Snow.

That's the name of the Orhan Pamuk novel I'm intently reading right now; it's also the name for the frozen, hexagonal bits of water that have been falling from the sky this week.

I had forgotten that I had started to hate the cold. I used to love it. I could walk around in weather like this (30° Fahrenheit) without a coat (or sweaters!). But my tolerance has waned. Now the cold hurts me all over. I long for somewhere with milder weather year-round.

Snow-the-novel is hurting me a bit too, because it's heartbreakingly beautiful as a novel. It's hard to tear myself away from it. I'm reading slowly; I often read faster than this, but I don't want to miss a thing, or speed past something without having taken the appropriate amount of time to consider what it says.

As usual, I feel compelled to start something. The problem is that I feel this a lot, particularly when I'm in the middle of other things.

Beginnings are what I love best. That said: let's see it all through.

Even the winter. And the next. And probably the one thereafter.

How to Start the Weekend: Choose my adventure.

My suggestion:

go to the craft fair at your place of business, which your company sponsors during the holiday season. Walk over there -- it's in the other building -- after a day of not feeling so well.

A couple times today, you got up and just didn't feel well. You got a cold -- or a throat thing -- coming on. No big deal, but you might be a little tired.

But when the end of the day comes, you're ready to check out the craft fair. You're feeling better. Ready for the weekend. Ready to relax, to have fun, and so forth.

So you walk over there.

Then you fall down the stairs when your ankle gives out under you. Thankfully, there's a nice guy there to help you up, and you don't hurt too badly. So you get up, go back to your cube in the other building, wrap your foot in the ace bandage you had brought for your wrist but never used, sit for a few minutes to chill out -- the fall sort of rattled you -- and then go home.

It starts to ache.

It turns out, people, that while going to the craft fair at work on Friday afternoon, I sprained my ankle in the fall.

Stupid!

That is the stupidest way to start the weekend.

Ever.

End transmission.

Momentum 9

On Saturday, as I described (and provided a picture of), I went to the ICA and saw an exhibit that really stuck with me -- Momentum 9: Kader Attia.

It has stuck with me through today. I thought of those ghosts all day today.

Momentum 9

In the dark dormitory designed

With plywood in mind and bare

Bulbs, I can feel the ghosts. They

Are the withered walking dead

Tired. Their mattresses cling

To their shapes like the wild

Mother to stillborn baby-in-arms.

She could die if she doesn’t let it go.

Or we could be the ghosts.

Strolling through their lives,

Their impressions neatly

Pressed into their mattress

As they hide under the frame

And try not to breath.

They could die if they don’t let it go.

In the end, when I leave the room

Breathing again. I am holding

A wall. A railing. Anything

To make the earth still again

And rotate back to now. Tangled

In extension cords, I feel tethered:

I could die if I don’t let it all go.

This is still, but it is a propeller

In the world of museums and art,

Chopping bits of past and making

You taste them, the dust of their

Weary years gone by.

Most of us

Choked. Most of us

Lived. Except those

Who could not

swallow. Except those

Who couldn’t let it go. They could.

Have. If. Did.

Holiday. Celebrate.

Weekend in Brief:

Left work on Wednesday.
Made Cranberry Sauce.
Watched Donnie make Turkey and Cobbler. He's a pro.

Thursday.

Drove to RI.
Found an extremely awkward situation in my mother's living room.
Situation quickly became even more uncomfortable with the arrival of my mom's husband's (NOT my "step father") parents. My mom's husband is a year older than I am. He used to live across the street. His parents have never met my maternal grandparents.

There was also a couple who were friends of the family, but they had recently broken up and were in the room together.

It was.....the food was good.

Drove home. Tired.

Friday.

We slept in a bit.
Fed Kitties.
Sort of laid about the house for an hour or two.
Went shopping.
It was crazy, but sort of just "weekend" crazy. Not "black friday" crazy.
Let me point out that "black friday" is not black because of how "crazy" it is. It is "black" as in the phrase "in the black" or having made a lot of money/profit, although it originally comes from a reference to the stock crash of "Black Tuesday" because of the heavy foot/vehicle traffic. I don't have the patience to explain this just now. It's like a riot. Not riot ha-ha, but riot ohmygodgetoutofthewaythey'restampeding.

We got gifts for my brother, our niece and picked up a few serious sale DVDs.

Saturday.

On Saturday, I got up very, very early (haha -- eight am. I have to be at work by then on Monday!) and drove to Foxboro, my hometown, Don's hometown, and the high-school home town of my best friend, Kristin. We stopped a Bickford's for breakfast out of desperation; good breakfast places are sort of few and far between in that area. We were greeted by a curmudgeonly woman who, when I pulled on the door on the right to make it easier to get through, uttered an excited "No!" However, our food was ok.

I drove there to collect Kristin, which I did. We drove into Boston and got lost trying to find the Institute of Contemporary Art, although we did eventually find it.

The ICA was pretty amazing in that most of the exhibits were emotionally unsettling, although a few were intentionally funny.

The exhibit that bothered me most was "Momentum 9: Kader Attia." M9KA was an installation of a dark room with walls of plywood. In the room were beds made of what looked like boxes or more plywood, with foam mattresses. The mattresses, in turn, had had foam ripped out of them in the shape of bodies.


We left the museum after we saw everything, and began to drive to Salem. We stopped at a Wendy's on the way home.

Wendy's.

The Wendy's Restaurant was clean, and there appeared to be only a short wait. However, we ended up waiting for about fifteen minutes. Our food came; however, my burger was missing cheese. The woman behind the counter grabbed a slice, put it in a container, and handed it to me.

Ok. Whatever.

Then, another customer, a male who looked to be in his late teens, went up to the counter and complained because he had found a piece of fur in his sandwich. Ew. Of course, they should take care of that, no problem. It's unfortunate, but that kind of thing will happen from time to time.

"I'm not even kidding, look. There's this long piece of hair or fur or something in my sandwich."

He pulls out a long piece of white fur-like hair; it looks like it came from a dog.

"No sir. You put that in there."

Right, of course they'll replace....wha? What?

"No -- I'm serious. This doesn't belong in my food. This is ridiculous."

And on and on, the workers continued to accuse him of putting the fur in his own food.

Now, regardless of whether or not they have a history with this guy, the fact is they have other customers, including me, standing around watching this altercation. Does this mean that if I have a complaint about my food, I'm going to be responsible? Does this mean that they have no customer service skills?

I didn't intervene, even though I desperately wanted to. Holy crap.

Kristin and I sat down with our food. Our sandwiches tasted four hours old. Ick. We ate only as much as necessary (which in this case was very little and mostly composed of soda. Nutritious) and left. Quickly.

We made it to my house and chilled out for a bit, and watched a terrible movie called "Murder Party." However, "MP" is so bad, it's good. And parts of it are endearing. So if you can deal with pretty bad acting and some gore, and have some patience towards stupidity, you're probably good to giggle to a viewing of "Murder Party." The film is about a group of art students who are interpreting a murder of an unwilling victim through art for a grant.

Here's my favorite gem of dialogue from this film:

"Why did you take our art?"
"Well, I was going to kill all of you, and then sell it, because art is only worth money after you're dead."
"So you like our art?"

Ridiculous.

After the movie, Kristin and I drove to Saugus to have some yummy Mexican food at the Border Cafe. There was a bit of a wait, but we got in and got delicious food. Incidentally, I got Kristin's leftovers, because she's flying out on Monday and it probably couldn't even take the ride to Foxboro. She: Chicken Guadalajara. Me: Beef Enchiladas. We also had some guacamole. She: margaritas. Me: diet coke.

I was driving.

We came back to my house one more time, and then I drove her home. I probably won't see her again for another six months. Last time I saw her was May; this is November; I would guess that our next visit will occur in May.

Sunday.

I had intended to write all day, although today wasn't a total loss; I did some research on Berlin for the period between the 1970s and 1990; right now I'm making spice cake. mmmm.

Most of it was wasted, but the day isn't over yet.

Thanksgiving

was Weird.

However, its weirdness and awkwardness were not so great to exclude a few nice moments.

I hope everyone's holiday was lovely!

Call me sappy, I'll punch you in the face.

Seriously, because I can hardly stress enough the value and integrity and beauty and pure genius of the people around me on a daily basis -- and those traits are especially prevalent, I feel, among my friends.

I will not give a list here, because I am sure to forget someone or something and this is no time to be particular or upset because you feel you've been ignored. Just take in the fact that I appreciate you.

My friends and the people around me are typically extremely sweet, funny, intelligent, compassionate and capable of amazing things.

Many of my friends are either some sort of artist or have crazy untapped talent.

Today I traded genuine compliments with a new pal who sits across the office from me. I listened to some of the new songs my friends have produced. I viewed the trailer for my friend's film -- again. I laughed -- really hard -- on the phone with my friend a little while ago.

I'm appreciative of all you people, even if you don't know it.

So there.

Sunday Scribblings: I Carry

I carry:

worry
extraneous papers
plans
broken pens
hairbrush
diabetes
pain relief
pain
barrettes
elastic bands
food allergy
glucose tablets
disease
maps
apologies
spare change
credit cards
relationships
license
business cards
ipod
recently purchased books
poem drafts
ideals
glucometer
insulin
pills
my friends
bag
a bottle full of water

myself

In Our Own Words

This evening, I read my work at the Writer's Forum: In Our Own Words at the Monet's Garden Art Cafe in Beverly, MA.

Although attendance was low, it went very well. The other readers were very talented, and I got some outstanding feedback on my own work from audience members/fellow writers.

Further, I learned about other reading opportunities, solicited submissions, and engaged in some great conversations.

Thanks Laurette!

LitDay!

I feel somewhat -- somewhat, mind you -- inspired.

I want to finish all the books I'm reading, which include:

The Penelopiad/Margaret Atwood
Snow/Orhan Pamuk
Autobiography of Red/Anne Carson
A Room of One's Own/Virginia Woolf

Plus, I really, really want to read the new Dave Eggers, plus:

All the Best American series books that I feel are relevant to me (which will probably include "stories" and "poetry," and often, "non-required," but may also include "science" and "travel"), Yann Martel's collection of short stories (I've been trying to get around to it forever!), the Helsinki Roccamatios, plus all of Ondaatje's works that I haven't read, and the rest of Margaret Atwood's collections. And the, I need to move on to stuff more outside of my comfort zone.

I'm not sure what that will include. But it will be mixed with the poets I feel I need to read.

I feel like today is going to be exceptionally productive. Yesterday was productive as well. Let me break it down!

Yesterday: I went to a reading at UMass Boston. Irish poet Greg Delanty was reading. I had a tough time finding an example of his poems on line, but managed to find this at poets.org:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19626

Anyway, his reading was excellent, and prompted me to buy his book, "The Blind Stitch," which I proceeded to read immediately after the reading in the lobby. Excellent.

Today, I'm going to the last New & Emerging Writers Series Reading of the year, which has a YA focus. You can get the details about this reading here: http://newsreadings.wordpress.com/

After the NEWS reading, I intend to jaunt over to Somerville to attend the Somerville Writers Festival (http://www.heatcityreview.com/somervillenews.htm), which features Robert Pinsky, Tom Perotta, and Steve Almond.

I'm very excited about today. Also, I already drafted a poem today, and I have itchy fingers.

I believe my friend Marybeth is coming with me, which will make it that much more enjoyable. It's nice when you're not an island.

For those who might not be aware, two of my closest friends and I have undertaken the creation of a magazine, which we're very excited about. Coupled with that, I've gone and collated all the information I could garner about current lit events and put them on the magazine's myspace calendar (http://www.myspace.com/blackwillowreview).

Also, if you feel like submitting your work to the magazine, the guidelines are there as well! You should submit.... to: blackwillowreview@gmail.com. Our new email addresses will come with our new (forthcoming!) website!

Sunday Scribblings: Left & Right

My sides fight
over who is
more right
for my pen,
my collapsing
cartwheels, tilted
pitches, nervous
at-bats.


Of course, Right
believes she (he?)
is right. Left lives
in shadowy breath,
exists as the cracked
crutch: I lean left

when Right grows
tired of my neediness.
Left listens, is the
neglected friend,
but holds asdf for me,
balances the cup
to hold the spoon,

is a team player.
Is willing to work
together with Right,

but they still,
still, for years more,
I am sure -- fight.

I am not
ambiguously-sided,
my dexterities
live angrily

but utlimately,
must listen
for their cues,
to live, to do the
things they do.

Like in any good
society, dominance
must live as a
secondary.

Wrong?

Sometimes, perhaps, I just need the page.

I'm that person who read so much and spoke so little -- even up until a year or two ago -- that I know many, many words, but don't know how to pronounce most of them.

By that same token, I tend to respond in -- wrong? different? -- ways.

Take, for instance:

-- the fact that I thought the little paint can in the paint program (remember the nineties, people?) was an upside down graduation cap
--that I was the only one to argue against launching the US into WWII in a classroom debate
--that I was the only one to suggest that perhaps a character who does not openly grieve her husband's death in a story I read for a class (I can't remember when) WAS actually grieving

These are little things, but....in particular, that I may not like the contemporary canon of poetry. Or I don't get it. I'm not sure which.

I say this because last night I heard Mark Doty read at Babson.

I thought his poems were very interesting, and very intense. He approached his topics from several very emotional and often very personal angles.

However, perhaps because I've been steeped to the point of sourness in "what poetry should be" for so many years, I felt empty afterwards. I didn't feel as if I had just done something worthwhile for my writing pursuits. For my literary persona.

He had excellent turns and some intense content. But, again, I found myself asking where the bigger picture was, quite a bit of the time.

I don't think this is a fair assessment to him, however. For several reasons, which I have considered this evening:

- I'd never really read him before
- He was reading to a large bunch of disinterested students, who, might I add, really disappointed me in their behavior -- coming and going, constantly.
-I really need to hear something at least three times or read it once or twice to get the full picture.

So how can he bring me the big picture when I'm only getting fractions of the frame?

He can't. It's impossible.

This is why I need the page.

So I'll be picking up some Doty, and inquiring further. So thanks for making me stop and think, Mark Doty. Sometimes I need to slow down.

Particularly since I'm not offering anyone a bigger picture.....or am I? I don't know. It's hard to be objective about art.

Sometimes I just need the damn page.

Sunday Scribblings: Money

So a fellow poet turned me on to this website, Sunday Scribblings (http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com), where writers can find a prompt on Saturday, and write about on Sunday. So I'm giving it a shot. I like the fruit that prompts bear.


This week's is "money."


*******************************************

You tell me things:

Divining

With your minted numbers,

The signature of someone

I’ve never heard of

Or cared about, but I can

See where you’ve been.

George, my man, trust no

One. We are all spies.

The scrawl on your fellow

Fiver, it tells me that

Someone named Kerry

Is gay, and that Simon

Loves Clara.

Such tender is the currency

Of secrets and lies.

How meta: my cold, hard

Cash converted into a

Crumpled poem

And broken

Stones

In my pocket.

Connecting the Dots.

I'm trying really hard to create a semi-complete literary events calendar for the Greater Boston Area.

There are a lot of events, but not as many as I thought there would be -- I'm being somewhat choosy -- selecting the events that people would be angry that they didn't hear about.

Speaking of literary events, I've been invited to read at another event. On Thursday, November 15, I'll be reading at the Monet Garden Cafe in Beverly, MA.

Exciting!

Today we are expecting a huge storm to come sweeping through -- big winds, heavy rains. Leftover hurricane. Hurricane Noel.

Today we'll be staying in; writing; playing games; making soup; etc.

Be warm!

Operations!

Things feel good right now.

1. Thank you Red Sox for winning the World Series!

I love Jonathan Papelbon. Seriously, pictures of that boy dancing just make my day: they're freaking hilarious. Who dances with a cigar and gatorade? Gross!

The best thing is that I was at home for this win. Last time, I was in the hospital, passed out.

Now I can sleep again (or at least, without guilt). Wish we had bought some furniture. Dammit!

2. Work is going well. I just love my job. I can't get enough of it. The best thing about it is it gives me an opportunity to identify my own challenges. I need, for example, to be able to better assess the work that comes in, my own work, and express that assessment effectively. That's tough for me, because once I get any distance from anything I tend to exaggerate; it becomes much worse (or better) in my head than it actually is. At the same time, I hate to say anything disparaging about anything, especially another writer. Sometimes, it has to be done. It's not about them, after all; it's about their work.

Even though I love what I do, sometimes I get distracted by other goings-on in the world or in the office; I do my best to devote all my attention to what I'm doing to ensure the quality of the piece.

I've been there for a year today; I've been in the role I am currently in for a year.

3. I've met some nice people lately. This is good for me. I'm naturally rather introverted, and susceptible to self-induced loneliness. That isolation is particularly acute when it comes to writing, particularly where Alexis and I just started magazine operations, but we are located at opposite ends of the country (she in CA, I in MA). It felt like it would be: more volume. Immediately. The lack thereof, somehow, makes the isolation persist. It's a slightly bigger island, but now, thankfully, at least I know a few more people on it.

4. Kristin is coming to visit next month! That's very exciting. I love that girl to death. She's one of the best human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Because she lives at the bottom of the coast, obviously, I don't see her all that often anymore. There was a glorious year when she lived directly down the street from me, and then within just about a mile. Halcyon days, friends, halcyon days.

5. People have made some pretty good recommendations to me, music-wise. I found some new artists I actually like, and I don't feel perpetually bored when I am listening to the same old songs over and over.

6. I think I've finally come to a conclusion about grad school. I had talked to a lot of people who pointed out the benefits: time with your writing, "expert" advice, a learning community, new connections and so forth. Those are all valid. However, if I went to grad school, I would have to work as well. I had stipulated earlier that I didn't want to go unless I could go all in and just complete my degree and nothing else.

That's not feasible. At all. Not only is it not feasible, it's not really what I want, because I do love my job and don't want to sacrifice it.

Interestingly, on a whim, I asked my boss, Jim, if he went to grad school and what he thought about the value of the experience. Interestingly, I learned that he enrolled for the same type of program I would enroll in (MFA -- CW), got to the school, and then turned around and went home. There were several reasons for this, which we discussed, but he made a point of saying that unless you can pursue it the way you really, truly want to pursue it, it won't be worth it. I had signed up to go to an information session at a school which would be a major compromise for me.

I don't want to compromise my dreams. My dreams are multi-faceted, and deserve all my attention in the best way I can provide it. The best way I can do that now is to keep the job that I love and pursue my poetry "career" (a contradiction in terms?) in my spare time. At night. With the other poets that are out there trying to do the same.

There are a lot of you, I know.

As it stands now, I work in a capacity that is very fulfilling, and I pursue my other interests when I come home, on the weekends, in all my spare time. I don't think I want to tie that -- honestly very effective -- set of functions to conditions set by a professor who may not be aligned with my thinking. I understand that everything requires skill sets, and that is something education can offer. At the same time, I've been to enough school to know that sometimes, those skill sets may be coupled with poor advice or unintentional bias towards a particular way of operating.

So far, I'm doing ok. I am meeting goals, one step at a time.

Until the day comes that I can pursue it whole-heartedly, I'm going to leave grad school on the backburner. The one without a pilot light.

General Nonsense.

I. Love. The. Red. Sox.

Thank you, boys, for making this so very nice so far. It's been so comfortable that I've been able to sleep at night. I appreciate it.

This weekend and through next Wednesday is going to be crazy here in my hometown: it's Halloween.

Where do I live?

Oh, just in Halloween Town, Massachusetts. Salem. Salem, MA.

The streets are flooded with costumed guests who steal our parking spots in our tiny, crowded red faced city.

Every year for a month, the town is overcrowded.

Every year for a single evening, the town is a sardine can.

It's coming. It's on its way.

****

In other nonsensical ramblings, I am extremely tired lately. Last night I meant to go to the reading at the Monet Garden in Beverly but missed out because I was conked out by 8, more or less. I'm trying to fix it so that I'm not exhausted all the time. Right now, I could go to sleep. With ease.

Work is lovely -- but silent -- because I get to read and write all day. It's still surreal. Amazing, too, is the fact that landing that job made me confident enough to do things I probably wouldn't have done otherwise. Like start a magazine.

The magazine is still underway, like its website. We are still accepting submissions. You should send some.

******

I'm supposed to go to a party tonight. At my brother's. I don't know if I can handle it, but I'm going to try.

I want to get some writing done this weekend, as well as some reading, some recreational piano playing, some general chillaxing.

You dig? Chillaxing.

Yeah.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Yesterday was something.

I read at the New & Emerging Writers Series Poetry Extravaganza in Arlington, MA, with three other very talented poets who stunned my tongue silent with their talent:

Jarita Davis
January O'Neil
Betsy Retallack

I had a great time, and would like to continue thanking January O'Neil and Erin Dionne for organizing such a lovely series -- and for including me!


After coming home from the Poetry Extravaganza, I settled down to watch the Boston Red Sox destroy the tribe to take the ALCS CHAMPIONSHIP! and onto the world series we go!

Jonathan Papelbon, my friends, the man knows how to party.



Go Sox!

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Yesterday.

Yesterday I felt terrible. I went to work, with the intent of toughing it out. Worse, my blood sugar would not go down. So I think I must have caught something.

Because my pump doesn't seem to be delivering enough insulin, I change it. Still nothing. The site is perfectly fine.... is it the insulin?

I try a shot. It does nothing.

Insulin it is. Why? I don't know. So I opened a new bottle, took a shot, which worked, and reattached my pump. That is the stupidest thing, bad insulin. There's no way to protect against it. It was a new-ish bottle, so I'm not sure what the problem was. But regardless, it didn't work. I started to feel better around 330.

Today.

Again, I woke up with very high blood sugar -- I'm not sure why. Once I bolused enough it came down -- and I felt better. So I adjusted the nighttime basals. Hopefully that will help.

I hope to start my running program tomorrow, pending that i wake up not feeling like total crap. While my blood sugar is down, my stomach is bugging me; I don't want to risk aggravating any problems by going out. So I'm staying in today/tonight. I feel bad, because I was supposed to go to a show tonight. What can you do.

I am very excited about tomorrow. I hope it goes well.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I'll practice reading a little; hopefully work on writing new material; hang out with donnie; and then, it's reading time. I'll be reading with January O'Neil and Jarita Davis.

I am very excited.

sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY

I'm pretty excited for it.

Sunday, 4pm at the Regent Theatre Screening Room on Medford Street, Arlington, MA (off Mass Ave)

Four other poets (I think) and I will be reading our -- you got it -- poetry for an audience. For nothing but their gratitude or their attitude. I'll take either one or both. Be there or be some sort of boxy shape that nobody likes but everyone appreciates for its capacity in moving situations.

You get the point.

Chicken Soup for the Mild Cold

I've not felt so well the last few days. However, this morning, I am feeling considerably better.

Incidentally, on Friday, I nearly called into work because I felt so poorly. However, had I done that, no one would have been there -- everyone else (all two of them) in my department was out as well.

This morning I still didn't feel well, and was awake around 7 am when I could have been sleeping. So I sat up and tried writing a few poems -- including one made of quatrains. When I was twenty, I was OBSESSED with quatrains. They were all I wanted, ever. Now I'm more of an allovertheplace type, but today I revisited that form and wanted to cry a little. It was awful.

But I did it nonetheless. Then I wrote three other drafts which, in my current opinion, are poor. But this is what happens when you write when you feel stale and sick. Sometimes, when you force it, it works out. Not so this morning.

I'm dying to write a story, too, but I'm having some trouble laying one out. I don't know where these people go, what they do. That said, getting out and hearing more is helping to rebuild my confidence, even though I'm listening to others. Not because the work is bad - in fact, it's excellent -- but because others are doing it, too. Does that make sense? I think it does, but my wording is rather poor.

Today is cooking/baking/cleaning day. It was supposed to be yesterday, but I felt too sick to do much of anything.

See you on the other side of my homemade soup.

KYEO

Tonight is very sedate. I am preparing for Friday, for the weekend. I have things that need to do be done. Namely:

I need to make soup to last about a week. It needs to be good chicken soup. I need to make it.
I need to make cookies. Goddammit, I need cookies.
I need to get or make gluten free meatballs. Or, I need to go to that place in New Hampshire with the GF everything ever.

I need to relax. Seriously relax.
I need to assess the submissions and figure out how to get more.
I need to assess where we are with getting the website up.
I need to talk to my friends sometime this weekend, too, probably.

I need some serious me time. Shouldn't be a problem, because I have a thousand things to do. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, and assessing, and so forth.

Anyhow. Enough about what I need. How about what I've done?

Last night, I sat at my desk until long after my shift -- my workday, I don't really have a "shift" per say -- had ended. I sat there. I went up the street and got some mango curry. I came back. I ate it. I read the news. And so forth. Then I went outside, moved my car, and cleaned it out. Shortly thereafter, the Emilys arrived.

I work with two nice girls named Emily. Together, we piled into my newly-cleaned of all straw-wrappers car and drove to Boston, where we -- I -- promptly lost track of Comm Ave once into Allston because I haven't been there in a long time. The street we were looking for was poorly marked, too -- when I say 'poorly marked', I guess I mean 'was not marked.'

We found our way to the building, where we sat in the aisle and listened to the speaker, Mark Strand, well... speak.

He read a handful of poems. He read for maybe an hour. Took no questions. Told (as far as I know) no lies. Stated no statements thereafter. Made many jokes.

His poems were pretty good. It's weird, though, how things get lost in translation betwixt reading and hearing.

I want to impart all the laughter that was had in the car, but it can't be done. I am tired and sort of despondent just now. I was just talking to my dear friend and with a beep she was gone to another call. It happens. But the cats are anxious and though there is no catastrophe at hand, I am afraid it could be just around the corner.

I'm keeping an eye out.

Predictions & Facts

So, I was right. Today sucked a little. This morning I felt like I couldn't read. As if I was going blind. I tried to write a new article, but only completed the research. However, I did complete a huge chunk of another project, so that's something.

I've been hot and tired and sick-feeling all damn day. My blood sugar is finally down -- I had to change my pump. I don't know what its problem was. It all seemed so kosher. Something was amiss, certainly.

I went to the Salem Writer's Group event at Cornerstone. I didn't read, but I was happy that Marybeth did. She read the poem I love, about the museum -- its permanence in history, and the world moving forward -- literally coming undone -- in front of her outside. I love that poem.

I heard a lot of other really great stuff tonight. Totally impressed, really, by everything I heard. I loved every second of it, even if I felt like I was dying inside from oppressive body heat. Ugh. Coupled with hot chocolate. Not a good idea.

I announced the launch of the review, as well, and handed out flyers that called for submissions. A few people took stacks to distribute to others, which made me so happy. I hope we get more responses.

The bad news is that one of our craigslist ads was flagged and taken down. So sad. Oh well. There are other ways to advertise. As was proven this evening. :)

I think it's ice cream time.

Ugh.

I've been awake with heartburn & high blood sugar since 330.

I can't get back to sleep.

I'm wide awake.

I have to start to get ready for work in thirty minutes.

Today is going to suck a little, I think.

Media Mayhem

Currently watching:

Yankees v. Indians. Ultimately, I want the Indians to win, but I'd like it if the Yankees wore them out over five games first. I can dream.

Current playlist:

Iron & Wine -- Our Endless Numbered Days
St. Vincent -- Marry Me
Regina Spektor -- Begin to Hope + Extras; Live at Lollapalooza
John Vanderslice -- the Minaret
Laura Veirs -- Saltbreakers
PJ Harvey -- White Chalk
Joanna Newsom -- Milk-eyed Mender; Cosmia
Tiny Vipers -- Hands Across the Void

I'm feeling pretty mellow this week.

Tons of events to go to in the next two weeks; people to see; submissions to read.

Want to learn to get up earlier to go running, but I think it's a broken dream. Maybe I should just run in the afternoon.

Submissions Wanted!

Submissions are pouring in!

That reminds me... want to submit?

**************************

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS FOR OUR DEBUT ISSUE!

The Black Willow Review was born out of a desire to bring together high-quality, broken-out-of-the-mold and burned-the-box work that is accessible, fire-starting, and documents the ever-shifting world of literary and visual arts.

Now accepting:

::Poetry::
your inventions in verse
1-6 poems
please, no more than 10 pages

::Fiction::
short stories
chapters
flash fiction (500 words or less)
please, no more than 3000 words

::Creative Nonfiction::
you tell us! Not sure? Query us! We're friendly.
We're open to personal essays, interviews, and beyond!

Please send your best submissions either in the body of the email or as a .doc attachment to
BlackWillowReview@gmail.com

Please, no political or religious diatribes or teenage heartbreak poetry.

You MUST include a brief introductory letter in the body of your email, as well, with your complete name, the name of the work, the genre, and the number of pages.

Afraid of rejection? Send it anyway! We love to read.

Please no simultaneous submissions or previously published work!

We cannot pay at this time, but your work will appear in our quality online magazine if accepted.
Thank you, and we look forward to reading your work!

WEBSITE FORTHCOMING!!!!

Black Willow Review

It was born tonight.

It had been conceived for a while. Like indecisive parents, we couldn't choose a name. We thought of names with meanings related to the being. They just weren't right. Then, desperate, Alexis said something about her past. The name of her street at her former home in RI. I thought of the name of the street I lived on the longest. Hence, the name was born.

The myspace is up, but it is sparse yet: www.myspace.com/blackwillowreview.

I'm interested to see what the response we get is, overall.

I'm excited to pore over the submissions.

I'm excited to create something beyond myself. Again.

Thank goodness. It's been a while.

Timing

It's almost a coincidence. Today's timing is....unreal. I remember it happening, and I remember being completely numb. That was a result of the crazy medication I was on. It made me feel nothing. I didn't even go home. That is what pills can do. A few years later, though, I felt it -- such a terrible feeling is delayed mourning for loss coupled with regret.

Today, someone found me and reminded me of it again. Incidentally, today is the 9 year anniversary of when it happened. I don't think about it often, because so much has happened since then -- so much. It does come up sometimes, though, when I tell people where I'm from. Lots of people heard about it, and it, coupled with another local accident, changed the way train tracks were treated throughout the state. That was a terrible year for my brother. A terrible year. The year the tracks changed. We all used to walk all over them. To get home faster. When we were bored. It didn't matter. We knew the danger. At the time, the trains had just become super fast -- like bullets. They used to be slower. My brother and I weren't crossing them anymore, because we had moved -- I to college, and he to our grandparents'... or Attleboro. I can't remember.

Today in 1998, a friend -- of mine and my brother's and many of our other friends -- intentionally stood on the train tracks in our neighborhood. We all knew when the trains came. We heard them all day and all night. We knew when to avoid the tracks. We knew that if we weren't sure to put a penny down. To watch for the shake. To feel the steel with our hands for the telltale vibration of a train a few miles away. We were masters of avoidance -- at school, at home, in the street, on the tracks strewn with those charcoal-like rocks.

He stood on the tracks, and waited for the train. I always see him there, in my mind. In the drizzle (such were the weather conditions when I heard, the next day). Wearing that dull army-green jacket and the gray hoodie beneath it. Strangely sensitive about the cold, despite the situation -- pulling his hood over his head. Living in muted tones. Waiting for the train.

The train came.

Timing is a strange and cruel beast.

I <3 Josh Beckett and the Red Sox!

Beckett & the Sox just SHUT OUT the Angels.

4-0.


BEAUTIFUL!

Take Two

Of

Hello My Name is

Hello, My Name Is
Of No Importance
I Apologize in Advance
For Any Inconvenience

This is simply circumstance
this is merely happenstance

My name
is no more
than
one sound
My name
is less
than
a single beat.

When the tides break
down on the earth
stop and think
of the worth
you painstakingly assign
to every damn thing you
find.

my name is no more
than a cent. Less than
a meter.

You can only hear it.

But my name
is of no importance.
Again, I am terribly
sorry
for the inconvenience.

When the hurricanes
attack your coast,
don't name them
for me. Choose
instead the names
of politicians and pundits
celebrities and athletes

the ones who
choose to have
their names abused
because their
existence
is


so named.



(thank you webspace for being pen and paper when the tangibles are absent)

Let's Go!

Hellooooo October. How are you? I missed you, and your crazy leaf-pigment-changing-ways. Your wind and your chill. Your frost on my car window at the end of the month. The people you bring in droves to my small town where nothing actually happened, but they market it like it did (it actually went down in Danvers, friends). Red Sox Mania, playoffs and beer.

Anyway. Here's a listing of events. I am simply trying to publicize some of the best events I'm aware of, with a dash of nepotism.

October 2: At The Point in Boston: Matt Wilding (that's my brother) and his comedy cohorts make people laugh. 730 pm, I expect it's about five smackers.

October 9: I don't know if this is even happening, because it's not on the Cornerstone event calendar, but I had intended to hear the people read at the Salem Witer's Group at that store at 7 pm or so. Free.

October 12: Orhan Pamuk at the Harvard Book Store/Memorial Church, Cambridge. 5 smackers. 7 pm.

October 13: Richard Wilbur at the Newburyport Library. 3pm. FREE.

October 16: Unveiling of the Best American Short Stories with Stephen King, Memorial Church, Cambridge, 15 smackers.

October 17: PowWow River Poets in Newburyport at the Newburyport Arts Association. Free. 7pm.

October 21: The New and Emerging Writers Series (see http://newsreadings.wordpress.com/) in Arlington, in the basement of the Regeant Theatre. Free. 4 pm --- it's a Poetry Extravaganza!

Rest, readings and relaxation.

Yesterday, after the JDRF walk, I found myself at home wanted to just relax and enjoy the little free time I had. Alexis and I attempted to have a video conference, but it wasn't happening. It turns out, too, that the major point of contention is the name -- we don't have one. This baby needs a name! And we don't have one for it.

After she left the conversation, I started watching movies. I saw, for the first time, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I had never seen this film before and I loved it. Just loved it.

However, it gave me some minor nightmares; I kept dreaming that donnie was disappearing.

*****

Today was a good day. We slept in, though through most of the sleeping-in part, I was being taunted by Ivan, who hates to let me sleep because he wants love and food. He insists on putting his little kitty claws directly into my face, too. Not that great.

So we got up, fed the cats, and went to breakfast; we ate fast. We came home. We relaxed. I was thankful, because I really felt like I needed some rest this weekend, and between yesterday and today's plans, I wasn't sure I would get any. But I did, and I feel better for it.

I ran some errands, and then came back. MB came by, and we got into my car and drove to Arlington to the NEWS reading at the Regent Theatre. If you need more information about the NEWS, visit http://newsreadings.wordpress.com/.

We arrived and heard three talented writers read their works; it was fantastic. It is really wonderful to be able to engage with people who, like you, write, which is an isolationist sport, in truth. It's nice to see the other players in your area from time to time.

The event was sponsored by these two nice women, Jan and Erin, who got an excellent space and I'm sure have met some excellent writers. So kudos to them for creating community for the otherwise solitary.

I'll be attending more readings. You should go too.

Today....JDRF, Alaine, and the RED SOX ARE DIVISION CHAMPIONS!

Today's the day of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund Walk in Boston. I signed up for it; raised 250 or so. Not much, I know, but it's better than the 100 they ask for. I did alright.

My friend Alaine, from college, will be walking with me just for fun.

I woke up feeling terrible today. Not so much terrible as "really high blood sugar." For no reason too. When I went to bed, it was perfectly normal. Wake up -- sky high. Everything hurts.

Lately I've been waking up tired. I'm grateful that isn't the case this morning. Instead, I just feel like crap.

Hopefully some insulin, water, medicine and maybe, eventually, some breakfast will pep me up.....

I expect that Alaine and I will probably have lunch, chill out a while. Then I need to call my friend Matt and arrange to have dinner.

Then, later tonight or tomorrow morning? Alexis and I need to have a video conference over the new magazine. I can think immediately of some people who's work I want to solicit. But we're not at that stage, just yet. I have the CMS 15 by my side -- I'm reading it for work, anyway, but it has a lot of useful information about publishing standards that will be helpful to us. I love that kind of stuff. I love knowing it.

Right now there seems to be a lot going on in the world that is really disappointing: Myanmar & the monks, for one; the Jena 6; and recently I found myself ina furor over the time wasted by the US Congress in passing a bill to support Genreal Petraeus. I don't know what your stance is on the moveon act; it doesn't matter. The point is, Congress could have used that valuable time to do meaningful work, and allowed the members of the body to individually express their support for the general/condemn moveon. A bill was not necesaary.

In better, exhilitaring news:



THE RED SOX WON THE DIVISION LAST NIGHT!

The Yankees bit it against the Orioles -- the Orioles, people - no offense Baltimore, but they've pretty much shown that they aren't capable -- Millar excluded of course! And the Sox beat the Minnesota Twins. Also, did I mention that the Yankees suck? Yeah. They do.

When is liftoff?

I'm not overwhelmed. Yet.

It's amazing how busy you become when you decide....to be busy. I've gone to readings at least once a week for the last three weeks; tomorrow, I'm going to a concert (how will I make it through Thursday? I don't know. I will work all day, I think, and then come home and sleep), a charity walk on Saturday, and attending another reading/lit event on Sunday. After that, there may even be another show I want to go to.

All this, and I'm working on putting together a new literary magazine. Most details are worked out. The name is still at large.

However, more than you think -- or maybe not -- goes into a venture like this, particularly when between only 2-3 people. More than that, we are divided between three states: Massachusetts, California, and Florida. Has there ever been such distance?

However, I'm confident it will work, and more than that, it will succeed. Because I said so. I'm the mom. We're all the mom.

Things are coming together, but all at once, which I can't say I'm used to. It feels wrong to push for different kinds of success all together in a ...life? Month? Year? I dunno what the time frame is or should be.

The best thing is, though, that I'm not afraid of failing or hearing "no" or making mistakes. Those are things I can do, I have done, and I will do again. And so will you and you and you. And all of you. That's what we do.

I can't wait to launch this baby. I can't wait for the flames and the structural support to come cascading down at liftoff.

Hello, My name is

Hello, My Name Is

unfinished-unfolded
but beholden
to homecomers
who wait all day
for rest
but find a piling
arching mess.
I am named
nemesis, not
dressed. (The floor
is wearing
everything).
I hold the coffee stain

You can hold the coffee

and feel the stupid shame

of wearing clothes that are dirty.



(written just now, prompted by a blog by J. O'Neil, never to feel the grain of paper)

I Can Has Personal Growth?

Apparently, I can has it.

I has it.

This evening, I spoke with my dearest and one of my oldest friends. We don't talk as much as we should, because we have ridiculous schedules and distances that keep us apart. It feels like we live on different planets -- more, though, as if she moved to a distant planet where everything is green and bites and insects are gargantuan. From time and time, she comes climbs into the mothership and comes on home.

Anyway, this evening, we were talking on the phone, just before I got a frantic request to edit someone's work for a deadline. Prior to the frantic call, however, we were talking about the poetry reading I attended earlier this week. I told her that I got up there and read, fairly confidently. Not "I'm an amazing poet," but "I'm nervous but I'm going to read anyway."

After I told her about the reading, she commented, "Wow. I am so impressed. Your personal growth over the years is amazing."

She and I attended high school, and some college, together. In college, we were more or less connected at the hip, and ate most meals together. At our school, at some meals, there was a weird karaoke thing, which I don't actually remember. There was also this guy who sang songs and "happy birthday" to students when appropriate. I'm getting away from the point.

She and I got up there and sang a song that was fairly popular at the time. At the chorus, which was fairly difficult to sing anyway, I apparently edged myself behind her, and just cowered there, too afraid to go on. I couldn't go on. I was too nervous, apparently. When she finished the story, I explained that I've just always been afraid of rejection. It's what has kept me from sending work out, from applying for jobs I really wanted, and, sadly, it has even kept me from stating my opinion in inane, harmless conversations with people I know, and even with people I don't. I didn't want to be rejected. It just hurt too much.

When I temporarily left college (for three years!), I got a job at a bookstore in Cambridge. Because I speak relatively clearly, and I have a "polite" voice, I was tapped to do all the store's announcements. Whenever there was a major sale, for instance, I had to announce over the loudspeaker the details of the deal. If there was event -- the same. It was a crash course in public speaking, and I was constantly given positive feedback for my lovely announcements -- from the manager, from customers, from co-workers.

The other thing that happens when you work in retail - it has to happen so you can survive christmas -- is that you learn to walk around like you own the place. Even when I go to stores where the employees clearly have a uniform, I am regularly approached because people assume I work there.

Anyway, my friend makes an excellent point. When we were eighteen or nineteen, even though I was writing poetry like crazy, I would have never gotten up to read it to an audience. Never, ever. In fact, even after my retail experience, I was still very timid; I didn't pursue the creative writing program at my college because I was too afraid of rejection -- by the faculty, the program director, the students. It didn't matter.

However, I got more jobs where I excelled. I was told I excelled. But I was often left without any other feedback, or direction, and if I screwed up, all hell broke loose.

Then I got the job I have now. Just getting that job made me feel as though I accomplished something great. It's a young writer's dream job, more or less. I write and edit articles all day. I work on interesting projects. I get to standardize the processes and set the editorial and style standards. I get to learn. I get clear goals. I am challenged. I am rewarded when I meet the goals, and I am told when improvements are required. My boss told me at my review that writing was my strength. That made me feel a lot better.

Additionally, I made new friends at work, and further developed a relationship with a former co-worker. They gave positive feedback on my creative writing efforts. I get positive, but honest feedback from my pre-existing friends, including the one I didn't quite sing with. They tell me what works and what doesn't. The fact that they give me honest feedback, and that good always comes with the bad, validates me as a writer.

This is what led me to read. The support of my old friends, the support of new friends and working in an environment where I am challenged and rewarded by my work. Ultimately, however, my two closest friends -- including the one with whom I spoke this evening -- helped me get to this point.

I got up, and I read. It went well. I feel validated, and I never could have done it if I didn't have my dear, dear friend egging me on to get up and sing to the world. I couldn't have done it without my other friend telling me she wanted to create a visual representation of my words. I couldn't have done anything without them. I couldn't have done anything without my fiance, who gives me unconditional support, love, and encouragement.

I certainly wouldn't be feeling validated. I cannot credit personal growth to experiences alone; I have to credit the people who grew with me: thanks guys.

Goodness, this is good!

Things are going stupidly well for me. I wish they were going as well for some of my friends.

(1) I've never had a job that I was happy to go to, where I was happy doing the work. In previous jobs, I was often in a good mood while doing the work, but it was incidental. Or I was happy to see the other people at work. Now, though, now I'm completely happy at work. I like the people I work with, I like working with them, and I like the work. It's fantastic.

My friend, Kristin, has a different problem: she works with some very crotchety people who constantly question her, even though she is superb at what she does. Worse, she has deal with ethical issues, where she is clearly in the right, and they, clearly in the wrong.

Another friend just left the job she had because it wasn't for her. However, she's going to pursue other options closer to her interests. I'm proud of her, but I know it was a serious struggle.

Yet another friend is making her own movie. That comes with its own problems.

(2) The Writing Thing. It's moving along, and better than I had hoped. I'm not winning any awards, but part of that is due to the fact that I'm not entering any contests, and I have purposely started small in my submitting. I'm looking forward to more readings and meeting new people, however. As my friend MB said today, "it makes you feel like less of an island."

(3) Grad School. Should I or shouldn't I? I don't know. I want to pursue an MFA in -- you guessed it -- creative writing, but I don't know if it will be worth it for me, since I have this amazing job, I'm building on my skills, and things are going so well. I don't know. I'm really torn. The end of my undergrad career took a serious toll on me; I'm concerned that grad school would too. I still have to work. No matter what. Unless I strike it rich or something. If you have an opinion on this matter, go ahead and voice it. I'd be interested to hear it.

Life in general is just very, very good. It's never been this good, in fact. I'm a little scared of it all crumbling. In the meantime, the walls look solid. I hope they hold.

NOISE! Beautiful NOISE!

I love me a positive response, which is just what I got when I came home and opened my email. Now, mind you, it isn't any sort of guarantee, but it's something lovely that I can re-read.

So I'm excited, but I am trying to stay as calm and as removed as possible. This could be a great week. I'm reading tomorrow night and potentially on wednesday, as well, in my local-general-area. I'm nervous about it. I feel though that I'm starting to put together the life I always wanted, instead of just swallowing fragments of my pride, which, by the way, I smashed apart at an early age. Historically, I've been so embarassed by my persona that I just kept quiet. Now I'm a little louder. I'm almost quiet. Not quite.

I am full of not-yet, the constant process of creating something new. Something I can live in. Gimme shelter, and so forth. I've had shelter for years, it's just been full of holes. But now I've constructed something I'm proud to stand under and call my own. And it's just getting bigger.

Watch the colors come forth when I open my mouth. It will be all fire and light. This is what I dream. Not-yet-what-I-do, but a girl can dream-and act on dreams- until the thing has materialized out of the pieces you found, broke apart, smashed. This is what glue is for. The creation of noise. Meaningful, beautiful, remarkable, insightful, stupid noise.

Spills, Thrills and the Creation of Routine

This week was crazy. But that's beside the point.

I've got fizz in my mouth and caffeine in my brain. More than that, I got work -- writing -- on the brain. The problem is, I seem to only be able to produce large piles of crap for every one solid piece I write. That's not really the problem, actually. That's fairly typical. Not everything -- or even anything -- is going to be gold.

I guess the fact that this week was crazy is the point. It was so busy that I haven't really had any time to write. Right now I'm trying to unwind. It's not working.

I feel like I'm in a perpetual state of nothing-to-say. That's a poor state for a writer to be in, because having something to say is a fundamental quality that writers usually possess. I'm sure it's a temporary situation. I'm simply frustrated -- because I'm tired from all the goings-on -- and want to get rolling but can't focus.

So chilling is the way to go for this weekend, I'm afraid. Chilling, and producing lots of crappy work that will go into the little file on my desk that says "Trash Work." I save it. Just in case it's not as bad as I think.

So even though this week wasn't productive for reading or writing, I did find a host of new resources and did get somethings done:

- I submitted two poems to a magazine
- I submitted another two poems -- my very, very, very best poems, I think -- to a competition. - I found new online zines I really like. I'll link them up later.
- I found a local open mic poetry night. It's next Tuesday.
- I found a host of literary events, including a reading by Junot Diaz next week -- on Wednesday.
- I found a concert I want to go to.
- I found three sites full of tips for writers who are just starting in publishing. Wheeee!

Making that list, I do feel that work is getting done. I have music to pound out as well, and a schedule to create -- and keep.

Let's see if I can do it. Creating order is so damn messy.

Time's a-wastin!

Today I have things to do.

Namely:

I must get some groceries. Not a lot. Just a little.

I must write at LEAST three new drafts for poems. I'd also like to get jumping on some short stories, or, at least one.

I need to make some food for the week.

I need to schedule in time to exercise. I really, really need to do that.

This past week has been interesting. I've been reading all about Alexis' life in Moscow during the coup, which was fascinating even without the photographs.

I also had a formal review at work, which went exceedingly well. My boss told me that I have really powerful writing skills, which was just a wonderful thing to hear; it was extremely validating.

My company also had a beach party for its employees; so at noon on Friday we shut down and drove to the beach in town (I work on the N. Shore of MA; lots of beautiful beaches nearby). It was part of a large estate known as the Crane Estate (visit http://www.thetrustees.org/pages/4130_crane_estate.cfm for info on this stupidly beautiful place), which is a giant castle surrounded by beautiful grounds and even more beautiful beaches -- they are really unspoiled, which is why unless you are part of an event or a member, you have to pay a fee to enter.

There was food and alcohol; many of us, including myself, shed our inhibitions and went swimming. It was nice to know (of course) that I was not the only woman completely insecure about being out in public among the people who I report to professional in coverage about equivalent to my underwear. Mhm.

It was fun. My friends and I carpooled over. We had a lovely time.

Yesterday, I went out and bought a dress for my friend's wedding. It is a black with white polka dots empire-waisted get-up, with a ribbon at the waist and a black netting detail at the bottom of the skirt, which is otherwise a-line. It is tea length, with straps. I love it. You'll love it too.

I may try scanning some old family photos today. We'll see how that works out.

So much to do! So little time!

Top Down!

I have a revised poem which is garnering critical acclaim from my readers.

This is extremely encouraging.

One more round, then where to send it? I have my best on it.

We'll see.

I'm excited. I'm going to take my fiction writing professor's advice about submission: from the top down.

thank you alden jones. that's some mighty fine advice.

That Girl is Poison

Or, rather, I was poisoned. By my food.

Oh noes!

On Sunday evening, I made a delightful chicken sandwich. Lettuce, fresh tomato, mayonaisse, and fresh deli sliced rotisserie chicken. Mmmm.

In the middle of the night I found myself in terrible pain, crying, and other unpleasant side effects, none the least of which was the pain in my abdomen. Eventually, I got redressed, and went to the hospital where I shivered and shook and waited an inordinate amount of time for help and had to deal with an extremely belligerant nurse. By the time I saw a doctor (three hours later) the situation - food poisoning -- had resolved itself.

A fantastic waste of time.

I came home, slept -- I am still awfully tired.

Now, where did I get the food? Well, I bought it at Shaw's in Salem, which I will not be returning to. I'll go to another store, going forward. Not only did I get bad deli meat there, but I"ve had cause to complain before:

* The regular meat -- packaged chicken, beef, pork, etc, is regulary rotten. Cleary, disgustingly rotten.

* The potato salad incident -- I ordered a pound of potato salad. The deli guy took a container and swiped it through the potato salad without the use of a utensil. That means that any bacteria or anything that touched the container, the lid, and the guy's hands went into the potato salad. That's not ok. I complained.

* Rotten fruit and vegetables, insects in them, etc, on a regular basis.

And now their less than stellar practices have made me actually sick. I don't know what happened -- if the meat wasn't refrigerated fast enough upon arrival, etc, but I am not going back there. I'm done.

It's late. I'm in a jumble.

I am getting increasingly excited.

I really, really think I may be able to make things happen. The fact is, I've tried to make things happen, and when I put sincere effort into things I want to achieve, typically, I'm able to achieve them (barring genuinely significant hurdles -- like stays in the hospital, family emergencies, etc.).

Let's use the example of my current job. Some people I know will say that there is no reason I should not have been hired, but, let me tell you the story.

I applied for a job in an area I did not have much experience -- but I prepared for the interviews (three of them!) and discussed my previous experience and how it applied to the job for which I was applying. I was confident, listened, asked questions, and showed that I was motivated. These are all really important things in the interview/application process.

I was a nervous wreck for weeks and weeks. There were many other applicants, because it's the sort of job a lot of people want, in the publishing industry. However, whenever I ran into any of the people with whom I interviewed, I acted confident and sure and interested --- which are all attributes that were present in me, but difficult to demonstrate when you're nervous and worried about a situation that is important to you.

Needless to say, I got the job. When the job was offered to me, I was .....surprised. Proud. Excited.

Grateful.

Anyway.

My point is, regardless of how discombobulated my thought-to-written word process is right now, is that when I force actions to reach a particular goal, I typically reach it. Exceptions include making honors on my honors thesis, but -- and I hate making excuses -- I had a severe seizure (which seemed to temporarily limit my mental capacity; I was often confused), infections in both my hands, and a family member died in my final semester. Plus, I was still working a number of hours in addition to hours of research and writing and revision. I just couldn't pull it together.

However, the situation has since changed.

I have a full time job which I love. I have a stable commute, and I do not strain myself on a regular basis, which makes it significantly easier to pursue my goals.

One such goal is to publish a chapbook. I'm going to do it.

I'm building a collection of poems now. I have written some recently that I'm very proud of. I need to write more.

I also want to send in single poems to magazines; I expect rejection, but I don't care. I'll keep trying. Rejection is part of the process, and so far, I've had very positive responses to my previous efforts. Promising.

I'll enter a content or two as well, though I don't have as high hopes about that option.

I also keep looking -- on and off -- into grad school. I'm really torn about this matter; I already have a job in my chosen profession; also, because of my not necessary exemplary academic record (because of full time schooling combined with full time working plus poor self-care) I don't think I could get into a school with a program I value. If anyone has thoughts on this matter, throw them this way. I'm also limited geographically. Considerations, considerations.

Tomorrow: writing. Closet cleaning. Organizing. Grocery shopping. Cooking.

Lots to do. Lots to do.

Satisfaction and Guilt

Right now I feel extremely satisfied. I just busted out a draft of a poem that I have had rattling in my brain for days and making my stomach absorb the guilt for the feelings it inspires. But now it's written, and I feel like I've had a good meal. I don't think I could ever try to publish it. No matter how proud of it I am, I still feel a terrible sense of betrayal having written it.

Any minute now MB will arrive, and we'll begin piecing together music. I hope it works. I hope we find it liberating, even if it sounds horrible and cheese-filled. At least it might be delicious.

I also feel immensely satisfied with work, and I'm currently pursuing some freelance consulting. We'll see how that goes.

I feel full of words again! I love that feeling. For the last few weeks I've been overwhelming by this void, and a complete lack of words even in regular conversation. Meaning, I couldn't find the words, even when I had something real to say. It's a complete relief that the sourcing of my vocabulary is no longer a problem.

Now for the moments of waiting, and then banging on the piano will commence.

Hallamajalluyah.

Awoman, ladies!

"Were we supposed to start a band today?"

Yes.

My friend MB asked me that yesterday. But really, we are flexible human beings and can handle putting it off until thursday.

I've been toying with simple tunes on the piano, and stretching the vocal chords in the car, which, frankly, is the best place to do it -- it's encased, climate-controlled, and heavily upholstered. Vocally-Absorbent.

I don't know where this going to go. It might just be us, messing about with instruments and yelling alot. That's ok. I'm ok with that.

I'd like to get at least one song done, and fairly soon, so we have a sense for how we want to proceed. Like a rough draft.

I'm fairly excited, because this is a new start.

In the meantime, I wish I could do a better job supporting my poor dear Kristin. She's in a....poop patch. Literally. The septic system at her place of residence imploded, and there is sewage everywhere.

But she is waaaaaay down there in the south, and I am waaaaay up here in the north. Sigh.

Such is the story.

Rain.

When I left the house this morning, it was gray with blue and white on the edges. At the end of the ocean was blue sky, but the storm hovered overhead. Waiting to unload.

It unloaded when I left work. It was raining, and I was thankful, as the world seemed to be completely coated in dust for the last few days. When we had the mini-massachusetts-monsoon in may, everything on earth here sprung green. Now things are turning brown and orange from the heat. I want that smell again: wet soil and growth.

It's such a nice smell, and I want it. When you live or work near the ocean, you get the smell of the sea mixed in and it's gorgeous and fresh and you wish you had breathed nothing else in your life, even though you know you filled your lungs with car exhaust and smog.

Anyway, it began to rain. Just regular, summer rain. Some lightning. Some thunder. Still far away.

I began to drive home.

Soon, I couldn't see in front of me. Cars had their hazards on, and were pulled over precariously on the curvy road I take to and from work.

The wind threw the rain at me. Lightning struck very close by -- when it flashed, it was so bright that for a moment there was nothing but light and a snapcrack so loud I thought my windows would shatter. They didn't. Thank goodness. The roads flooded a little. Cars began to hydroplane as a result of wet, wet roads and minimal visibility.

I reached my destination safely. The worst was that I could see the clear sky to the east. Just over the ocean. On land, it was all terrible t-storm.

I met up with my friend Marybeth, who is currently hating the job she has. I can't blame her. It's somewhat tedious, certainly. She's trying to decide what to do. I can't say for certain what I would do in her shoes. I would probably struggle on until I really, really couldn't take it anymore. Until I didn't want to get up in the morning. Which is far too long. I don't think she'll take it that far. She's a bit more realistic than I am. More aware of her psychological needs, maybe.

I wrote a bunch of crappy poems, and put down some of the words that were rattling around in my scattered brain for other poems which I couldn't quite put together just then.

Speaking of scattered, let me briefly touch upon social networking sites. I hate them a little bit. I love pieces of them, and the ability to see/talk to friends, etc, with ease, but I hate the politics of it, and the fact that I am represented by these pieces of what I like. It's so incomplete and really helps perpetuate a fractured self. It makes me wonder who I am, what I represent, how people perceive me. I am not really comfortable with categorization, which history shows us over and over, in certain instances, leads to certain forms of marginalization. Even if it's social marginalization, in the most absurd sense, I'm not interested. And yet -- I feel so roped in. Like I can't get out. These sites make me feel so piece-meal. All over the place. A poorly written definition.

This is a scattered blog post. If I were you, I'd scatter myself.

Propulsion of Time.

This is advancing.

By this, I suppose I mean everything. Time is progressing, primarily, faster than I can.

I have eighteen poems in the works. They are not total pieces of crap, as some efforts tend to be. However, I really need about 150 pages of poems to get going.

I have a dream job: editor at a small publisher which is part of a larger publisher. My work is appreciated.

From time to time, I consider several things: graduate school. moving. a shift to fiction.

All those things interest me, but I really feel that I need to focus. Writing daily -- even if it's just herein -- will certainly help me solidify my collecion of publishable work. And, certainly, the support of particular friends -- Kristin, Alexis, her mom, and Marybeth -- will help propel me. It does propel me.

However, I feel as though certain things -- like a complete body of work -- should have been completed by now. I was somewhat waylaid -- by disease, financial burden, exhaustion and my education -- but these are not excuses. They are facts. I am moving now. I just wish time hadn't passed so quickly.

The best I can do right now is to chase time. It's uncatchable, but the pursuit is forceful and worth the effort.