Strangest Week Ever

I think I might be living in the strangest week ever.

Not that it's a bad thing. It's just I've had and will have a lot of firsts this week. I had my first teaching-related argument, I drove over a giant snow mound by accident, and I heard the inaugural poet Elizabeth Alexander speak. All that just by Monday. Tuesday got even stranger when I read my poetry on Prosody and was interviewed by Jan Beatty. I also witness a giant five piece mural get completed by my 7th grade students. Today I was at work for twelve hours. After school we had an auction for the mural, along with sales of glass jewelry, Haitian dance moves and hands on art. We made over $1200 for Haiti relief efforts. I've just gotten home and plopped down into my chair and I'm pretty sure I've never been quite this tired.

Still left to go is a presentation on Blood Wedding by Federico Garcia Lorca. Not that strange, except I've somehow managed to fall in love with a dead, gay, Spanish writer. It will be a beautiful love affair. This play is an experience to read and I hope we have a fun discussion in class tomorrow.

This weekend has the most sad bit of strange; my family will be interning my grandfather's ashes in the afternoon. I can't believe it's been almost three months since he died. I haven't seen my family in a while because I've just been so busy. So while it's sad, I'm glad we're getting together and I'm glad Grandpa is the reason we're getting together. He would like that.

I'm not sure how I feel about my strange week so far. I mostly enjoy pointing out the strangeness of it. I just don't think many people get make change with art, be on the radio, experience a death ritual and hear a speech from a famous all in one week. I think that next week I'll be glad I just have the Weave Issue 03 reading.

What are your boundaries?

This week I was told you can't write poetry about valentine's day. Also, the Titantic.

I don't like boundaries in poetry.

In theory, the whole universe is up for grabs, all of the galaxies and supernovas and black holes.
But in reality there are boundaries. In each culture there are topics that just can't be taken seriously in a poem. Some stories or words or events carry too much baggage.

I know this as an editor. I see a lot of poems about certain universal topics like 9/11 or divorce poems. Another common topics was the death of a grandparent. It seems that these universal experiences sometimes cross over into an area of sentimentality and the poem no longer works. I often got annoyed by people who wrote dead grandparent poems.

Until my grandfather died and I wrote one too.

I get irritated at the thought that people must write about pain or conflict. I think this is false. It's tension. I like to think that as poets, we can locate tension even when you think there isn't any. When I think about my grandfather, I think about having a person who loved me unconditionally. There really was nothing dark about our relationship. No pain, except in losing him to illness and old age. He had other sides to him I'm sure, but I didn't know those sides. I was always young to him and I knew that and it was okay. It wasn't just him. I was a part of it too, not knowing how to be an adult with him. But does that mean I have to invent some kind of pain or dark side of him in order for a poem to be successful? That I have to pretend I knew he had secrets? That wouldn't be the man I knew.

Maybe that is the tension. The tension of that relationship never changing since I was a little girl. And maybe that is the poet's real job. To find the tension and balance that with the sweetness, the love. Because we have to be able to write about love. Especially unconditional love. If that can't be touched in poems, I don't know why I try to write anything at all.

What topics do you feel are off-limits to you? Are there words or ideas or events or people you can just never let into your poetry?

Censorship and the Poet's Persona

I've been writing some more personal poetry lately and I like the voice I'm developing. I also like that I have many voices, some surreal, some bossy, some snobby or distant, but sometimes it's good to settle into a poem that feels like a conversation with a close friend. There is something that is beyond cathartic or confessional that happens when you can describe a private-personal experience accurately and make it a public-shared experience.

This kind of writing also makes people vulnerable. Myself, as the poet, included. But also the community of people stuffed into each personal poem, that aren't poets, that wouldn't tell that part of their own story in the way I have or will. What does a poet consider when writing about their friends and family? I have had this discussion with other writers and none have really been able to give me a solid answer. Everyone tiptoes around things. Some people say that they waited for grandma to die before putting certain things out there or that they don't publish certain poems, just read them at small venues or not at all.

There is also the issue of one's professional life and how that might be affected by making some parts of their life, past or current, public. Some writers are teachers, like myself. In particular, I teach young children. My writing is often not appropriate for a young person, so making work public could affect me professionally. I had to ask that a video of me reading be taken down, not because I did anything bad, but that it showed me drinking and should a student of mine find that they would not have the life experience to put it into context. Some people worry about these issues of seeming professional, but it's less worrisome in higher education.

What do you think about when you put your personal art out there? Do you feel like the personal aspects can be unspoken? That it's not anyone's business? Or do you fly your private life's flag proudly? Or keep them all to yourself?

Sphinx Poetry Reading: 2/2 @ 8pm in Oakland

So I'm reading my poetry again on Tuesday at the Sphinx Cafe in Oakland. This is a weekly reading series organized by Kayla Sargeson and Jan Beatty. I have to hand it to them, it's tough work putting together one reading, so I can't imagine doing it weekly. I feel honored to be involved and as a bonus I get to read with Arlan Hess, poet and editor of Paper Street Press. Fun!

I haven't decided what I'm reading just yet. I'll prepare later today, but I have a good idea of what I want to read. I might unveil a version of a very new poem I'm working on that is a bit different than my more recent stuff. I'll also read some of my work from last semester and some old favorites. I might even develop a spontaneous speech impediment and pretend I'm Spiderman. I'll feel out the crowd first though. Here are the deets below. Hope you can be there!

Sphinx Poetry Reading Series
Tuesday, February 2nd @ 8pm
Sphinx Cafe in Oakland
Featuring: Arlan Hess & Yours Truly

Are you as busy as I am?

It's unclear whether Outer Space is as busy as I am right now. Perhaps that fact that it hasn't answered yet is a sign of it being preoccupied with the stuff of space: creating supernovas, swallowing objects into black holes, and being infinite. The outer stuff of my life has also moved into full orbit these days. Work is picking up speed as I start some new projects with my students. Grad classes are full-speed-ahead with lots of writing and reading. Even my personal life is moving along after my successful solo trip to NYC and an upcoming adventure to California to visit the boy.

This past week I have also noticed my inner life take a stressful turn. It seems that during the most sacred part of my day, bedtime, my thoughts take on a never-ending stream-of-consciousness momentum. I lay in bed, trying to relax, focusing on my breathing, and progressively relaxing muscles. But the thoughts stay. They seem to have no where to go, so they stay inside my head bouncing off my brain and showing up in my tense shoulders each morning after a night of terrible sleep. That is, if I fall asleep. I've ended up averaging around 5 hours for the past few days. It all came to fruition Thursday evening (which is like my Friday) when I had what was probably the worst stress headache ever, and I skipped class to rest. But sleep would not come. I woke up Friday morning when my alarm, which I forgot to turn off the night before, went off at 6:45am and I could not fall back to sleep.

As someone with an attention disorder, I have learned that medication can only take me so far. So that's where my behavior changes come into play. I've set up my life in such a way that I can accomplish things with minimal distractions. I am highly organized, I don't have a lot of stuff around and I know myself well enough to manage my environment so that I can be most productive. This includes making sure I'm well rested, because being tired, hungry, itchy, sweaty, dirty, messy, cranky, or wired will set me off course.

I don't give myself enough credit though. I can focus. Even if I am a little [insert adjective]. Just as long as I am doing more than one thing at a time. If I'm reading, I should also be highlighting and taking notes. If I'm writing a blog post, I am also relaxing my shoulders with a hot compress. When I'm on the phone I'm constantly tidying up. Multitasking is my best friend.

I think this is why writing feels natural to me as a form of expression. Writing is multitasking. Even as I'm typing these words I'm thinking about what I'll be saying next. When I'm editing the line breaks in that poem I'm thinking about the beginning and the end, the shape, sound and hidden meaning. When composing an autobiographical essay, I've got all this material swirling around inside my head just waiting to be pulled out of orbit and put on the page.

Maybe that is where my sleep deprivation lies. All that time spent tossing and turning, wishing sleep to come, I should instead just get up and write. Even if it just means making a list of things to remember. This is part of the experience of living-like-a-writer; being willing to know yourself well enough to throw it all out the window and risk being tired the next day, because perhaps what you have to say at 1am needs to be put down, even if it only leads to sleep. Even if no one else ever reads it. That act of putting words down even at the most inconvenient times will mean the difference between being just someone who writes now and then and being a writer.

New York here I come! Again!

I've been invited (or perhaps invited myself) to be a part of the Typewriter Girls show in NYC this Sunday. I'll be performing, playing the part of God (who else?) and perhaps running the Exquisite Corpse. If you are in the area, please stop by the Bowery Poetry Club at 6pm tomorrow night! Below is a fun video from the last TWG show.

New Year's Resolutions

This year I have resolved to exercise, to be more organized, and to be less perfectionist. How's that for a fun balancing act? As I attempt to "live like a writer" I also get to know myself better, consider when are the best times for me to be productive. Consider how I can best devote my time to fruitful writing. Google calendar has helped me visualize my schedule in blocks of differently colored time, as pictured here. Blocks for work, exercise, studying, lesson planning and (in pink) for writing. The picture doesn't even show you my evening schedule of classes. But I've got my priorities in line. Four days a week I have scheduled a three hour block of time for writing. I'm being optimistic.

This morning I actually woke up early around 7am. After 30 minutes of attempting to fall back to sleep, I decided to get up and write. This morning I've been reworking some old poems, both from last semester and also from years ago. I even radically revised a two year-old poem and while it's not there yet, it is much improved. One thing I accidentally found was an old journal where I found some poems about love and the things in my head at the time. I was pretty obsessed with the the fall season for a while and it really showed in a lot of my writing. I just found an letter I wrote to myself last January. Pardon the melodrama:

January 7, 2009
Dear Laura,

This has been a difficult week. Realizing that you've lost sense of who you are and what you want out of life - that can be a big deal. There are a lot of things you want from life. New experiences, new people, new faces. Conversation, coffee, delicious food, friendship, satisfaction. You want excitement with stability. I want to be able to take care of myself. If I've learned anything it is that I don't want to be back here again. Scared and lonely. I'm sure I will be both of these things again, but not of my own doing. I will make choices to move my life in a new path. I want a career. I want love. I want a home, people, family, meals - however that looks for me. I want those things. I want to love myself. I want to find solace and peace in the things I need and have and want and strive for and work hard for.

To put this into context: I had just quit a tedious desk job at a company that stopped paying me. Shortly thereafter it went out of business. I also was ending a long term relationship, although the actual breakup happened about a week later. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and for the first time as an adult I was alone.

So while parts of the letter might not make sense (it was difficult not to revise it), I look at these words now and I realize it was my resolution for 2009. I was reminding myself of my real self. My real needs. I put into writing the things I wanted from life. I love how partway through I switch from second to first person. Stating the "I want..." was an important change. It was a kick in the ass, so to speak.

While I won't list all the ways I made this letter come to life, I will say this: I put something in writing and then I made it happen. I got out of a bad relationship. I got into graduate school. I became a teacher. I fell in like and then in love. I didn't compromise. I made choices to move my life. It has been moved.

I think it really affirms my decision to be a writer. I know that the words on the page did not really make these changes. But there is something about holding a pen in your hand and pressing it against paper and letting your arm-wrist-hand move your thoughts outside of you, a collection of thoughts. Thoughts into action.

I guess this year's resolution to be more organized and start jogging is kind of lame in comparison. Maybe I'll keep working on last year's resolution and just tack this years on to the end of that letter... "I want to be realistically organize, to be healthy, to take care of my physical self, to get in shape." There. Another kick in the ass.