Sometimes I pee with the door open. Actually, I live alone, so I always do. So what?
I've recently been exhausted by dealing with the ramifications of revealing personal information via my art. Specifically, important people in my life found this poem and I am feeling the heat. I need some sunscreen. SPF 327 please.
I also have a fear of being judged by people on public transportation. I know that THEY know I'm not supposed to be there.
It's not like I didn't think about the ramifications of sharing my personal life. In fact, I told my family about said poem, the content of which they already knew about, so nothing was a surprise. I'm very aware of what it means to be afraid to say something. I was fearful for a good portion of my life. So fearful that I didn't even say things to myself. I've come a long way.
Sometimes I spend a whole day doing absolutely nothing. Sometimes I won't go outside for an entire weekend.
I'm aware that my life does not exist in a vacuum. Making my personal life public affects the people I care about. However, it most often affects them in that they are made uncomfortable. It ultimately isn't about me. It's about them being embarrassed. Sometimes people worry about me, how being public might affect my career. Mostly, they worry about themselves and the other people I might betray by being a public artist.
I currently weigh 185.2 pounds.
Honesty is a big part of who I am as a poet. I'll be the first person to admit my faults, if I'm aware that they exist. I can be aware, I can reflect and consider consequences, but in the end, it's my life. It's my poem to write.
What are you afraid to admit about yourself? What are you NOT afraid to admit?
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Stick a Fork In It
I like finishing things, checking them off one of my many to-do lists. Striking a line through even the most menial tasks gives me happy goosebumps. I love feeling done with something.
Sal likes to say, when you're done, you're dead.
I met with my thesis director this week and he told me I was finished. He had no big changes. No small ones either, unless I wanted to make line edits on my own to individual poems, but he felt that as a whole the manuscript was set. I don't think I reacted the way he expected. I think I said something to the effect of "okay" and nodded.
As I was leaving campus I texted Sal. He was excited for me. I posted it to Facebook. People were congratulatory. I told my mom. She was proud.
I'm not feeling it. I'm proud of myself on some level, somewhere. I feel it. But mostly I feel deflated. I loved waking each morning and devoting myself to those poems. I was in love with editing. I was falling in love with forms. I've got two sestinas, a sonnet and a ghazal. I loved that writing poems was my job and that others were expecting me to create this thing. So I had to commit myself to it each morning. I loved waking up early, sitting at my desk with my coffee and clementines, deciding which poems to work on that day. Printing them out and observing the shape the words made on the page. Laying them all out on the floor.
Now I have to write cover letters and job applications.
I still need to defend, but I've never really been worried about that part. I can speak intelligently about what I've written. I can talk about my influences. I'm strangely excited about my defense. Maybe then I will feel more accomplished.
I know that my manuscript isn't really done. I know that two years isn't enough time (for me) to write a full length book. But my priorities have shifted. I could not graduate without my thesis. Now that I have it, I can. Now I must fall from this safe bubble into the world and try to create that magical space on my own and somehow not let the noise of the world distract me from committing myself to writing each morning.
write thesis
Sal likes to say, when you're done, you're dead.
I met with my thesis director this week and he told me I was finished. He had no big changes. No small ones either, unless I wanted to make line edits on my own to individual poems, but he felt that as a whole the manuscript was set. I don't think I reacted the way he expected. I think I said something to the effect of "okay" and nodded.
As I was leaving campus I texted Sal. He was excited for me. I posted it to Facebook. People were congratulatory. I told my mom. She was proud.
I'm not feeling it. I'm proud of myself on some level, somewhere. I feel it. But mostly I feel deflated. I loved waking each morning and devoting myself to those poems. I was in love with editing. I was falling in love with forms. I've got two sestinas, a sonnet and a ghazal. I loved that writing poems was my job and that others were expecting me to create this thing. So I had to commit myself to it each morning. I loved waking up early, sitting at my desk with my coffee and clementines, deciding which poems to work on that day. Printing them out and observing the shape the words made on the page. Laying them all out on the floor.
Now I have to write cover letters and job applications.
I still need to defend, but I've never really been worried about that part. I can speak intelligently about what I've written. I can talk about my influences. I'm strangely excited about my defense. Maybe then I will feel more accomplished.
I know that my manuscript isn't really done. I know that two years isn't enough time (for me) to write a full length book. But my priorities have shifted. I could not graduate without my thesis. Now that I have it, I can. Now I must fall from this safe bubble into the world and try to create that magical space on my own and somehow not let the noise of the world distract me from committing myself to writing each morning.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
I'm Filling Time
Lately I have been reading wikipedia pages about the human heart. I've learned about the four different chambers, the inferior and superior vena cava, the walls that separate sections. Sometimes I clench my left hand into a fist just so I can image the size. It's smaller than I imagine, the heart.
I recently put together my thesis manuscript into one document. I've had the poems, the introduction, the bibliography, the sections - all of these were in separate files on my computer. But this week I copied and pasted them all into one big file, formatted section numbers, adjusted margins, created a table of contents. It felt good to print it out and hand the draft to my director. I'm almost there.
After I got all the poems in one document, I copied the poem text into this text analysis software, which then sorts your words in a big list by how frequently they appear. This has been invaluable in terms of me having documented evidence of my obsessions. The word body appears in my thesis nineteen times. Then, the words hair, hands, eyes, skin and heart all appear seventeen times each. Spider shows up nine times. Vibrator twice. Ten palms, nine teeth, seven kitchens, seven blues. I have a document open always where I jot down title ideas. I am enjoying this ongoing process of information gathering. Maybe I should call it Ten Palms, Nine Teeth. Or Nineteen Bodies. Let me get those two on my list real quick...
Other recent accomplishments include my issue of Caper Literary Journal being posted this week. I guest edited a small selection of five awesome poems and one awesome short story for March. I had so much fun soliciting work from awesome writers I know. Something magical happened with this process actually; fascinating themes emerged dealing with creation, mythology, death, rebirth, retelling, bodies and magic. It's a magical collection. I am very proud to make public their work.
Additionally, this morning my poem "One Million Cow Eyes" was accepted by the new Adanna Literary Journal. Founded by Christine Redman-Waldeyer and guest-edited by Diane Lockward. I'm excited and honored to be included in the inaugural issue of this awesome feminist journal. This poem is about the animal scientist Temple Grandin who is also a high functioning autistic person. She's an especially amazing person and I recommend learning more about her life and accomplishments.
Other than these things, I'm mostly soaking up spring and time with my family. California feels closer and closer and before long I'll be on a plane headed toward The Bay. I went to the shooting range with my dad for the first time yesterday and nothing terrible happened. In fact, I got to know myself and my father a little bit better. So I'd say it was a day well spent.
I recently put together my thesis manuscript into one document. I've had the poems, the introduction, the bibliography, the sections - all of these were in separate files on my computer. But this week I copied and pasted them all into one big file, formatted section numbers, adjusted margins, created a table of contents. It felt good to print it out and hand the draft to my director. I'm almost there.
After I got all the poems in one document, I copied the poem text into this text analysis software, which then sorts your words in a big list by how frequently they appear. This has been invaluable in terms of me having documented evidence of my obsessions. The word body appears in my thesis nineteen times. Then, the words hair, hands, eyes, skin and heart all appear seventeen times each. Spider shows up nine times. Vibrator twice. Ten palms, nine teeth, seven kitchens, seven blues. I have a document open always where I jot down title ideas. I am enjoying this ongoing process of information gathering. Maybe I should call it Ten Palms, Nine Teeth. Or Nineteen Bodies. Let me get those two on my list real quick...
Other recent accomplishments include my issue of Caper Literary Journal being posted this week. I guest edited a small selection of five awesome poems and one awesome short story for March. I had so much fun soliciting work from awesome writers I know. Something magical happened with this process actually; fascinating themes emerged dealing with creation, mythology, death, rebirth, retelling, bodies and magic. It's a magical collection. I am very proud to make public their work.
Additionally, this morning my poem "One Million Cow Eyes" was accepted by the new Adanna Literary Journal. Founded by Christine Redman-Waldeyer and guest-edited by Diane Lockward. I'm excited and honored to be included in the inaugural issue of this awesome feminist journal. This poem is about the animal scientist Temple Grandin who is also a high functioning autistic person. She's an especially amazing person and I recommend learning more about her life and accomplishments.
Other than these things, I'm mostly soaking up spring and time with my family. California feels closer and closer and before long I'll be on a plane headed toward The Bay. I went to the shooting range with my dad for the first time yesterday and nothing terrible happened. In fact, I got to know myself and my father a little bit better. So I'd say it was a day well spent.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Check out Laura's List of Awesome!
I love both projects and list-making. I approach everything like a project, even things that just seem like "work" or monotony. In tribute to my two loves, I will start the first of a series of posts called the "Laura's List of Awesome" or something like that. Here are my latest, in no particular order, except for coming to my mind in thusly:
Oh boy! I Heart Lists! Here is a picture of the San Francisco Chinese New Year Parade from atop a big hill.
- My manuscript
- Submitting my chapbook manuscript to contests
- Sending out poems to journals
- Weave's 6th issue
- Weave reading & collaborations
- Interview with editors
- Write intro for next Weave
- CLJ Guest Editing
- Transfer Teaching Certification
- Job Applications
- Yoga
- Scavenger Hunt
- Write another sestina
- Write a villanelle
- Words & Beats Reading
- MFA Prom
- 2010 Taxes
- Rereading The Giver
- Teaching The Giver
- Class Event at work
- 100 other things I forgot
Oh boy! I Heart Lists! Here is a picture of the San Francisco Chinese New Year Parade from atop a big hill.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
I'm Still In Love
I've never really had a problem with Valentine's Day. I spent a lot of years heartbroken on February 14th and still, I've never really felt bitter about a celebrating a day for love. I do have cause to though. Both of my high school boyfriends broke up with me shortly before Valentine's Day. One dumped me on Groundhogs day and subsequently for a couple of years I harbored ill-will against all woodchucks. Since that first heartache fifteen years ago (wow, I love that I have been falling in love for fifteen years!), I still managed to keep my optimism and I really have family to thank for that. One family member in particular was always my Valentine and always will be. My grandpa.
Lloyd and I were pals since the day I was born. We fell in love that day and that was that. We were solid. I knew he had my back and I had his, even as a newborn. It took me a while to learn this, but I had the power to melt this tough Italian man with a simple smile.
I never took advantage of my power of him. Well, maybe sometimes, when I was home sick from school and I really wanted a McDonald's Happy Meal (the cure-all for 'I-don't-want-to-go-to-school-itis'). We spent countless hours driving in his old gray Chevy pick-up truck. He was always whistling or humming or singing something. He used to walk my brother's and I to the bus stop. We helped his farmer friends sell their corn on the road side. He told us stories about how he and his siblings would get oranges for Christmas. He loved fruit. On Valentine's Day, he bought me candy hearts. I loved the mixture of sweets and words. He was there for me. He and I loved unconditionally.
This is a strange and wonderful kind of love. It sets the bar to an almost impossible high. Having loved and been loved unconditionally, it set me up for some serious heartache in my teens and twenties. Many of the people I dated felt I was too intense, too emotional, too attached. I realize now that they did not recognize my fervor. It took me a long time to realize how unusual it was share this kind of love.
It wasn't all hugs and candy hearts. There were tensions with my grandpa and I. It was difficult to form an adult relationship with him. His fondest memories were from my childhood. He saw me grow and get married, and then get divorced. His dreams of becoming a great-grandfather were put on hold. He was old-fashioned. Didn't I want a family like mine? He didn't want me to leave Pittsburgh. Why would I leave? My family is in Pittsburgh.
When my grandpa died last December, it really shook me. I had been mentally preparing myself for a decade, since he'd been sick for that long. But you can't really prepare. You can't know what it's like to watch your family all simultaneously want to curl up and be alone. Especially a family that is normally so extroverted, so inclined to be together. You can't know what it will be like to watch your grandmother mourn the loss of her partner of 63 years. But also, I was surprised by how life has to continue. He died during my finals week of my first semester in graduate school. While I got extensions for all my assignments, after the funeral I was relieved to have something to keep me busy. Something to help distract me from this loss.
This morning I woke up thinking about my grandpa. I saw an orange on my desk. It started me thinking about how he was instrumental in my becoming a poet. I have always had poetry inside of me. But having loved and been loved unconditionally, I know about living life with passion. The notion that art is about suffering is false. Life includes suffering, always. There are times when we will find ourselves on the ground, without words, drained of life's poetry. But like love, poetry is a way to survive that suffering. A way to celebrate our continued survival. To celebrate our thriving. Poetry causes us to pay close attention, to value every word, every minute, every song. My grandfather taught me how to be in love. Poetry taught me how to crawl my way back toward that love. We must crawl back to it. This poet is building bridges toward an unconditional love with each poem, stanza, line, word, letter.
Lloyd and I were pals since the day I was born. We fell in love that day and that was that. We were solid. I knew he had my back and I had his, even as a newborn. It took me a while to learn this, but I had the power to melt this tough Italian man with a simple smile.
I never took advantage of my power of him. Well, maybe sometimes, when I was home sick from school and I really wanted a McDonald's Happy Meal (the cure-all for 'I-don't-want-to-go-to-school-itis'). We spent countless hours driving in his old gray Chevy pick-up truck. He was always whistling or humming or singing something. He used to walk my brother's and I to the bus stop. We helped his farmer friends sell their corn on the road side. He told us stories about how he and his siblings would get oranges for Christmas. He loved fruit. On Valentine's Day, he bought me candy hearts. I loved the mixture of sweets and words. He was there for me. He and I loved unconditionally.
This is a strange and wonderful kind of love. It sets the bar to an almost impossible high. Having loved and been loved unconditionally, it set me up for some serious heartache in my teens and twenties. Many of the people I dated felt I was too intense, too emotional, too attached. I realize now that they did not recognize my fervor. It took me a long time to realize how unusual it was share this kind of love.
It wasn't all hugs and candy hearts. There were tensions with my grandpa and I. It was difficult to form an adult relationship with him. His fondest memories were from my childhood. He saw me grow and get married, and then get divorced. His dreams of becoming a great-grandfather were put on hold. He was old-fashioned. Didn't I want a family like mine? He didn't want me to leave Pittsburgh. Why would I leave? My family is in Pittsburgh.
When my grandpa died last December, it really shook me. I had been mentally preparing myself for a decade, since he'd been sick for that long. But you can't really prepare. You can't know what it's like to watch your family all simultaneously want to curl up and be alone. Especially a family that is normally so extroverted, so inclined to be together. You can't know what it will be like to watch your grandmother mourn the loss of her partner of 63 years. But also, I was surprised by how life has to continue. He died during my finals week of my first semester in graduate school. While I got extensions for all my assignments, after the funeral I was relieved to have something to keep me busy. Something to help distract me from this loss.
This morning I woke up thinking about my grandpa. I saw an orange on my desk. It started me thinking about how he was instrumental in my becoming a poet. I have always had poetry inside of me. But having loved and been loved unconditionally, I know about living life with passion. The notion that art is about suffering is false. Life includes suffering, always. There are times when we will find ourselves on the ground, without words, drained of life's poetry. But like love, poetry is a way to survive that suffering. A way to celebrate our continued survival. To celebrate our thriving. Poetry causes us to pay close attention, to value every word, every minute, every song. My grandfather taught me how to be in love. Poetry taught me how to crawl my way back toward that love. We must crawl back to it. This poet is building bridges toward an unconditional love with each poem, stanza, line, word, letter.
Monday, February 7, 2011
AWP Wrap-Up and What's Up Next
AWP was amazing. This was only my second time attending, but it was far superior to my first time around. I was more experienced as a tabler, I made it to the panels I really wanted to see, I enjoyed meeting contributors, and all around I felt more connected. Weave did well too. We sold a bunch of the new issue as well as back issues. We also got the word out to people who hadn't heard of us yet and hopefully forged some new connections with other editors for ad swaps and other collaborations.
Once again, I'm reading this Friday at 7pm at Word Circus. I'm going to read some material from my new manuscript, and maybe some old favorites as well. It would be great to see you there. Click on the flyer below to RSVP to the Facebook invitation!
Once again, I'm reading this Friday at 7pm at Word Circus. I'm going to read some material from my new manuscript, and maybe some old favorites as well. It would be great to see you there. Click on the flyer below to RSVP to the Facebook invitation!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
News News News
I've been busily preparing for February and it's finally here. I leave for Washington D.C. on the Megabus tomorrow. In theory, I'm going to be very productive on the way down, since the bus has WIFI. I have a presentation next week, plus an event next Friday. Who knows what might happen though.
Weave's reading period just ended and we have a record number of submissions: 491 total! That is way above our average of 350 for the past few issues. I'm constantly impressed with the quality of the submissions we are getting and I'm really looking forward to shaping this new issue. I can't wait until I have some real time to get in there and readreadread.
The AWP Conference is really coming together this year. Weave and A cappella Zoo have a table at the book fair, I'm presenting at the pedagogy forums on Friday morning, and so many friends will be attending. I'm also looking forward to meeting some online poet-friends, especially Lisa Marie Basille and Sally Rosen Kindred. I love that the internet lets us develop friendships long distance. It really shifts our thinking about community and mentoring and collaboration. It can all be done long distance. So wonderful.
I recently had my poem "Missing" accepted and published (both within a week's time) at Glass: A Journal of Poetry. This was a happy surprise for me, since I had stopped sending this poem out to journals. I'm really glad it found out a home.
Finally, I will be reading some poems from my currently untitled manuscript at Word Circus next Friday, February 11th at Most Wanted Fine Art Gallery. It starts at 7pm and will include food, poetry, fiction, artwork and wine. I even have some watercolors in the show (picture below)! It will be a great time. Definitely stop by.
PS: I have a website! I'm all official n'at.
Weave's reading period just ended and we have a record number of submissions: 491 total! That is way above our average of 350 for the past few issues. I'm constantly impressed with the quality of the submissions we are getting and I'm really looking forward to shaping this new issue. I can't wait until I have some real time to get in there and readreadread.
The AWP Conference is really coming together this year. Weave and A cappella Zoo have a table at the book fair, I'm presenting at the pedagogy forums on Friday morning, and so many friends will be attending. I'm also looking forward to meeting some online poet-friends, especially Lisa Marie Basille and Sally Rosen Kindred. I love that the internet lets us develop friendships long distance. It really shifts our thinking about community and mentoring and collaboration. It can all be done long distance. So wonderful.
I recently had my poem "Missing" accepted and published (both within a week's time) at Glass: A Journal of Poetry. This was a happy surprise for me, since I had stopped sending this poem out to journals. I'm really glad it found out a home.
Finally, I will be reading some poems from my currently untitled manuscript at Word Circus next Friday, February 11th at Most Wanted Fine Art Gallery. It starts at 7pm and will include food, poetry, fiction, artwork and wine. I even have some watercolors in the show (picture below)! It will be a great time. Definitely stop by.
"Self-Portraits" by Laura E. Davis
PS: I have a website! I'm all official n'at.
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