Foucault enters the den

Over ten years of "teaching" creative writing, my primary goal has been to seek opportunities in the students' works. But here Foucault says the same thing with the passion and dimension that it deserves. In my dream world, every writing teacher would accept this as the method by which wonderful writing is cultivated.


"I dream about a kind of criticism that would try not to judge but to bring
an oeuvre, a book, a sentence, an idea to life; it would light fires, watch
the grass grow, listen to the wind, and catch the sea foam in the breeze
and scatter it. It would multiply not judgments but signs of existence; it
would summon them, drag them from their sleep. Perhaps it would invent
them sometimes -- all the better.

"Criticism that hands down sentences sends me to sleep; I'd like a
criticism of scintillating leaps of imagination. It would not be sovereign or
dressed in red. It would bear the lightning of possible storms."

-Michel Foucault, "The Masked Philosopher," interview in *Le Monde,*
1980

What have I been missing?

A confluence of events, a synchronicity of circumstances and here I am. Strange goings-on. Disruptions, unanswered questions, a true tumult. Surely change is afoot, apace, making a mad dash at my head. But even at this point, life still has so much potential that most of it is little trouble unless you are on the table (surgical that is). So I found this headline
Thousands Attempt to Break Snow Angel Record
BISMARCK, N.D. (Feb. 17)

And I was intrigued – there was a previous snow angel record? Under what recording label? But no, they were referring to actual snow angels – something I got a chance to do in the white sands desert, in actual snow which is rare there and may have been the beginning of the very odd things that continue to occur. Here is my favorite part of the article:
“there was Pauline Jaeger - who on her 99th birthday, was making her very first angel.”

Pauline was 99 and had never made a snow angel? How is this possible? What have you never done – the things that are available to you right now – wallpapering or dancing or knitting or ice skating or walking through your house with your eyes closed or truly trusting someone? Pauline was 99. Surely there is time to try the things you never tried, especially the ones you may have never considered before like bowling or bridge or archery. I think I may look into archery for the summer, or fencing, or maybe learning Italian.

Snow angels – sort of sad that Pauline didn’t get to experience all those years in between. What have I been missing?

Why I am Not a Poet

I shall not trespass in the dark
so much. The dark is full
of wonder and landmines,
private gardens, raindrops and Mozart.
The dark holds no names, forgives
transgressions, exalts dreams.
The scratchy dark wool of sleepless
night rubs its beard on my
exposed shoulder.
I shall not trespass in the dark.

Maybe I will appear more
often in the fading
evening light, haunt the corners,
say words, and name names.

What We Don't Want to Know

Sometimes we don't want
to know what we want to know.
Shivering in our bones,
the splinters piercing,
blood weeping from our flesh.

We know and we do not know.
And in the dark, the whispers
grow loud, sinister and
insistent.

Mumbling, we shelter
the incoherent moment,
fuzzy memory, hinging
on the eight ball.

Don't Blink

Don't Blink

The writer’ pen? The sculptor’s hands? The painter’s brush? The dancer’s breath? Here’s the truth – you can’t cultivate true art.

You can’t take crap and make magic. It doesn’t work that way.

What? That’s not what I said in class? You’re damn right I didn’t say it in class. Because in every class there is the artist who doesn’t recognize himself.

The truth is this – the artist is the one who is usually the most discouraged, the most convinced that he’s just kidding himself. He thinks of himself as a poser; she thinks of herself as a phony. They are not artificial. They are real. They are easy to spot. First, they are usually quieter than the other students. When they read, their voices are softer, smaller. They are unwrapping their babies for us. They are that invested in their work. Language is liquid for them, a symphony of horns, cellos, and bass drums. Every word has been examined, judged and found worthy. Their works stink of truth. We will shade our eyes and the remnant of the piece lingers with us years later like a first kiss.

And the other reason to not tell students that yes, you either have it within you or your don’t is this – some students who I encourage to “develop their craft” are artists who are not quite hatched yet. They lack courage – the courage to be honest in what they want to say – the courage to stand alone – the courage to let the work go out into the world unaccompanied.

Can you teach the craft of writing? Yes. You can teach dialogue, characterization, point of view, theme, voice, plot….

Can you make an artist of any student? No. Only students can make themselves artists.

And speaking personally, I wouldn’t recommend it for mere mortals. But for those among us who would be gods, be gods. Create worlds, sculpt, dance, sing, paint, write. Stare at the sun. Don’t blink.

Confirmation

As 2006 ended, I received two emails from writing students. One from George, whom I have had the pleasure of plumbing the depths of the writing craft for more than a decade and one from Rob, who only recently attended a class I was teaching at Anne Arundel Community College.

I love teaching writing courses. Although "teaching" is a wholly inaccurate term. I don't believe you can teach someone to write; the artists discovers writing and is already an artist long before I come on the scene. But working with other artists has always helped my work. I suppose what amazed me though about these two recent emails is that periodically I hear from "students" and discover that I have been privileged to have had a positive impact on their lives.

George had organized an "appreciation" class for me during our December session. Unfortunately I was beset by a physical problem that prevented my participation. Following up on that, George wrote me an email:

I'm not sure that your pain at our last meeting allowed you to take in what I said to you -- something like "...you are one of the five people who have had a major positive impact on my life. If you hadn't turned me on to writing, I would have gone bananas long ago."
Apart from that, I wish the world were filled with people like you.
Which is why I end all my e-mails to you with
"Love, George."

I don't think George would mind my revealing that he has been living for eight decades and I would never have imagined that I would find myself in such rare company as one of only five people. And once more I realize that perhaps none of us know how important we are or have been in others' lives.

Around the same time, I received an email from Rob.

I want to say that I have a great deal of respect for your obvious passion for the art of writing. To me, it comes out when your entire blog is taken as a whole. Your challenge to each of us to simply “write it down”, all of it, without over analyzing before hand is always on my mind and I am trying to do that everyday. And I want to say thank you for all that you gave me in the class. “All” is the big word here because there is no doubt in my mind that I will be discovering what the “all” is for some time to come!
The seed you planted has grown into a small bush through our group, which continues to meet, and is valued by each of us.

The class that Rob attended developed a writer's group when the class ended and that group has continued to support and push one another to more effective works. I hadn't really considered how exposed I am in my blog because most of the time I assume that no one reads it beyond my daughter and Susan and occasionally another writer (like George or Rob). But it would not change what I write, no matter who was going to read it.

More than imagination, more than perfect grammer, more than an extended vocabulary, a writer must possess courage. Nothing is more powerful, evocative, and beautiful than the truth. I am not the first to say so or think so. Was it Eleanor Roosevelt who said "The thing you fear you cannot do is the thing you must do." (Please write me if you have the accurate quote.)

I am working on a piece of writing right now and have written most of it, save for one bit, the part I cannot write. So I know that that is what I must write. My writing friends bolster my courage to do so and watching the leap that every class has been willing to take with me strengthens my resolve to keep moving into deeper crevices, even when the walls seem insurmountable.

Thank you: Susan, Jon, Wendy, Joe, Rob, D, Heather, Steve, Vicki, George, Vivian, John, and others but first and foremost, Anna Kirby Ward.

Channeling Sheryl Crow

Try to love me, if you can. Are you strong enough to be my man? My man.

I know a lot of people who say they have given up on relationships. I won't be one of them though. And I'm not at all certain I believe the ones who say they've given up: they can't trust, they can't open themselves up, they are too set in their ways. But I do realize that I present certain challenges (as does everyone). But one of the most daunting for any man is when he encounters a strong woman, no matter how attractive it may seem in the abstract, the reality will send most men seeking quieter waters. And who can blame them. So before things get too far, I usually raise the Sheryl Crow question. I'll let you know if I get any takers.

PS For the back story on the photo and the t-shirt, click here

Truth or Consequences

Sometimes when you adjust the view, the landscape, the whole world can change. I can't wait to see what happens next!

Phrases Like "Plumb Fond"

And even though it's August
She's thinking of Jan. 2005
and how it's just like a
farmer-boy hustler hitting on
an east coast lady to use
the phrase "plumb fond"
and go on and on about
her eyes.

And it's right about this
time he drops his shoulder
in the "aw shucks ma'am"
manner that Alice
decides she'd really
like to rip his heart out and
- bear his children
and crawl naked over that
hairy back -
all at the same time.

A rose by any other name . . .

Mary Lorraine -- [noun]: A poltergeist sent back in time to change the course of history forever 'How" will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Make No Sound

Here is the sound of
the trolley leaving in the snow,
and the weep of the empty cupboard.
Here is the room of sparse furniture,
thin carpets,
the upright keyboard with
dusty keys and snow
flakes drifting on the balustrades,
chipped paint and faded wallpaper,
solid brass work on the doors.


The world is so small:
A closet, a space behind the stair.
Live where the mice live.
Move only in the dark.
Make no sound.
Wear no face. Flat
mouth, eyes at 500 yards.

And so this is Christmas. I hope you had fun . . .

I love Christmas – it’s not that I’m particularly Christian except by the definition to be a “tian” is o ascribe or have allegiance somehow – as in Italian = from Italy and vegetarians eat only vegetables. So if I think the story of Jesus life as it is told to us is something to emulate; Would that be what it is to be a Christian regardless of his lineage – then I would be a Christian – and a Buddhist and a Darwinian and a Mostian (after Moses) and a follower of Ruth and Mary of Magdelena, and of Angelina Jolie and Bono and all people who look into the eyes of any human being, ANY, and sees themselves, sees G-d, sees the potential for humankind to be everything it is capable of being.

But that is not what I love about Christmas. My children have been with me every Christmas eve and morning since the days they were born. And since then, every December 24th and December 25th has been precious; full of laughter and hugs and a chance to surprise my children and give them things that aids their dreams. For Dylan this year it is a music journal to write his compositions and a good digital camera for Sara to take on her trip to Europe when she graduates from college and does the trip with knowledge she had not known she could possess to places she did not know she would travel.

Here is our tree – bought last minute on Dec. 23rd – Dyl’s piano and guitar and soccer ornaments and Sara’s childhood touched hearts and blind reindeer and Love the Irish ornaments and my own monkeys and wine corks, angels and blown glass. The children decorated it Dec. 24th in the afternoon while I was still showering and dressing for the evening. They did the final touches, made the decisions. They knew I needed help, had spread my efforts too thin, run behind, This is what they made.

But the moment on Christmas day when they leave is one I always steel myself against- make ready – I cannot not be ready for that – today it comes at 1:15 PM. My son leaves with his father, they slip outside into the rain, the chill air coming in through the door. Sara loads her car with her presents and comes back inside for a hug to hold her the rest of the day. Here is her beautiful face, her scarf and her whimsical sense just before she leaves.
Then she gets in her car, turns on her windshield wipers and drives off to her father’s house. This Marley’s chain that I have made, link by link, divorce by divorce. It’s mine. So as they drive away, I notice that by the cars left outside my sextet of townhouses, that I am the only one home, and with no one that I will be visiting. I only allow a moments sadness because I am the lucky one. I had a miraculous night of Christmas Eve, full and a warm, loving morning. Just as I am standing at the window watching the tail lights disappear in the misty gray rain, the phone rings – my brother Michael has phoned as he drives with his wife, Debra, to visit her family. He asks if I am okay, tells me he will phone me in the evening.

I also talk to my brother David and niece, Jennifer, and wife, Susan and they remind me how loved I am, how I am at home with them. It is clear how we care for one another, always have.

My brothers and I knew we had to care for one another. Now we want to care for one another.

Michael does phone on his ride home – he and Debra, making sure that I am okay, not sad, not too lonely. And I am not. Not at all because he has called, and because of my conversation with David and Susan and because later I know I will hear again from Sara.

My gifts are my children, my brothers, my sister, my family. And even my dog, Sally. Who must go outside and makes me get up and fed her and she climbs onto my lap and demands that I play and can not fall into any type of pity party. She makes me about life, here now. She eats and sleeps and plays and does not judge and displays her feelings honestly. If one owns/raises pets, one learns how to get through every single day.


So here we were. I am the luckiest of the lucky.

Heights

It is easy to make the mistake of

Scrambling up a trail or a staircase,

Seeing the promise of what is ahead,

Only to realize once you reach the

Summit, that the road back to where

You were is either impossible

Or is riddled with pain.

You Know Dylan, Right?

You are the black sneakers and Persagel.
You are the shaggy wool of the yak
And the smell of the new cut grass.
You are a winter storm coming
And the chipmunk running for cover.

However, you are not the brass
Elephant candle holder
Or the rolled carpet or
The Degas posed figurine.

It is possible you are the telescope at
The window,
Maybe even the lone falcon
Perched on a high branch
But you are not even close to
Being sunlight reflected on the windshield.

And a quick look in the
Aluminum toaster will show
That you are neither the
Tarragon growing on the deck
Nor the bike with the flat tires
In the basement.

You might enjoy knowing that
I am the sound of an LP falling
Onto a turntable.
I also happen to be the dance
In the leaves of the lilac,
And the smell of bread rising and
The flat tire on the bike in the basement.

I am the curved knick on the
Cherry tabletop and the sound of
The dog lapping his water.

but I am not winter coming
And the lone falcon. You are still
Winter coming and the lone falcon.
You will always be winter coming
And the lone falcon,
Not to mention the pine needles
crunched under the hunter’s boot
And somehow the barometer.

Rain Dancing

Sympatico

These were the things she could not say to him: That leaving him was like snipping the stitches from a yet unhealed wound. That snowy Sunday afternoons were cold and hollow. That she might not be able to maintain a one-dimensional relationship; not with all her dimensions constantly firing. She was sick of people telling her how strong she was, how smart, how capable, how pretty. Surely, if she were as smart, pretty, strong, capable as they said, she would not spend this long, lazy, snowy afternoon all alone. But she did. Finding the dressing for her Christmas tree, unpacking an overnight bag, suffocating any hope she may have felt in her heart, holding it securely under water, her fingers tightening on its blushing throat.

So was it by her own design - oh yes. She wasted men. Thought too much, wanted too much, talked too much about everything but her needs. Her need. It knotted up in her chest, squatted in the hollow of her neck threatening to scream out, but never could. It was pitiful to her - disrespectful. So she was quiet. She called no one.

And she thought how her children loved her - how there were adventures and fun times ahead for her, how lucky she was in her health and abilities, her comfortable home, even in her stubbornness, her resolve with the bricks in place and mounting higher.

Her phone rings - let it ring - one - two - three - her hand on it the whole time. "Hello," as if she'd just walked into the room to snatch it up while she had been otherwise engaged. The fraud. Jayne? Yes. Hi "Jayne, this is John with MCI." She doesn't even hang up on John, with MCI. Takes a moment to tell him, "No thanks, good luck on your next call."

This was her downfall - her weakness, men. Or rather the romance of men. Of love. It wasn't the individual men, per se. It was the promise of love, of caring, of safety. It was as mythical as the unicorn, pure shimmering hope with a solitary horn. A dream. She chased it, captured it, was disappointed by it and left it standing in a pasture with downcast head. Then, she asked for sympathy.

Finding Oneself in Story

“Was he the only one who had known about the dark places? The dirty dark places where you were so alone and wretchedly voiceless? Maybe she didn't know all that he had, but she knew enough. Certainly she knew he had been haunted, and would never look into a mirror -- any reflective surface, if he could help it -- after the sun went down. And she had loved him in spite of all that.” Stephen King, Lisey’s Story

This is what powerful writing can do, reveal ourselves to ourselves. If you have never read Stephen King you are missing out on an amazing experience. Ezra Pound said that as one is reading the book should be like a "bolt of light" in his hand. King's work is a "bolt of light." Frequently it is a light that illuminates something in myself that would also have driven me from looking into mirrors, but I am grateful in the end.

Apocryphal

Larry steps right into her apocryphal embrace,
steeped in lattice and widow’s peaks and
all things necrophilia.

Larry steps into handmade tablecloths and
and Steiff Rose silver and the mystifying scent of honey
dust in on the back of her neck.

Here is the tuck of her chin, the slope
of her shoulder and the anvil at the base
of her throat, full of silverfish.

Larry steps in, with the miner’s helmet and
pick and cannot unearth her secret places
and the words she never said.

shhhhh . . . .

in my head, all i hear are dialogues - they never shut up. when i think of shooting them to silence them, i realize the consequences.

Ah Coffee reading makes more poetry

It is a heady experience being a featured reader. Many of my friends came and bolstered my confidence and the hosts and creators of The Poet Experience were welcoming, and their poetry was awesome. Amy's compositions are so lyrical and her voice so amazing that she should sing all the time, even words like "Where's the pumpkin? I feel like a jack-o-lantern." And Sylvia had an image of a horse in her poem that lingers with me still and Don (I think that was his name) painted beautiful southwest landscapes and some one else read about her 31 year old self (sorry I forgot your name). Susan Moger's prose and poetry were so moving that my sister cried.

Last night I woke at 3:42 AM, my mind awash with details from the night. As it turns out, my friend Susan also awoke about 4 AM and wrote a poem in her head that just blows me away. Here is her poem and it speaks to the reading more than anything I could possibly write.

I want to be a poet for Halloween
With golden hair like perfect parentheses
Wearing a transparent-sleeved blouse like a metaphor for hidden meaning;
In shoes as beautiful as the words "heart" "belt" "dock" "coat"
I want to be a poet for Halloween
Glamourous in the old way -- magical, spell-binding--
Turning words and hearts inside out

I want to be a poem of Mary's for Halloween
With turns of phrase that hook the heart,
Water images that melt sugary surfaces of perception
I want to be a poem of Mary's for Halloween
At a party with other poems, in a ribbon-tied book, made just for us.