reflections

If only people were like mirrors and you could see things reflected in them maybe it would make communicating and understanding a little bit easier.

hypocrisy?

A few blogs back i wrote about an owl painting I saw that I took a photo of instead of buying it. Well, guess what? A friend talked me into buying it today. I didn't put up much resistance, I must say. So, now I have to come to terms with hypocrisy? Is that what I am, a hypocrite? Too vulnerable to impulse is more like it. I have noticed lately that I am less impulsive, though. I think that has to do with the stability I feel by writing a blog almost every day. I feel a purpose and even though I have no idea who or how many might be reading it, I still am motivated to write. This must be good practice for me no matter what. I also feel like I have a lot to look forward to lately and that helps keep me focused. I hung the owl painting and appreciate it very much. I may be a hypocrite, but I do have good taste.

the creek

Moving water can move you. Yesterday I was at the creek thinking about the beauty of what's outside and I wanted to float away on the surface of that cold creek. I ask my friends would they rather live by a river, the ocean, or a creek and a lot of them have said "creek." I wonder what it is about creeks that so get our attention. Maybe it has something to do with their usual clarity and the way you can usually see the rocks beneath the surface. If only people were more like creeks so you could see beneath their surface into their beautiful brains and thus understand better and more fully.

Today the sun rose up pink over the creek; I couldn't even try to capture that on video, or a still shot, but the little video I did capture is just a reminder to let creeks move you, let water take you places, let your own wildness go free.

old typewriter

need a poet say more? a picture is worth a thousand words, after all.

Change

Change scares me. I don't like it and I don't take to it easily and I don't know exactly why but I feel like I have to figure it out. Just changing the layout of this blog sent me into a spiral and then I told myself I could always change it back if I don't like it. Maybe that's part of why I don't like some kinds of change: once you do it, you can't go back. And sometimes you never know if you can go back when you have to make your original decision. So how do I apply this to myself as a poet and a writer? One thing I know for sure that I have to change is my reluctance and resistance to revision. I know--at least I believe--that some of my writing could be made even better were I to just take the time to change some things. Why I don't do it must be pure laziness. I can't come up with any other answer. Another thing I need to change is my sense that I'm not gifted in the business aspect of selling my writing. Yesterday, I wished I could get an agent to just go through everything I have and then tell me what to do but I know I'm not near ready for that. Well, how upsetting to be 47 and not near ready for an agent. I think I have to change the age perception too. I always tell my friends that you're never too old to make changes and to seize opportunities. I think this is a case of needing to take my own advice. Now, that would be a real change!

the business versus the talent

The business side of writing is not my strong point. For the last week, instead of writing my blog everyday--which has been my goal at the outset--I spent my time researching markets to sell my writing to. I certainly got overwhelmed. I feel, and I wonder if I am alone in this feeling, that I was given a talent for writing but not for business. If that is true, then what am I to do? If it is not true, then it means I have yet to tap into my business side to get my writing out there into the world. Or am I just delusional?

poetic dream life

I used to live across the sea and when my daughter was three we took a ferry boat to the island of Kume Jima near Okinawa. I remember that trip clearly; I had started writing a novel called Purple Heart and I was excited to get more ideas and facts on that ferry trip. My daughter and I danced on the roof of the ferry to the music in our headphones and wow that felt wonderful. I loved living overseas. Always there was excitement and adventure. I loved the Japanese vending machines--they were like art. And the cans were made of thick steel so they didn't crunch when you tried to smash them and they were tall and skinny and beautiful to look at. So now as I live in the Midwest I think to my life overseas and I want it back. I want to go live in Korea or Japan. I want to drink Lemon-C from a steel can. I want to eat Kimchi for breakfast with two eggs and a dried fish. I want to see gorgeous tropical sunsets and go to fabulously expensive funky artsy coffee shops. Is this the life of a writer, a weirdo, a traveler, a poet, a mother? I have responsibilities to live up to yet I still live in some kind of poetic dreamworld. I dream of traveling again and meeting new people and eating new foods. I dream of living my old Life and I know I am not the only person on Earth who does this. It's possibly human nature. I guess it's why we have the capacity to remember. The good times make for good memories. I think it's hard sometimes, and I don't think this just applies to me, but I think it's hard to draw the line between what is wanted and what is actual. Reality says I can't go overseas right now. Reality says that I write this little blog instead of dancing on a ferry roof. Reality says it's time to cook dinner, wash dishes, make cookies and some evening coffee. Reality says I just have to wait. Kume Jima will be there in a year. At least I dream so.

women and money

It's kind of a cliche' now to talk about how women spend money so crazily, but let's think about what it means when a woman is not a spendthrift, when she is impulsive, prone to shop for certain patterns, etc. A friend of mine told me he thinks i just like to spend money. I said that wasn't the problem; the problem is that there are things I see that I want and to get them, they cost money. Like today, for example. I was browsing and unexpectedly came across a piece of owl artwork. I loved it! I wanted it! I wasn't going to spend twenty-five dollars to get it though, so I took a photo instead. I plan to try to copy the owls with my own paints so I can have a painting like that hanging on my wall. That's one way I have managed to curb my spending. But it doesn't always work because there are some clothes I see that I feel I can't live without. It's a problem, though. I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone but so many men are scared of women who like to spend money. They think that if a woman spends money they won't be able to support her habits and they cross her off their potential wife list. I know this is true because Dean Moore once said so. He said that if I were his wife, I would have him filing bankruptcy in no time. Of course since hearing that and countless other lectures from men about how I spend money, I had to take that announcement to heart and try to make some changes. Why, though, if I have my own source of money do I still worry about what a man will think of how I do spend money? It's definitely a controversial topic. For now, let me get the paints out and try crafting a funky owl for my wall. I already own the paints so I won't have to spend a dime!

orange boat to the sea

Walking on the beach in the morning brings the imagination to Life. I dreamt of driving an orange boat--even pretended to drive one parked at a tourist trap. I wrote my friends' names in the sand and took pictures for their souvenirs. I looked for cute souvenirs at the shops but the sand seemed so much better!
I drove that orange boat out to sea with a picnic basket intact. Full of coffee and cream, the thermos rode next to me as I navigated through the buoys and out into the wide open sea. I saw dolphins, sharks, a killer whale, and a whole school of Japanese Goldfish. The engine got quiet when I turned it off to listen to nothing but the sky and the waves. When I got back to shore, a throng of people were there to meet me with necklaces of shark's teeth and bunches of flowers. I love how the imagination works. How often do you let yours just open up and go wild?

inspiration and the work ethic

So the inspiration can't spring from a person anymore--that's what i finally figured out. Like my professor writer/poet friend Joe Benevento said "You'll work on your writing when you are ready to really work." Work. A word I hate. Even in third grade, my teacher wrote on my report card "Anne wants to color and play all the time when she really has work to do." I want the writing to come easy, and to be truthful, most of the time it does come easy to me. Sometimes, I have felt that the writing came right through me, or was delivered through me. But my mistake is to think that the writing is finished. Now, don't get me wrong. I know I'm not thinking of anything new here, but for me the idea is one I have to accept. I have to do like Joe Benevento says: revise, revise, revise. Which is of course what I always tell my students. I always tell them not to be satisfied with how good their writing is but strive to make it even better. So if I apply that to myself that means I have a lot of revision to do before I send out the writing for publication. I have to work, work, work, and stop depending on sporadic crushes, inspiration per se' and such excuses like that. I want to make Joe Benevento proud.

a poet's crush

I was talking to a friend about what it means to be a writer, a poet, and a woman who still gets crushes on guys. It gets mixed up, sometimes, the writing and the reality. Recently, this has happened to me. For a week, I had a very intense crush on someone new and he inspired me to write a lot, which I did. A three part poem, an essay and some other assorted free writings. Then on Sunday, I crashed down from the crush. It seemed amazing to me that it had only lasted a week. Now what do I do? How do I find the inspiration to write? From where or whom do I find it? That has always been the essential dilemma and the essential question for me, and for other writers and poets as well. How do I get through the times when I don't feel like writing? I suppose it's time to take the advice I often give to my students which is to freewrite freewrite and freewrite some more. Somehow, that seems boring compared to having a crush on someone! I'd still like to be composing love poems, but Valentine's Day is over and no one seems interested in them right now. I'd like to compose the ultimate love poem, which I think I did recently so I will just take heart in that and make peace with my newfound standstill in writing.

on waiting

My cat sits by a volume of Walt Whitman poetry, waiting, as I have sat all morning waiting to have coffee with a friend. I am disappointed. In fact, the level of my disappointment alarms me. I wonder if I overestimated the inspiration I was getting from this friend and therefore put too much emphasis on the wrong area of my life--yet again! This would not be the first time I have done such a thing. I wait too much. Women do this. They wait. They wait for men. Still in this day and age. Who can help it? Men attract us like the wild animals they are. Men personify the wilderness. Even if they are talkers, they will still often be unpredictable in their behavior. Like my cat by the Whitman volume, waiting, so too have I been. I think it's time to pick up the Whitman book and stop counting the hours. I think it's time to listen to the tick tock of my own heart, alone. I can, like Whitman, embrace all of humanity in its diversity and weirdness, but I don't have to sit by my phone like a lonely old disillusioned spinster. I feel like an over exaggerated character in a Flannery O'Connor short story. I've had way too much coffee, way too much time to think. I must read now.

joy of early rising

The coffee is fresh and hot, birds are chirping outside the window, and there is the promise of a friend to visit so this is starting out to be a good Saturday. I didn't sleep in--I never do. Some people take the chance to sleep in on Saturday morning--especially if they've been working all week. But me--well my internal clock wakes me up about 5 or 6 a.m. Now, this is not how I always lived. I used to wake up at noon every day, but that's a whole different story. Now, I am a morning person and with that comes joy. There is the early morning chill through the open window where my cat Pumpkin likes to hang out. There is my friend Betty who gets up early, too, cause her cat Fred wakes her at 3 or 4 every morning. I could call her and go eat some breakfast. I could go play cards with another friend. I could go walk at the park, collect rocks from the cool creek water, watch the sun rise orange through the trees. It's morning time! I can't believe I let half my life go by sleeping in. Not any more. Now, it's early to bed, early to rise and I'm living a whole new lifestyle. So I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.

a love poem

I see the full moon bright through the river trees
High up as we wait for the 6:30 bell--"Fish Now!!!"
Our waders baptized
by the small wave of trout fin
oh so lovely to be in
that depth with you (by my side)

You still live a world away
come visit my planet and stay awhile
Let's go to the Pisgah National Forest
in North Carolina, let's go to Amsterdam, let's
go to a lake and find fish shimmering
on the ends of our hooks

I want to fall into waters with you
I want to eat apples by a ravine
Let's go to Taroko Gorge
Climb the red spiral steps winding down
a mountain side toward the hot springs

Let's eat together every single meal
Like a sacred blessing
Like a wing
Like a butterfly just learning how to flutter
Her fragile wings, and you in all your toughness
will become the wild boy you always were in your heart

if only not to analyze

The English rockstar Billy Bragg sings that "we shouldn't take the precious things we have apart to see how they work/ we'll never fit them together again." Is it true? Do people pick apart their relationships too much until all the mystery and the excitement goes away? I think so. Whatever happened to just reveling in each and every moment you spend with someone and you don't analyze the interactions you just let them flow into you and become part of who you are and who you were meant to be? When it comes to analysis, people do too much of it. Now, critical thinking is more than just analysis--it's thinking deeply and broadly. I once heard someone say "don't grow, deepen" and I agree with that. I think a lot of people don't think deeply enough; they don't think broadly enough; in fact, some people simply don't think very much. My mother always tells me that my problem is that I think too much. I was in my forties before I was able to think of a good comeback: you don't think enough, Mom. She of course didn't like that much. I want to say everything in one sentence, but one sentence is too small to hold it all. I want to climb into my friend's mind and on regularly scheduled visits. I want to eat hot sandwiches and write until my fingers bleed on the keyboard. I want the electric guitar of a Billy Bragg song to sink way deep into my brain so I can sleep well and not spend too much time analyzing my day. I want to go camping and sleep by a night fire. (Did you know I collect bead necklaces?)

writing love poems

How do you write a love poem? First, you have to love something or someone. Are you capable of feeling love? Or are you shut off? If you are shut off, then you need to start freewriting a journal about every good thing that has ever happened in your life so that you can discover what it is you love. Another way to write a love poem is to use your wild imagination and create the Harlequin Romance Man of the Month in your mind and then write specific lines to this fantasy person: here's an example:
i want to live underneath your whiskers, live inside your breath, eat the air all around you like a fabulous piece of pie. Okay, do those examples seem a little bit over-exaggerated? Maybe they are, but why not? When is the last time you really let yourself go in your writing, let the thoughts flow out of your mind to the keyboard, or pen to paper? When will be the first time that you find out what it feels like to unleash your deepest vocabulary? Let your ideas grow one from the other? Make some good strong coffee, get some half and half, turn on the lights and start writing. And then what do you do with what you write? Do you keep it to yourself or do you share it? Do you show the poetry to whoever inspired it? Will your friends laugh at you for writing to an imaginary person? Probably not. Probably, they will be happy that you could write something so beautiful and entertaining. Try it. It will grow on you.

woman as writer

I'm not the only woman who has ever struggled to be a writer in this world, I do know that. But in my situation, it is all my own experience and so I feel the sting of the struggle that much more. I compare myself to the single mom who wrote Harry Potter in a coffeeshop and feel like I failed, somehow. It's a very real set of failures, too, and I have spent years blaming my failures on all sorts of sitations, people, cirucmstances and reasons but now it's time to face up and be real: to live as a writer, I must be childless. My daughter is 16. I don't have long to wait till she grows up and goes on her own path. Some would say it's just an excuse, but I know the truth. It's not an excuse. For me, having a child, and just one at that, took so much like almost all of my energy that I often felt befuddled just to cook some supper much less work on my old writings and creating new ones felt impossible. But now I am proving that sort of wrong since I am writing a blog everyday. I have yet to pierce the surface of what will eventually show up in this blog, but like anyone new to something, I am still a bit shy about what I write in my blog every day. I censor somewhat and I wonder if I can overcome that to shed the shield I hold up to keep people away. Cause once I let the floodgates open, there's gonna be a big wave coming. I look forward to the day when i am ready to surf that huge wave.

fishing dreams and a small poem

In a world of smoke and silence and music and talk it feels so good to be driving down to the opening of trout season, all sorts of miscellaneous thoughts racing around in my mind, surrounded by three friends. And then we are in the water and the bell rings and everybody starts casting out their lines and then voila somebody gets a fish. No matter how many times we moved spots, and maybe that was half the problem right there, no matter how many times we never caught one fish and came home emptyhanded. Emptyhanded but not emptyhearted. There along the banks of a stream rising with morning steam a dream got born. The dream of a lifestyle. The dream of a life. Could I really take someone's hand and wade through the small scary rapids? Could I ever have someone bring me sandwiches while I type for hours and hours and when I need coffee it's hot with cream and I'm happy cause even though I am a woman writer not a man with a helpful wife I can maybe still succeed. These are parts of the dream I thought of as I stood thigh deep in cold water, waiting. And then while I fished we went to Amsterdam, the Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina, to the high cliffs of Cape Hedo, the valley of gorgeous water that lies beneath an international Peace Monument. I wish for small things and hope they will come true. So I tell you now:
I saw the full moon bright through the river trees
high up as we waited for the 6:30 bell--"Fish now!!!"
our boots baptized
by the small wave of trout fin
oh so lovely to be in
that depth with you (by my side)

You still live a world away.