men do . . .

I mean, what do men do that
women don't do - or at the
least, what women would prefer not
to do? Empty the trash? Change the oil?
Kill the spider? Clean up after the dog?
Walk the dog (in the rain, in the snow)?
Clean off the car? Call the towing company?
Carry the heavy box? Carry and position
the extension ladder? Drive -
when it is difficult - when you are tired - and the children are
tired and sticky in their seats - or you are tired and
sad and have been driving driving driving.

They chase the bats
out of the attic, the strange
badger from the back lawn, hold your
elbow when you wobble on your
heels, open the door, do not
understand the subtext (sometimes), drink from
the milk jug, want a day off from
shaving, two or three days off from shaving, forget, just like
I forget and you forget, but they
forget what you said or how you said it or your birthday or the day you met
or your wedding anniversary.

They remember, though, that
time that you were talking to their
sister and she rested against your
shoulder, they remember the real mashed
potatoes, your fingers in their hair, your total
conviction that they could do - be - conquer - still - whatever
trouble was facing them,
they remember that time that your fingers were so
thirsty for them that you did not
sleep and how you traced them beyond the
surface and held their chin just
so, just so, just so, you could see them at the very
moment when they lost themselves.

Dream

I have a dream that the New World will have exhilarationists, and they'll
vastly outnumber the terrorists. The exhilarationists will be performance
artists with a conscience ... charismatic improvisers who love to spring
fun surprises. They'll commit unexpected interventions and unscheduled
spectacles that delight hordes of strangers.

To read the entirety of "I HAVE A DREAM," excerpted from
*PRONOIA Is the Antidote for Paranoia,* by Robert Brezny,
go here:

Running

Okay, I'm not running yet. Not the way I used to run, as if a mad dog were racing after me, nipping at my heels; not as if I'd be discovered to be not quite as smart, not quite as agile, not quite as strong as I thought.

No, I'm not running like that yet. But I have been on the track. And the best part is that I am flying! Not in the feet yet, but in the memory of how I used to run and in the sprint pieces I do in between the race-walking and the jogging. Once in 2.5 or 3.0 miles, I do it. I can't help myself. Thighs pumping, calves thrumming, feet flexing in that fabulous fulcrum, and lungs finding their own pace. I have actually taken off. Just a bit. Not like I have in my glory days. But I am not done yet. There is still so much more and the great news is this; it feels intoxicating to develop it again, to find it, to discover it is still there waiting.

Running was never my ultimate; but how many ballerina masters are in my years and the floor so unforgiving, and the satin shoe with the wooden block that you dance upon is also unforgiving to aging. So there are many styles of dancing. I will still dance. But will I ever spin on the top of a point shoe, my arms lifted? I don't know about that.

But running. It is an instinct. So it may transcend age to a degree. We have nightmares of paralysis, frozen in space and our hearts thunder in our heads. But what if you could still do it - run flat out - the way you run when you have to catch the baby falling or the way your run after your true love or the way you run just to push the verdant earth under your sole, moving the planet. Ah, that is the treasure. So I am it. Again.

Happy at the track.
,

Graduation for Dylan

My son is no sloucher; this much is certain. He has scads of awards that reflect his endeavors:

letter from the prez and award




and the AP exams and the National Merit Commended Scholar!










and I didn't even put up his awards for piano.

Yes, he's all that. But "what is the measure of a man?"

His achievements are all well and good. I know I am extra-ordinarily lucky to have such a child. But that is not what I am most proud of: many years ago my step-son Adam asked me if it were more important to be smart or to be nice. My response was that it is nice to smart but it is smarter to be nice. Dylan struggles with this in his verbal repartee, but that is not an indication of his true nature.
His true nature is as it has always been: he likes to make people happy; he likes to make them laugh; he is ready to give them a hug when they cry; and I've never asked him for help that he didn't say yes. I also admire that he questions "truths" and "authority" and looks for the rational response. So, yes, Dylan is graduating tomorrow with many academic achievements under his belt, but he has also learned a lot about being an accountable, loving human being. That is the real education. Not to mention what I have learned in the process, and it is much. But that is for another post.

A Worthy Thought

They devoutly believe that tales of affliction and mayhem and corruption
and tragedy are inherently more interesting than tales of triumph and
liberation and pleasure and ingenuity. Using the machinery of the media
and entertainment industries, they relentlessly propagate this covert
dogma. It's not sufficiently profound or well thought out to be called
nihilism. Pop nihilism is a more accurate term. The mass audience is the
victim of this inane ugliness, brainwashed by a multibillion-dollar
propaganda machine that in comparison makes Himmler's vaunted soul-
stealing apparatus look like a child's backyard puppet show.

quote from PRONOIA IS THE ANTIDOTE FOR PARANOIA

How about the celebrating the sublime, the splendor, the success? For every child who doesn't finish high school, or worse ends up in jail or violent death, hundreds succeed. More than survive, they thrive, change lives, improve the world, really do stand ready to be the shepherds of the future.

If even half of what we report is positive, glimmering, hopeful; then we begin to balance the world. We believe what we read in the papers, see on the TV reporting. Let us see all of it then. Fortunately, more and more reporting and video is made here where rather than being under the thumb of our advertisers, we are free.

MFA Creative Writing and Publication Arts

A perfect moment. As we walked into the Lyric and the front row filled, and the second row began to fill, the guests burst into applause. It felt wonderful. And when we walked across the stage and received our diplomas, shook hands, and were outfitted with our MFA collars, my eyes filled with tears. Kendra said, "Wait. I have a gift for you," and she put a small piece of beautiful blue paper in my hand and inside was a verse from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, the Wallace Stevens poem that was at our beginning and had followed up throughout.

I cannot imagine another MFA program that could be as diverse, interesting, compelling, and populated with tremendous, supportive, talented fellow students. This is where I was supposed to gain my MFA. The University of Baltimore is where I feel most at home.

time

from the album 'patience' by Take That.

The Final Friday

Now for a more coherent look at last Friday: 12 authors, 12 books, 1 night. Here we are:

First, it was very well attended. At least 100 attendees, standing room only and we had set out every single chair. At the program I set my books up on end, next to Anup's store of books. But I took a photo of some of them before I went off to the final reading. I had decided that my books would be for display only. It's not that I don't think no one would want to buy them or that I must possess them all myself. It's just that I had promised most of them away already and some were quite deficient. Turned out that my edition of "fantastic mistakes" was highly coveted. It is the one in the upper left corner of the photo.

My own favorite was the cover with the sting ray spear on the cover. It was tightly stitched and all the pages ended up where they belong and the margins are comfortable too. The wooden frame that was used on that cover was wonderfully aged, dark and worm riddled.
However, Professor Matanle came over and was looking at the books. Since the cornerstone poems of the collection were the work of a class where he was the instructor, I said, "You can have one. If you want it."

"Which one is your favorite?"

He chose my favorite. But not for the sting ray spear but rather for the small moon in the corner. The piece of the sting ray is real. The moon is a bit of discarded jewelry; they are equally valuable artifacts.

So Steve Mandes did a wonderful job at the microphone. He always captures the audience, makes them laugh, makes them cry, makes them hiccup on occasion. His work is audacious. And then there is his book, with a layout nearing perfection (okay, I think it is perfect, he is the one who protests), and his watercolors, and the construction. It is of a piece complete and whole. Steve lives in his works.

Near the end of this semester, the professors asked us what we would do after our MFA, how would we keep the artist's life going? In the nights since my "final" reading, I've stitched three more editions of my book, attended a critique group reading, submitted two poems, and started letting the paint spill from the paint can in terms of writing. I knew I had been an artist when I arrived in the MFA and no matter what comes, artists keep writing, keep painting, keep dancing, keep seeing the world the way that an artists sees the world.

So I introduced my book to the room. A sense of calm was within me suddenly. Moments before, sitting beside my sister, my heart tremored with tachycardia. But then, at the podium with my book in my hands, I felt in the company of comrades. No harm could come to me in that moment. I explained that the constraints of the book: that the cover, the frames, the "artifacts" were all donated, and therefore, to me, true. Here is a strap of panties, a coin, a fortune from a Chinese fortune cookie opened at an Annapolis restaurant and carried in my wallet for a decade. Authentic artifacts in a sense of the theme of the book.

Moments before I had still been trying to decide what to read, but in the end it hinged on who was present. Initially I wanted to read "Lilith" knowing that it was difficult to decipher verbally but "Lilith" was the keystone, the center of the collection, the way I had found the book. But it seems to me, when you have a party, a celebration; that you honor the people "who brung ya." So I read primarily for the family and friends in the room.

First I read "Shallow." I warned some of the younger audience members that I was going to read a poem that is a bit "scary." They were not afraid. It is a poem easily misunderstood, not unlike the author. I can't help that. And a poem that still confounds me. I have written several editions of it. In some ways, I think it is a collection I have yet to write.

Then I read "His Heart" for Julia, who lifted her drowsing head and was astonished to hear her name. This is one of the ways that poetry is birthed. Then "King's Contrivance" for Francesca, a poem that has deeper roots in my own cardboard abodes than in the ones I witnessed her constructing.

Then for Sara, I read "Be Water." If you have met my daughter, if you have read this poem, you know what happens. The breathing poetry, the snapping, stitching, laughing, scolding, raw skin on concrete, endless sea of blue, happens with Sara. That is how a poem comes; uninvited yet completely welcome and absolutely necessary.

As for me; it is difficult to believe I was ever even here. The most selfish, glorious, self-indulgence I have ever given to myself is to attend this program. Even the worst moments held seeds of something fermenting if I will just keep them.

And the people who helped me, who saw what I needed, who held me, who listened to me read my work to them over and over, who vacuumed, who drove, who let me rain my doubts and fears into a poem and smother them; to all of you, I am beholding.

too much, too late

it is late, again.
work will find me weary.
yet, there is so much.
the final reading,
the final book,
the final,
the leaving.

it's okay.
really.
actually,
it is ecstatic, in a sense.
the ending.
i keep touching my lips.
like there are more words, or a promise, or
a kiss or
a bruise.

there was a triumph
of a sort, and much
to write. but here, now,
the grass fragrant in the
sun, the damp fogging the mirror.

this is how it looks right now.

12 Authors, 12 Books Friday May 9th

So the culmination of all the MFA candidates work will be presented this Friday at 7 PM: Details here.

So come see me read (and my friends, Steve, Cristen, Jonathan, Jenn, Laura)!

"There is no easy ground here, in Alaska."

The title is taken from something a fellow named Greg says while he is hunting goat in Alaska.

I just made 12 more handmade envelopes for my final thesis project book. First there is the printing of the paper; then developing the pattern on cardstock; then tracing it and using the t-square; then cutting it with the exacto knife; then using the bone folder to score the folds; then cutting the slit; then folding so everything aligns; then gluing the flaps to the front.

While I am doing this, I have the tv on. I don't watch too much of it but I listen. I found a show on the Discovery channel called "The Alaska Experiment." They have sent mere middle America people (like me) to remote locations in Alaska. Minimal supplies, minimal tools, deserted fishing cabin, a tent. Slim resources for untrained, uninitiated accountants and secretaries, teachers and cab drivers, in one of the most unforgiving environments.

As I watch it, it makes anything I am doing for my book seem easy. Here I have heat and air conditioning, refrigeration, grocery stores, lights. So if I am spending hours over a cutting board, and using a needle to sew together my signatures for my book, if my fingers cramp and band-aids cover my paper cuts, then I am still just taking it easy.

I know the people in the Alaska Experiment will get snowed in. I know the father who is there with his two daughters will get snowed in. That Tim, Allen, and Jasmine will get snowed in. Jeff and Elizabeth are at Icy Bay. The salmon run is over for them. The tides are against them for clamming. Also they need firewood but there is nothing to cut but driftwood.

Meanwhile in another location, pudgy Greg is climbing a mountain to hunt a goat. He's winded, weak, thighs trembling. But he has to get a goat to make it through the winter. Over and over, he thinks he can't take another step; doubts he will have the strength to get back down the mountain; has only learned to shot the gun yesterday. But he doesn't stop. He can't. He has to live.

This is how we live. All of us. It's just that there, in the Alaskan wilderness, it is evident what is necessary. But we live here, in the fog. We can't see what is real, what is essential. Our fog is a fog of distraction; television, ipod, magazines, gossip, traffic, chatter, chatter, chatter.

I long for the quiet place and I fear the quiet place. In the quiet place, the thunder of your heart can beat out thought. Without thought and only the heart, I don't know what would happen. But I bet the people in the Alaska experiment will discover that. Maybe I will learn from them.

(this post was originally created on April 29th)

Some Days You just have to read your horoscope

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): Have you ever been filled with a terrible
yearning to become something new? Do you know what it's like to be
racked with a ferocious hunger to change your life? Speaking from
experience, I know that such a state can sometimes feel heavy and dark.
But I'm here to tell you that it can also be a tremendous asset. The key to
transforming it into a gift, ironically, is to see it as a gift. So your
assignment, Taurus, is to interpret your ache for transformation as a
potent blessing. To do so will give you the power to perform magic you
can't even imagine yet.

There are things in my past I've yet to imagine!

So now I press down to the final few weeks of the long trip to my Masters of Fine Arts and already the poster announcing my successful completion has been created. This, despite that I have just completed another 5+ hours of abysmal failure in Coptic stitching my binding (Sara I need you).

Nevertheless, the words, the works, were completed some time ago and those sing from the pages even if they end up stapled to telephone poles in Fairbanks; even if they are slipped between silky underthings in lingerie stores; even if I bury them in the coffee beans in the bins at Baltimore Tea and Spice (be sure to check out the Jazzy Java). The poems are solid, true, and ready.

But the book, the publication arts portion of this degree, is much more challenging to one who was born without glue stick and scissor and t-square. I have learned and while it takes many renditions for me to complete the project (and I've precious little time now), I know that I will.

So please attend if you are able. Because the works you will find there will outshine my own and bring you to places you never thought of before and render the concept of a book such that the next airplane you spot overhead will seem to spout words!

For now here are some details: May 9th, 7 PM, U of B, 5th Floor Student Center, food and wine and amazing things you have never seen a book perform (illegal in some militant Barnes and Noble stores).

It is easy to miss something. . . .

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

Deadlines

Oh that my whole life might have had a dead line; a moment when I had to complete; perform; accomplish; time lines set earlier and defined. Then maybe I would be further along. Maybe I would have known what I have needed in time.

Instead, the cadence of my life, runs out like this: Today I called out ill, fortunate or not, I am actually ill. But I also had not filed my taxes, had not made the deposit to my IRA account, had not, had not, had not... until the deadline said to me, loudly and without compromise, "Today."

Not tomorrow, or hey I'll get back to you next week or let's get together sometime but rather TODAY. No other day, no other moment, not one second more beyond midnight on this day. This particular day. So I finished my taxes today. And I drove to my bank where I keep my IRA (50 minutes from my house so I am never tempted to withdraw money without a generous amount of time driving there to consider the consequences. I've thrown away the ATM card, and destroyed the PIN. All I am able to do is show up. It has protected the dollars. But back to today . . . .

I did it. That is all that matters. And then I had the next hoop, work; and I was so grateful that it actually mattered that I made it in, wrote my copy, revised my copy, assisted in whatever manner I could. Yes, that is where I am, thankfully; grateful that it might matter. Maybe it does. It helped.

I am impeccable with deadlines. If taxes were due on Feb. 15th, that is when I would send them in. If all college degrees had to be earned by age 30, I would have done it by then. If only there were a deadline on fathoming your own heart, I would have perhaps performed better. I like to think so.

When we know better, we do better.

The same for me

Something inside told me to run; and you know me; I'm all or none.

Jovian Embrace

no escape from this density
solar nebula dressed with
clouds; tread in silt and
damp and kissing,
every step toward
the core, the center, the
deep, more heated, liquid
nitrogen pressured to metal.

White ovals masking turbulent
atmospheres, the halo and the
gossamer ringing, the giant red
blemish undeniable, gravity,
gravity, gravity, pulling 63
satellites, those unintentional
victories, inescapable.
How could a mere mortal
hope to escape?

Levels of descent

Levels of descent, terra cotta
And gold, sand and shrub, sloping
To the great gorge, the descent to
Madness, the descent to quiet.
Here is the still quiet point and
The soaring sky, crunch of stone and
Shale. Approach the Canyon from Orayvi,
Corals and plums seduce. The expanse
So far below; descend just a bit, from one
Generous shelf to the next, drawing down.

Here is the loose footing, the sudden slide
Just beyond the switchback and you didn’t mean
To come this far. Sunlight crowning the rim
And sweet shadow below. How many descents, how
Many steps deeper into the chasm unwittingly
and the sun begins to fade and the path
back in shadow, and there at the rim
no one.

This is how we fall in love. Not in a glorious leap
from a precipice. But rather at
levels. At any moment
deciding to continue or climb out
of the abyss
and walk towards the sun.