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!