The Business of Words

Out To Lunch

2011-07-13T13:59:00.002-04:00

It was a mistake to go home for lunch
But, isn’t it always?
There is so much expectation built into
that hour. On the drive
the radio will not play the
song you hoped and the chairs at the
yard sale you saw will have been sold
since the morning commute.
Then there is home
with all of its expectations too—
how, how incredibly heavy, the density
of that word!
The dog will run to greet you, that is customary,
not an expectation because you no longer
think about it-- so second nature
that it’s almost surprising.
But even the pup is not enough to make
lunch a good idea. There is more at home
than a pup. There are words left unsaid from
the night before, or from weeks. There are
things too big for lunch break waiting there.
If you had stayed at
your desk and trolled the internet, or
sat and listened to public radio in your
car you would be much more content now.
This kind of introspection
will not follow you back from the sub-shop
or the Break room. Only from home. Another
hour that did not go as planned. Silently, or
with all the wrong words, eating a raw tortilla
while you pull socks off the hardwood floor
sorting them into the piles of laundry you will
scoop up later. When you come home
from work, when you can deal with them--
after that less weighty drive, little riding on it—
when there is time.
It was mistake to go home for lunch.
You always return hungry.

4th of July

2011-07-01T13:44:00.006-04:00

I am not a particularly patriotic person. There are some major qualms that I have with the American ethic and the way we view our position in the world as well as our personal positions in the universe. Gorging ourselves and invading places, dictating rules onto others, etc. etc. But there is something about the 4th of July that really gets me.

The sticky-hot long summer days that lead up to this holiday are the stuff of Midwestern childhood memories. They're colored like intsagrams and filled with lightening bugs and sweet fresh fruit. Cousins and siblings and more cousins. My grandfather pulling up in his big red dump truck from a long day of asphalt laying. A motherless child from Jackson Michigan who built his own company, fell in love deeply once and forever, and worked double jobs to feed his seven daughters. I guess it doesn't get more 'American' than that.

He was a relic of a time when men signed up to fight in wars that they believed in-- before that could mean being militant, blood thirsty, or irretrievably right-wing. He loved the 4th of July, because he loved simple things. Cold busch light. Hot dogs. And this country. The quintessential and cliche trappings of American summer holidays. It seems strange that I should find any of it charming now.

But this holiday, unlike others, just gets me. Maybe its the idea that for one moment, across this divided country, everybody turns to the sky to watch something beautiful. There is some basic understanding that, for just this little while, we're not so awful. And we made those red hot sparks in the sky.

2011-04-25T11:39:00.001-04:00

We sit on the cement arms of the front porch
legs curled like cats, camels in hand
our smoke drifts out from the overhang to
the rain thats been dripping steadily for hours.
She says something about how rain always reminds
her of a Gluck poem, which she proceeds to recite.
Rain as her metronome, the words
they take no effort to remember, emit from
her, fluid and independent things.

I don't need to say a word. She knows just
how rain aches. How it makes
Gluck want to take off her wedding ring.
To be naked and alone.

She reaches up and jingles the chimes I made
from forks and beads, rusting a little now from the spring.
And just the touch
means that they are loved. I love them more now
somehow.

Her father sold his sailboat to buy her mother's
engagment ring. Gave up bouyancy in favor of love.
They still hold hands.
She is a product of that.
Everything she does a little more valuable and valid
because of it.

She drips over everything in my life, slow and subtle
plasma-like, a vital part of the blood stream
and we've talked
about, nearly, everything
noting occasionally that if we could
we would be everything. I would be everything
anything for her.

She tells me that her new office is lonely
the pictures that I drew for her, wink from their
frames and remind her that life is outside
those walls.

She sees the look on my face and
puts her left hand to my cheek-- leaning her
right-hand cigarette over the porch and past
the safety of the awning--
gives me a look of acceptance

knowing
I want to be naked and alone too. Ringless.
But that the rain, the change in pressure,
is not the same for me. That my knuckles
swell with the humidity
and none of my rings will come off
in this kind of weather.

Little Dog, Big Shunts: Save Fred

2011-02-07T13:43:00.002-05:00

My dog Fred was recently diagnosed with Liver Shunts.
This condition is extremely expensive to treat and requires surgery.
I got Fred last year after my granny died (if you read the blog, you should be very familiar with her and the closeness of our relationship). This little dog means so much to me.

Liver Shunts are essentially a condition in which blood vessels by-pass the liver, allowing un-filtered toxic blood to continually pump through the body. University of Tennessee has a very comprehensive explanation of the condition and its ramifications.
Fred has already begun to suffer seizures from the condition, as well as lethargy and loss of muscle mass.

Fred has made me a better person every day since I met him. He has been an excersize in patience and unconditional love.
If you are able to help, I appreciate it more than I can explain.

www.gofundme.com/SaveFred

this website is secure and operates via PayPal

Red Cross ramblings

2011-01-19T11:57:00.002-05:00

Found this today, wrote it my first week at work.

My year starts with an existential question of sorts, how many ways can you tell a beautiful story?
This, like most rhetorical queries, comes down to the optimists and pessimists. The optimists say: there are an infinite number of ways to say one thing. The pessimists: there is nothing original on earth, there are a finite number of permutations and once you’ve maxed out those options—your story will inevitably become repetitive.
I don’t know the answer, dear readers, but I do know that my supervisor here in the communications and marketing office came to me this morning and said “Drum up some new and interesting story ideas, the blog is your baby now. We’ve got media and hiring and tracking to deal with.” (Lynn isn’t nearly that cut-throat, but it sounded good right?)
So here I sit, 22, freshly graduated, and faced with telling the newest chapter in the story of an organization over 125 years old. Daunting? Maybe. Do-able? Well, you’re reading this blog, so somebody was doing it before I got here.
Really, there are a lot of directions I could go with this.
The serious devastating truth of disaster and the importance of preparedness. The raw face of human tragedy, aided by the harrowing figures in mesh-vest and red marking. But that seems a little heavy… especially for 250 word blog post on a Monday afternoon.
I could take my childhood fascination with Harriet the Spy and delve deep into the infrastructure of the American Red Cross. Find out who and what keeps us moving trucks out at a moments notice to middle-of-the-night DAT fire runs all around the city. Or whose life we are sustaining with free rides to doctors’ appointments through the community transportation program.

These stories have been told before. I know that.
But look back on your favorite book, play, movie, even television show. You can trace their basic plot lines back to The Bard and the pre-raphealites, the epic poets, the writers of the parables, Aesop’s fables, Grimm’s Fairytales… everything’s been done.
Does that make them any less enjoyable?

Snow Angel

2010-12-09T06:52:00.003-05:00

Two cars swing wide in the snowy parking lot

forming a perfect arc, in tandem

leaving lovely equidistant tracks in the

new fallen snow

temporarily renewing my faith in

beauty and coincidence.

But I am in the sub-zero hospital garage

returned from a brief break from her bedside,

during a winter where I will lose

much more than foliage.

She is suspended above me on the 5th floor,

some angel frozen in an ugly rapture

high above the streets of this town

in the hospital where I was born

struggling hard for every breath

a ventilator obstructing more than it seems to aid

barring her from speaking, so that our

only communication is the kiss she blew

through the window as I left an hour ago

and some hand signals pleading for me

to recite the rosary to her

I count the beads down

one by one, ten and one

and hope that she will

forgive my trespasses

praying mostly that the 5th floor

of this sterile skyscraper is

not the highest she will ascend.

Whats good for you

2010-10-06T20:31:00.001-04:00

Check out Big States blog for some excellent music.

If you know whats good for you, you'll head straight for the Mississippi Record Mix Tapes.

I know whats good for you.

New things

2010-09-15T22:11:00.003-04:00

The blog is changing shape.

During school I was whole-heartedly dedicated to poetry. And, really, what a lovely thing to be able to spend your time on. However, I am not in school anymore and there are many pressing issues I've been reading up on. My writing inevitably reflects that.

I've only been writing prose. Contemplative prose about subjects that deserve deeper thought in my daily life than I have been able to give them in many years. These pieces and topics will begin to show up on the blog. Please, please, please let me know what you think of them. Honestly. This is my first serious foray into the world of creative nonfiction. I want to deliver my opinions and observations on the world, while supporting them with serious research. And I want to know if the writing is valid.

Also, I moved to a new city. Columbus, Ohio is home now.

While I am neglecting my posts further, I will continue updating you on the cool things I come across.

I am now doing the PR and Marketing for the Columbus chapter of the American Red Cross. Justice, service, and complete impartiality-- what more can you ask for?

The Franklin Park Conservatory is a fabulous park I discovered near my new office.

They have a community garden that is busy producing every kind of vegetable and spice you can think of. And an outdoor kitchen for demonstrations. This is going to be a great place to eat lunch!

More to come.

Feeling Animated

2010-07-15T12:10:00.005-04:00

First order of business: R.I.P Harvey Pekar

The Cleveland-native comic genius behind American Splendor passed away this week. Infamous for his late night shenanigans on the Letterman show and his self-deprecating Cleveland based comics, Pekar is a legend to say the least. If you don't know about him, you should. Check out the 2003 film entitled "American Splendor"--starring Paul Giamatti as Pekar and also the real Pekar, and also some really awesome comics.

Having become very dear friends with Chris Monday, I've deepened my interest in the world of comics. We draw them at work, between waiting tables, and have this excellent game called "switcheroo." If I ever get a scanner I will upload some of our games of switcheroo. Essentially you start with a picture, like a bug. Chris sees the bug and has to think up another name that you could call it. So in Chris's mind he says "that bug is a bee." Then Chris draws something that rhymes with the word bee. So I drew a little bug and now, next to it there is a tree that Chris has drawn. I have to then figure out what the drawing is and what word he chose to get there. With bug and tree its pretty easy, but you should have seen the game that went from Fat Kid to Arachnid.... genius.

Since this post seems dedicated to the celebration of all things comic, let me direct your attention to some of Jed and Chris's work. These guys are good friends of mine and amazing artists... and piss-your-pants funny. Jed has been drawing a daily comic journal for 2010 called CHAMP-- it's following his journey to being alcohol-free for 1 year. He is six months along and it's agonizing, hilarious, and insightful. (Disclaimer: it's also addictive!) So thanks Jed for keeping me entertained daily with your misery.

Jed and Chris have teamed up on a comic project that I am ridiculously excited about called "Bad Advice for Bad People." It's a comic advice column and it is spectacular. The first installment just came out on Society6 and it shows some major promise. I can't wait to see what they come up with next. Chris Monday does all of the background work on this comic (props to the Cosmos frame!) and Jed Collins draws the people. Together they give the worst advice, from the worst people, to equally awful people. And yes, the questions are real... people actually ask this shit... and not just our friends either!

2010-07-13T21:45:00.003-04:00

These first few hours are unbearable.

I tried to drive to the lake and sit

in the yellowing mist of the sun

going down in the rain and

listen to Neil Young on the warm

hood of my car

but now I have returned

to the house because there is nowhere

left to drive

and all of the recyclables in the bin

by the door are yours, along with the

towels and I couldn’t get you to take

the macaroni and cheese with you

so it's sitting in the cupboard staring

me down accusingly

I know

but it insists, along with the spot

you cleared in the garden.

If those plants ever come up,

they will say the same thing

look at me the same awful way

that the ash tray-- empty-- on

the back steps does

I know

I did this

and I've done it before

and it's easier to blame you for leaving.

The rain tapping on the leaves

should comfort me but I’ve heard

too much today

and you are still in motion

with places left to drive

headlights and wipers beating

searching for a heart of gold

and I have no idea if I will see you again.

The dog needs to go out into that rain and

you are not here to take him

so I will sit in the dusk with the

beetles buzzing up and slamming

themselves into the porch light,

beside the ash tray and imagine

your car pulling back into the drive

you rolling a cigarette with a grin

your legs crossed at the ankle

a heart of gold

and I will rehash every awful thing I’ve ever said to you

Summer things

2010-07-12T19:11:00.002-04:00

In truth, I have not written a word since I finished my thesis and my attentions have been completely devoted to the summer, my new garden, and job searching. So now what do I write?

The legitimate fear of becoming a washed-up hyper-dramatic personal journal writer definitely lingers in the back of my mind. But I also have this sneaking suspicion that there are still important things out there that I've not yet written about. So until I figure out exactly what those things are, and how I am going to start the revolution by exposing them to the rest of the world... I will just keep updating the blog with things I am thinking about, reading, watching, and listening to.

Its Brew Week in Athens, and my oh my is it wonderful

Last night Mike and I watched The Cove-- an oscar nominated documentary exposing the horrifying truths of the Japanese dolphin industry. This was one of the best documentaries I have seen in a very long time (better than Food, Inc. which we just watched last week). Something about this documentary took it beyond the usual documentary formula: blow the top off a big public cover up, expose the terrible realities of the industry, etc. This movie is the Casino-Heist film of the Ocean-Rescue world. Covert missions, threatening Japanese guards, high-def, high-tech military-grade equipment. It was riveting, entertaining, eye-opening, and terrifying. In two hours this film turned two people from Pescatarians to straight Veg.

Seafood lovers beware you are in serious Mercury denial.

Re-reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a book that makes you deconstruct your daily notions of the world around you, confront the ghosts of your past, and desperately want a motorcycle.

OhioLink to thesis

2010-06-14T12:13:00.002-04:00

http://rave.ohiolink.edu/etdc/view.cgi?acc_num=ouhonors1275585545

This is the link to my thesis as it is archived on the OhioLink network.

2010-06-03T23:50:00.002-04:00

Today I turned in my thesis, which completes my requirements for graduation with a bachelor's degree in English from the Honors Tutorial College at OU.

It is a collection of poems (most have been on the blog at some stage of their creation!) with a critical introduction concerning the correlation between madness and writing in two confessional poets: Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. The essay is not especially formal-- I used it as a personal reflection on my attraction to and affection for poetry and an introduction to my own collection.

Let me know if you would like a copy!

AMI

Imagined Night In the House of My Grandmother (Revision)

2010-05-26T18:55:00.002-04:00

Now that you are gone,

I am graduating and my

nightmares bear no resemblance

to the ones you may have consoled

me from in youth.

I am fleeing the tangible and

mundane terror of a bleak and

open future, the specter of

failure moaning in my ears,

the ghost of debt creaking the

floorboards and rattling chains.

I go to spend the night in

your home, hoping the memory

of you may be enough to console

me to sleep-- which only comes

now with a struggle.

I drink tea on your floral couch

and eat a peppermint from the

bowl on the table and my lids

begin to grow heavy, a wash of

sleep calmer than any I’ve known

lately.I climb the stairs of your warm

blue house to the bedroom you

shared with Papa for fifty some

years.

All night the golden anniversary clock

chimes to mock my awakeness, singing

at the hour and the half

you should have known

you’d be awake here

and alone.

Static (revision of 5 O'clock)

2010-05-26T16:54:00.000-04:00

I wonder how you feel,

around 6:15

when you come home from work and

enter this hectic kitchen

full of children flinging stories and jokes

at one another -- squeals ricocheting

off the cupboards and walls

a barrage of voices too immediate and loud

for you-- under fire

And our enthusiasm sends you

into the living room, battered,

to sit for the rest of the night

in front of the three-channeled television.

Like the strange failure of waves from the

broadcasting networks to the flimsy

antennae of the tv,

your signals are never strong enough

to decipher. A little fuzzier as the night

goes on, until they are entirely scrambled.

You switch off and lock yourself behind a

bedroom door. One thought runs in my

head, already in syndication:

One day you will drop dead,

and I won’t know a

Goddamn thing about you.

Spirographs

2010-05-10T11:13:00.003-04:00

when we went to the park a few September days
before my birthday (I am trying to remember, but
it exists in that file of memories that are Technicolor
and incomplete) what did I do to provoke you?

did I play along when you created a game where
you kicked the soccer ball at the spokes of my tires
while I drove my pink bike in loping circles ?

I thought I was so much older but the candle on the
cake in the picture says that I am only six-- the scabs
on my cheek and eye still fresh from crashing to the
asphalt, and the training wheels recently removed

meant that there were only two wheels to leave
spirographs on the church parking lot. Loops that
seem so chaotic in the making, but turn out impossibly
beautiful and intricate.

Duty

2010-05-08T23:58:00.003-04:00

When Roguey Tom got sick,

came down to his last days,

his body no longer able to shoulder

the brunt of his alcoholism--

his girls took him in and nursed him

let him back like they did every time

he would reappear on a greyhound

sock-less and pifficated.

When Papa's stroke robbed him

so violently of the ability to walk and talk

and eat, my mother would wake early

and stay late each of those four years

filling feeding tubes and

changing diapers, wiping the crust

from the roof of his mouth

with a warm wash rag

and I am your daughter

even though we barely speak

and when you are dying

I will be the first there.

Abel

2010-05-08T23:56:00.001-04:00

My mother recounts her

Childhood to me, saying:

“Every night Daddy would

light a cigar and watch the

CBS news or Lawrence Welk

in his rocking chair,

laughing a little.

And every morning he would

wake next to Mama, read

the paper in his undershirt and

suspenders and drive his dump

truck down the street and

throw bread crumbs off the

porch, saying "The birds gotta

eat too, Mama."

Sometimes on Sundays

Roguey Tom would turn up

smelling like booze

and passing out 20 dollar bills

to all the kids

Drifting through the state

like a man with no ties

his own children no doubt

home and worried, his

nieces reveling in the novelty

of his visit.

Mama would make him

dinner and a cup of coffee

before Daddy collected back

his brother’s money from the kids and

drove him to the bus stop, saying

"go on back to your family, Tom."--

and I wonder, now, if he ever wanted

to buy a case of beer and get on that bus too?

imagined night in the house of my grandmother

2010-04-05T11:55:00.002-04:00

a gradeschool friend once told me that when
you are running in a dream, wherever you
run to is your real home, your place of safety.

now, not fleeing some fantastic terror: a witch,
a kidnapper, a runaway truck, but the tangible
and mundane terror of failure; a bleak and open
future, I go to spend the night where I felt safest.
In my grandmother's house.

I open the door, disarm the alarm and enter
into your living room as she left it
floral couch and lace curtains
a bowl of peppermints on the table.
The fridge is well stocked with the things
I love best:
carrot cake and vegetable soup
and after one cup of tea my lids begin
to grow heavy, a wash of sleep calmer
than any I've known lately. I climb
the stairs to the bedroom where
Papa and Granny lay side by side
for some fifty years.

All night the golden anniversary clock
chimes to mock my awakeness, singing
at the hour and the half
you should have known
you should have known
you'd be awake here
and alone.

King of the Jungle

2010-03-15T14:36:00.003-04:00

At six years old I am not aware of the exact

implications of the word stroke.

And when you sit me on the bottom of the

oak staircase with the wrought iron banister

I can see that you have been sobbing and your

fear at 32 is more intense than any of mine.

I do not know exactly what was said during that

phone call, only that it was spoken by my grandmother

from an emergency room somewhere and heard in front

of a glowing kitchen window on a phone old

enough to have a curly cord and that it is

the hottest part of the summer and we’ve just

been to the zoo to ride the carousel and see the

lions. And that when it is finally relayed to

me I do not understand the change of life it

will imply or how unfair it is to keep a

lion in a Midwestern zoo confined to a glass

enclosure, pacing the same worn spots, gawked

at, its majesty doctored and forgotten.

Janis Joplin on the Festival Express

2010-03-10T11:11:00.002-05:00

You ever get drunk on a train

through four cities in less than twice

as many days? Well, when you got

eleven cars and just as many bands

riding along and it's the heat of the

summer and it's that beautiful part

of Canada between Winnipeg and

Calgary and you just saw what

Toronto had going on-- I tell you

what you're gonna do: you're gonna

drink on that train. And you're

gonna go down to the car where

everybody's got their guitars out

and you're gonna forget-- when you

see the Grateful Dead and The Band

jamming with Buddy Guy-- that it

ain't been more than 5 or 6 years

since we got the good sense to start

eating in the same diners and

pissing in the same toilets.

And you'd get drunk too if you

heard that some thousand kids

decided to storm the gates at the

next stop and goddamn you

if you didn't know you had to

let those kids hear you for free

and if only I knew that I'd

be dead by October-- but it's

Summertime, child, and your

living is easy.

For Townes Van Zandt

2010-02-21T22:56:00.004-05:00

when discovered Townes,we too were going out on the highway to

listen to them big trucks whine, hoping that our ramblings through

Canada in a borrowed sedan would show us what we meant to

each other. To the world.

when he married his first wife, she was 21 and not expecting

her new husband to spend their honeymoon locked in her shoe closet

writing what would become waiting around to die

when you called me, I was 21 and not expecting we’d ever speak again after

you took someone else on that same long drive to Toronto. But here

we are listening to him Live at the Old Quarter, Houston,

weaving through the hills of West Virginia

Pancho and Lefty singing our own Fraternity Blues

Somehow addicted to you the way he was addicted to

the airplane glue that sealed all his teeth together before

they cracked them apart with a ball-pin hammer

If I needed you

would you come to me

would you come to me and ease my pain?

Eulogy

2010-01-19T13:40:00.003-05:00

These are some of the hardest words I've ever had to write or read.

R.I.P Margaret "Tootsie" Hamilton

April 22, 1921 -- January 11, 2010

It feels impossible at this point to distance myself enough to write about the entirety of Granny’s life- her beauty, her family, these abstract and massive things that I can barely grasp right now, in my twenties, in my grief.

It seems more appropriate somehow to talk about the past week, with its too-fast process of losing her. I drove up from school last monday, when I heard that she was in the hospital and I stayed the night with her once or twice. Laying in that bed with the blankets draped over her side I could see the thinness of her legs, the knob of her ankles, and even with the swelling I could see through to her delicate joints. When they rolled her onto her side, her hip rose, loping into the soft curve of her figure-- the same feminine shape of her twenties, the curves that my grandfather fell in love with, the hips that bore the seven girls that were now rotating visiting shifts in the ICU. And still, her physical beauty is such a small part of what made her so remarkable.

When they adjust her breathing tube, I see her cry for what I believe is the first time in my life. And I know then the scope of her pain. She was a true stoic-- tearless, fearless, and always without complaint. These are the things she was, in life and death. Just completely graceful. When she held my hand in the hospital, it was the same way she held my hand as a toddler. With all the same acceptance and complete love. That is what she offered everyone she encountered-- a fair shot.

I was nervous about leaving her, but I had to return to school and work and the hustle of immediate concerns. It never really mattered before that she hadn’t seen my house in Athens, of course I wanted her to, but there was always the promise of spring and talk of a visit to come. But when I got the call that she was gone, all of my surroundings seemed to shift. My house felt colder, emptier, hollow since it had never been blessed with her presence. I think everything will feel that way to an extent; that I will always favor the things she had a part in; enjoy the places she had been. As if her having been there would linger, a gentility that could be felt even after years.

Just the other day I meant to have her tell me about her wedding day again. About Russles Point and the Banana Cake made with carnation milk. About the time she was terrified waiting for Papa under the marquee of a movie theater in the rain. These stories and all the others are pieces of her I want to take and hold and shuffle through in passing-- reminders everyday of the person she was. Stories I want to tell my children, who will belong to a generation that will only know the magnitude of her grace through the bits of it I hope we have collected. I can only hope that through proximity to greatness, maybe some of it has rubbed off. I hope that we, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, can try to be those pieces of her that we loved the best. To be strong and gentile, funny and forgiving, faithful and stoic, beautiful and peaceful. I hope that we can love with the fullness and acceptance that she gave to each of us.

As Tootsie would say: “I’ll see you on the radio.”

forecast

2010-01-03T15:32:00.004-05:00

Last night was hard
there was no moon to speak of
and the room was dark enough
to hide crying, only one soft
sound gave you away

and when I woke this
morning the sun was on
fire red and drippy like it
had been up all night
crying for us

the city billowed a smoke
made more ominous with
the cold, proof that progress
won't stop for us

the car still frosted over
and in my hurry to leave for
a job that would not wait
I neglected to clear the
windshield

drove the morning streets
peering through a slit in
the frost hoping not to hit
anything- the sun on fire
glaring in the rear view

we have failed in our
honest attempts to
remain the same. We are
no exception to the rule
that everything changes;

nothing will hold still
for us.

And now it is winter, the

windshield too frosty to

show what is ahead of me

as I drive away -- from you

still in a dream.

12/9

2010-01-03T15:26:00.006-05:00

we're really mad here
I'm not sure we're sure
why
but let me tell you that
when a plate hits a plate
in a loading dishwasher
or soapy sink or dry cupboard
we jump
and if you raise your voice
just a little too high, fall
on the ball of your foot
just a little too hard
make your step resound off
the hardwood
you're bound to hear about it

a scream and yell temper
tantrum that lasts only a moment
or, when there is less sun, less money
to go around, more bills to pay,
a silence that lasts much longer

Everything

2009-12-14T21:44:00.005-05:00

Everything for you

she says, making

separate dinners

from no recipe

for each child

two vegetarians

steak for daddy

the baby won’t eat peas

Everything for you

she says, sweeping

floors she wishes away

in secret, guiding crumbs

from dinners the

children have eaten

all through the house

Everything for you

she says, with every

move of her hand,

sweep of a strand

of hair from the face

of a crying child

Everything for you

because my life is

half over, and yours

is just beginning.

I sit at the

table reading

lift my feet

as she whisks

the broom

under them

when everyone

goes to bed,

I will put down

my book and

do all of

the dishes

The Yard Interval

2009-11-16T08:46:00.004-05:00

This is a new approach to the topic of home (my overall thesis topic)

The Yard Interval

Playhouse

Big men came with

hammers and trucks

and pulled the garage

down. I watched from

the upstairs window

as they tugged at the slanting

foundation-- the rotted

white boards and roof shingles

fell. I was too young to be sad,

to miss the old structure-- just a slab of

concrete now where we could

roller skate until they build the

new one. Then they tore down

the picket fence that ran behind

the old garage. I watched

them work, the first jackhammer

I’d seen, in the late afternoon sun

blazing orange behind their shoulders.

When they pour the new foundation,

we get to put our hand prints in

the wet concrete with the date

and Daddy took parts of the old

wooden fence and built a play

house for us. We will make mud

pies for dinner and dry them on

the playhouse roof until they’re hard.

Bricks for building memories.

Leafhouse

In autumn the leaves fall

yellow and orange and brown

and gather on the small front lawn.

Daddy wants to rake them to the

curb before it rains and they get

all soggy and kill big spots

of grass, or the snow starts

and they’re frozen over. But

first they are ours.

We sweep the leaves into the thin

straight outlines of a blueprint:

solid lines for walls, gaps where

there are doors, circles for chairs,

rectangles for beds and couches,

and at the very edge of the yard

where the sidewalk looms to the

street, a half-moon balcony.

A leaf house of our own design

it will last until the wind picks

up at night. And next year we

will reconstruct it. Exactly the

same way.

Porch-house

The patio furniture resides

in the screened-in back porch

its legs are thin, but heavy and

the protective ends have fallen

off so when we move the chairs

around they scratch the floor, a

map of where they’ve been.

The cement walkway makes a

perfect driveway for our bikes and

we parallel park there between

important errands-- (the neighbor’s

yard is the grocery store, the garage

serves as both bank and brake-shop)

Mama put our play kitchen out for

us and every day we live several

days there, sleeping and waking

driving and parking, shopping and

cooking, breaking and fixing,

a microcosm. We decide when

the sun goes down.

Papa

2009-11-02T14:41:00.003-05:00

I passed a dump truck today

a big blue one that looked strikingly like yours.

A flagger stopped me in the road

for an unimportant or imaginary

construction project, and I had

to sit at the feet of the enormous

truck. Watch the men in boots and

jeans and white shirts and remember

that you have been gone for eleven

years this day.

Relativity

2009-10-27T10:09:00.001-04:00

If Einstein was right,

then there is no long straight

string of time

and everything is cyclical

boundaries in flux, beginnings

and ends mutable, or nonexistent

and who’s to say that as I lean

over the sink its particles don’t

expand to accept a few of mine

and we don’t become intertwined

for a moment or few or

that the paste doesn't serve as some

emulsifier between enamel and bristle,

combining tooth and brush

and eliminating plaque in between

and how, then, can I know what

is over? or what has just begun?

if the events before ever ended

or if we have always wanted each other

brushed our teeth side-by-side

slept together every night

wished for the same things

but won’t ever end up.

2009-10-19T12:22:00.002-04:00

"You want to smoke a cigarette with me?"

"Yea"

We sat in the car, two people

who hadn't spoke in months.

"What are you doing next year?"

"How is the house?"

"When does the album come out?"

We sat in the car, two people

who had known each other for years

and hurt each other enough to be strangers again.

II.

"you take these shears here and cut the

rose bushes down to the base"

"daddy, there are still buds on these"

"yea but you've got to cut them down

before the snow comes, so they can grow back."

III.

The leaves weren't even done changing,

and had barely started falling, when

the forecast said snow on saturday

and the wind chill supported its claim.

The snow would come and kill all

the potential of the rosebuds

if I didn't kill them first.

And I had to trust that they would grow back again.

Things will get much worse before they get better.

Turn, Turn, Turn

2009-09-29T02:07:00.004-04:00

I loved that apartment

with its tiny kitchen, your

bike resting along the wall under the clock

like it was waiting for the seasons to change

the ice-slick front steps and

the back door that we always hoped

was open. The two small rooms were

just enough and the bathroom was

my favorite yellow.

We'd stay up late and listen

to the foreign neighbors, dancing

or fighting, and we'd wake late

too. Make the short walk to

the corner because you didn't

have a coffee pot and tea never

did the trick for me.

It was cold then. Colder than

I remember it ever being. The

walk was not so bad though,

because the pocket of your pea coat

had a silky lining and I was always

allowed to put my mitten there.

But that was winter love. A cold

and factual kind. And it went away before

spring. It felt right. The same way that

fall creeps up. Leaves turn and fall a

few at a time. Branches grow out of

them and don't throw fits or beg them

to stay.

The kind of change that lets you look

back fondly. And say:

that was right, in its season.

Joshua Trees, desert near Kingman, AZ

2009-09-10T00:44:00.002-04:00

Blessing

2009-08-31T12:33:00.004-04:00

Child, I am writing to apologize,

though you cannot yet read,

for every moment I have been rough with you.

Seventeen years your senior,

I know too well the moments that

life will be rough with you. Without apology.

Child, I am writing to apologize,

though you may never remember,

for every time I have been impatient with you.

For the preschool rush, the hastiness

on with the shoes and out the door

for snatching you up and snapping you

into your booster seat, your little feet

swung from their spot before you could

examine the cicada in the driveway that scared you.

No doubt the largest insect you had ever seen,

it glistened holographic on the asphalt in the near-noon sun.

When I hurried you into the car and drove away,

dismissing your curiosity with a sharp lie:

"its just a big bug"

I failed to explain that fantastic root dweller

who emerges only once every seventeen years

to molt its skin and begin its adult life.

May you always have time and forgiveness.

May you be surrounded by people more willing

and worthy than me, to explain the trivial and fantastic-

ready to revel with you in the smallest wonders.

May you blossom, emerging from this home

brilliant and beautiful to rise high above this asphalt,

and may you not wait 17 years to see another cicada.

2009-08-25T20:51:00.002-04:00

The prairie underscores the bright blue

of the 10 a.m. sky and a train slices

the whole scene diagonally:

running beside the long straight

black of route 66

carrying the cogs to some massive

machine that makes another part

of the world run

but not this part

if every train stopped and every

telephone pole fell and all the

wires tangled in sparks on the

ground, nothing would change here.

These red rocks

thick clay

scrub bushes

lean hawks

don't mind.

Laws of Nature

2009-08-25T20:33:00.003-04:00

Two men hang glide near the dam

they swing on the wind

blown dandelion seeds

then drop

all red and yellow parachutes

and crumple on the ground.

Two girls drive through the desert

top down

all Joshua trees and sand

heads turning all directions

the dead parts dropping off.

The west canyon rises high

and hard into the clouds--

the only objects casting fat shadows

in the noon sun.

The dam restrains the gushes,

human laws for wild things.

Notes from the desert

2009-08-23T00:33:00.003-04:00

Since I haven't written in so long, I thought I'd post a little preview of what I am working on. Some Notes from my cross country road trip. Love from Albuquerque.

8/16

Driving the long straight stretch towards Barstow
heading the same way Hunter did
in a smaller convertible, decades later
wondering what my reaction will be to the city of sin
and whether or not the great American dream has changed.

Smog so thick it swallows the tops of the mountains
and taller billboards in the the distance
follows us up 15 N and hasn't burned off by 10:30.

Hit Hesperia and see a few wind turbines,
sad attempts to prevent the destruction
of the atmosphere, but considering the fog,
seems like too little too late.

Alison takes us on a mad, GPS guided search
for a Starbucks, which dot the landscape like cacti,
and we fly through the drive-thru with two
ventiskinnyicedcaramellattes with extra shots,
almost faster than Alison, with severe ADD and
years of practice, can order them.

"we'll be in Barstow in an hour."

Costco, Walmart, In'n'out, and Del Taco
line the route out, begging drivers to stock up
before they hit the strange stretch of barren desert
the last un-commercialized space in the nation --
coming from Disneyland, where a platoon of
cartoon characters has made a police state of Anaheim,
the desert is a welcome sight for me.

We pass a 2009 revisit of the Camaro
and discuss the streamlined recreations
of Mustangs and Chevelles. Alison likes them.
I think that good things always come back,
sleeker, updated-- never quite as good as before.

Perspective

2009-08-06T10:09:00.004-04:00

My sunglasses,

the big ones

I always have on

the ones he said

he hated once

because they hid

my eyes

another said

they were retro

or something

like that

and you, well

you bought them for me, but

I've been wearing them

so long I'm not sure

you notice them anymore...

they have a pinkish

yellow tint, that

makes everything

more beautiful.

Intensify the

effects of transient

light on stable earth

the greens of plant

the blue on white of sky

They make those contrasts

more deliberate, and

gentler too, somehow.

On this deck, now

admiring the backyard

I realize I am not

wearing them, for once

and that the technicolor

I see is all 9 a.m. sunlight.

Worst Fear

2009-07-15T13:11:00.004-04:00

Remember the summer

I swam to the end of the dock?

Worked my way up, life jacket-less,

despite my crippling fear of water.

Went out every day with

someone to watch from the pier.

Swam a few more feet each time

until I reached open water-

a place where I could no longer

touch bottom, and the dock ended

so no one dry could grab me

if I slipped under.

I waded there a moment or two

in suspended animation

a fantastic combination of

buoyancy and bravery.

Do you remember?

But this is not that summer

and the moxy I worked up

is gone I discover as I jump

in from the end of the dock

skipping all the shallow parts

near shore, the slow start that

gave me courage before

and here I am screaming,

flailing, struggling hard

no reachable sand beneath me

and in their panic

drowning people often

pull rescuers down with them.

5 O'clock (another revision of Bravery)

2009-07-08T10:56:00.004-04:00

I wonder how you feel

around 5 O'clock
when you come home from work

if we take the joy out from you
and drag it across the kitchen floor

Send you retreating into the old
rocker, battered, to sit for the rest of the night

in front of the three-channeled television.

Like the strange failure of waves from
the broadcasting networks to the
flimsy antennae of the tv,

your signals are never strong enough

to decipher. A little fuzzier as the

night goes on, until they are entirely

scrambled.

You switch off and lock yourself

away behind a bedroom door.

And one thought reruns in my head,

a consistent 5 o'clock syndication:

One day you will drop dead, and I won't know a
Goddamn thing about you.

lazy girl

2009-07-06T14:13:00.002-04:00

it seems I have hit a bad case of writer's block

for now I am just home, hanging with my baby sister

drinking coffee with my mama

and reading a whole bunch:

"A Long Fatal Love Chase" -Louisa May Alcott

"Mexico City Blues, 242 Choruses"- Jack Kerouac

"You Come Too- collected children's poems"- Robert Frost

"Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction"- Wallace Stevens

the words will come back, they always do.

-AMI

"its all happening..."

2009-06-07T23:17:00.002-04:00

Big accomplishments that deserve my kudos:

Sphere: this year's edition is absolutely excellent.

It is rumored that English Professor Mark Halliday asked for 30 copies of this year's edition so that he could nix Emil Dickinson from his syllabus and require his students to write a paper on a piece of their choice from Sphere no. 53

Look out legends, Sphere is creepin in.

Trailerpark: Some of my very dearest friends were involved in the production of a feature length film based on the novel by Russell Banks, entitled Trailerpark. I went to the premier this evening and I am so impressed by the story adaptation and the quality of this student film.

Check out the trailer for Trailerpark cut by my good friend Jon Machles at: www.trailerparkmovie.com

Artists Collective: This new-ish student group attempts to gather together Athens artists for collaboration. The group boasts writers, visual artists, film makers, actors and musicians. I was invited to read some of my work at their end of the year gala this past Wednesday. I am excited to be a part of their growing organization and look forward to collaborating with their president Ray Monge next year on some major Sphere promotional work.

So much art to wrap up an amazing year.

2009-06-02T11:37:00.006-04:00

Sometimes on Sundays

uncle Tom would show up

smelling like alcohol

and giving away 20 dollar bills

to all the kids.

Mama would make him

dinner and a cup of coffee

before Daddy collected back

all the money and drove him

to the bus stop, saying

"go on back to your family, Tom."

And every night Daddy would

light a cigar and watch the

CBS news or Lawrence Welk

in his rocking chair,

laughing a little.

And every morning he would read

the paper in his undershirt and

suspenders and drive his dump

truck down the street and

employ black men even

when it was taboo --

Throw bread crumbs off the

porch, saying "The birds gotta

eat too, Mama." and how do

men who wear their work boots

every day shrivel up and die?

Toast

2009-05-26T07:24:00.002-04:00

you have to have two

pieces, because I want two

pieces-- but not three.

5/17

2009-05-18T00:30:00.001-04:00

Cars line up

and chase

each other

down the

street, like

dogs, once

the light

changes. I

sit on a

bench, knees

swelling, watching.

Wishing someone

was strong

enough to

carry me

for a while,

but, knowing

no one is,

I stand

again.

Show

2009-05-07T15:24:00.004-04:00

In this room

everyone is captivated

by flannel clad guitarists

and their feet glow gold

under the single overhead light

and I am red-wine nostalgic

wishing I could wink at you

across the room; that your

brown eyes, white teeth,

black, black hair would

suddenly appear on the

floral couch.

We could shoot knowing

glances back and forth

everyone else milling around

with their gold feet

totally oblivious to

love ricocheting off

the moulding, wooden

and crowned.

collector

2009-04-29T14:46:00.004-04:00

i keep strange things,

meaningless to others:

a small red wax leaf

made with pushing

thumbs at granny's

dining room table

an unsharpened

Washington Bullets

pencil with a fat pink eraser

a Spanish Garnacha

bottle, drained long

ago and now corked

with a drippy red candle

pictures and postcards

and phrases I liked

post-its covered in

passwords and user IDs

doodles I've clipped from

boring-class notebooks

and taped into others

words and words

and words and a

strange oppressive

guilt for everything I've

never said to your face

and the growing pile

of things I want to.

confessions

2009-04-29T12:53:00.002-04:00

How could I have known
that I was a tumultuous storm
spot on a hot red planet?

The biggest planet
with more rings and
bracelets than all the others.
I guess, somehow, I knew.

But what you mistake
for sheer swirling power
is a more complex tempest

a fiery combination of confusion
and guilt propelled by a refusal
to fail and alot of resiliency.

But mostly I think that hot
red spot you saw was
just an intense heart,
with plenty of room for you.

Five O'clock (a revision of Bravery)

2009-04-28T21:35:00.003-04:00

I wonder how you feel

around 5 O'clock
when you come home from work

if we take the joy out from you
and drag it across the kitchen floor

Send you retreating into the old
rocker, battered, to sit for the rest of the night

in front of the three-channeled television.

Like the strange failure of those waves from
the broadcasting networks to the
flimsy antennae of the tv,

I can never get a signal from you that is

strong enough to decipher.

And one thought reruns in my head,

a consistent 5 o'clock syndication:
One day you will drop dead, and I won't know a
Goddamn thing about you.

Notes on recent life

2009-04-20T00:48:00.003-04:00

My previous thesis plans have changed. Unfortunately Jill Rosser is unable to direct my thesis work next year and new plans must be made as my penultimate portfolio is due in a matter of weeks. However, good ideas seem to flow in times of stress and uncertainty. Thankfully.

My thesis work will now be directed, roughly, towards my very favorite of subjects (and practices): Food.

An amazing professor of plant biology here at OU has preliminarily agreed to direct my thesis work. A project with the working title of "Words on Food."

I am interested in what American's eat, where it comes from, how it's grown, why its not sustainable, and what America can learn from other countries about eating and growing

It could involve touring farms, grocery stores, slaughter houses, traveling to sustainable alternative agriculture sights, maybe even growing my own garden!

It's a big topic and a big project as of now, but it is very exciting.

Aches

2009-04-08T22:19:00.001-04:00

It is March

or another one of those depressingly damp months

and I am home, which is rare.

I wince as my prematurely arthritic knees

make horrifying noises --

the clicks and pops and elastic-y

sounds that I imagine

you might hear if a beast

were tearing your shoulder out of its socket --

nothing out of the ordinary.

My father watches

from his post in front of the television --

one which has never had cable programming

and with the switch to digital broadcasting

will soon have nothing to offer at all.

But he has managed to find some scrambled

channel with an afternoon rerun of Little House

on the Prairie, or another equally depressing show.

I say

"This weather is bothering my arthritis"

and he responds, matter-of-factly

that if I kept my weight down

maybe I would take some of the stress off my joints.

Sound advice for a girl of twenty struggling with the

mortifying measurements of 5 foot 4 and 125 pounds.

Obesity to be sure.

I crouch

down, wincing again

to complete the task of tying my running

shoes. I begin to wonder where the limb-eating

beast is, and why he is taking so long to come

to this house. And before I take off

down the street I say

"enjoy your show daddy."

Sedaris

2009-04-08T11:45:00.002-04:00

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of hearing David Sedaris read at Memorial Auditorium.
What a wonderfully funny man.
After the show I waited in line and got my ticket and two books signed.
If you don't know him yet, you should. No excuses.
Sedaris on NPR
Sedaris publicity page: including his recommended reading list

serendipity

2009-04-05T11:38:00.000-04:00

A lovely girl (Miss Laura Rossi) just informed me about the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. Which is, of course, in Boulder Colorado. Allen Ginsberg founded this school at Naropa in 1974 in collaboration with Anne Waldman. Naropa boasts a contemplative education and their campus is 100% wind powered. Even more incentive for me to head out west post graduation.

Teach for America offers opportunities in Denver (assuming I am accepted).

There is also an MFA in Creative Writing at UC Boulder and an MFA in Writing and Poetics at Naropa. Lovely finds.

I plan to attend the Jack Kerouac- 50 Years On The Road festival at Naropa in the summer so I can check out the campus!

Deja Vu

2009-03-17T15:29:00.003-04:00

I could never say out loud

what happened to my insides

when I heard that you had neatly

packed up the car with her neatly

packed bags and drove through Mexican-town

in Detroit and past border control

with both of your birth certificates

across that blue steel bridge and out

of the country.

Knowing the conversion rates better

this time and holding her hand in

the car when you drove and

assuredly stopping for gas,

that you no doubt paid for.

Buying coffee and maybe even donuts

and this time you had a map

so you knew which exit to take

and that the city signs start miles

before the actual city and

you parked in the same lot

on Spadina right behind the same

hostel and probably walked to

the basement cafe for Lavazza

in the morning -- stopped at the

gas station for a pack of Peter

Jackson's with a bleeding brain

on the wrapper and I'm sure

my brain looked something like

that when I heard --

A pulpy bloody mess.

Word Riot- At Long Last

2009-03-16T10:52:00.000-04:00

The poems I submitted in November have finally been posted in the March issue of WordRiot's poetry section.

Postmodern Music- prose for a change

2009-03-15T18:52:00.000-04:00

(this essay is my final for my Lit Theory Class, but knowing most of my readers, I though you would find it interesting. Enjoy- AMI)

Postmodernism: The Musical
“The concept of postmodernism is not widely accepted or even understood today” (201). Fredric Jameson opened his article Postmodernism and Consumer Society with this statement in 1983. In many ways this statement still rings true in 2009. Unfamiliarity with the elements and criteria of postmodernism fosters this misunderstanding and lack of acceptance. However, if one looks to the contemporary music industry, they would be able to identify several areas in which music has become postmodern by Jameson’s standards. Though music is an exceptionally broad topic, there are instances in which artists or performers exemplify certain areas of Jameson’s postmodern criteria. Modern music is almost entirely pastiche, according to Jameson’s definition. In several ways, modern musicians create, intentionally or unintentionally, music that adheres to Jameson’s postmodern ideals of rebellion, rejection, nostalgia, and pastiche.
Through its use of covers and sampling, the modern music industry has made the pastiche an intricate part of its structure. The ultimate form of the pastiche in modern music is the existence of the cover song. A cover is when one group takes the song of an older group and redoes it, with little or no changes to the lyrics or sound. The cover is an example of Jameson’s pastiche: “Pastiche is, like parody, the imitation of a peculiar or unique style, […] but it is a neutral practice of such mimicry, without parody’s ulterior motive, without the satirical impulse, without laughter” (204).
Pastiche can be further extended to the practice of sampling and the existence of the mashup. Sampling involves taking pieces of existing songs- melody lines, guitar riffs, or lyrics (etc.) and using them in entirely new songs. Similarly, the mashup takes existing songs and layers them over one another to create an entirely new song. The mashup sometimes utilizes the practice of sampling to make a new song that is, in effect, a patchwork quilt of other songs sewn together.
Girl Talk (stage name of Pittsburgh DJ Gregg Gillis) has become famous for creating entire albums of mashups. In the fourteen tracks of his most recent album “Feed The Animals,” there is not one single original piece of music created by Gillis himself. The songs are composed entirely of pieces of existing songs. The first track of the album alone, entitled “Play Your Part,” contains parts from 25 songs from varied artists from Roy Orbison to Jay-Z to Sinead O’Connor. Musically, Girl Talk accomplishes what Jameson details as the achievements of postmodern authors: “They no longer ‘quote’ such ‘texts’ as a Joyce might have done, or a Mahler; they incorporate them, to the point where the line between high art and commercial forms seems increasingly difficult to draw” (202). Postmodern music, like literature, assimilates and includes other forms. Girl Talk blurs the line between old and new music and fuses them into an entirely new piece of simultaneously original and completely borrowed music.
Many groups reflect the “nostalgic mode” that Jameson describes in his article. The best definition that he gives is that the nostalgic mode is a “retrospective styling” (206). There are thousands of artists working in revivals of old modes and there are some genres which have been resurrected in their entirety. The Motown sound is one that comes to mind. Raphael Saadiq takes the Motown style and completely recreates its sounds and themes in his music. In concert, Saadiq goes so far as to costume himself in the fashions of Motown greats like the Temptations: tight fitting and brightly colored suits with stovepipe pant legs and shiny patent leather boots. The choreography of his back-up dancers is nearly identical to that of groups like The Supremes. His music and performance fit the nostalgic modes that Jameson describes in film movements. In this way, Saadiq satisfies what Jameson calls our “desire to return to that older period and to live its strange old aesthetic artifacts through once again” (206).
Similarly, the psychedelic folk style pulls a sound from the past and alters or updates it slightly. Artists like Devendra Banhart and The OhSees take the original folk sounds- found in bands like The Carpenters and further back with artists like Woodie Guthrie and even further back to the roots of American folk music- and create new sounds within those older models. This form fits Jameson’s extended definition of nostalgia, the same way that Star Wars fits his definition of nostalgic film in the article. Though the psychedelic folk movement does not recreate folk music exactly as it originally stood, it recreates the feel of the folk movement: “[…] it does not reinvent a picture of the past in its lived totality; rather, by reinventing the feel and shape of characteristic art objects of an older period […], it seeks to reawaken a sense of the past associated with those objects” (206).
Much contemporary music can be considered postmodern in the ways that it usurps and perverts elements of traditional or existing music. Electronica emerges as an interesting figurehead for the usurping of traditional sound. Many electronic artists use drum pads and sound boards to electronically recreate true instrumental sounds. However, the use of electronic instruments has done more than mimic existing sounds; it has created entirely new sounds. Incorporation of purely electronic sounds started as early as the Beach Boys and their revolutionary use of the Theremin on the “Pet Sounds” album. This has continued throughout the late 20th and early 21st centuries with instruments and tools like synthesizers, drum pads, sound boards, and loop stations. Distortion pedals take existing sounds and bend them into new, sometimes un-reproducible sounds. The spontaneity of live performances and the original one-time nature of genres like noise and scream music add to their postmodern lack of composition. These pieces are entirely original and frequently exist as isolated musical incidents.
In some cases the postmodern can be defined as that which blurs the lines between music and spoken word. It is that which makes you question your standing definition of music. What is normal music? Many would say: the original modes of melody and chords, based on a universal system of notes that function on a recognizable set of scales. Many artists reject these original modes, or refuse to use them as the only mode in which they can create sound.
Artists like Prefuse 73 (born when mainstream rap producer Scott Herren locked himself in a studio alone for two weeks) combine elements of spoken word and electronica to create new forms of music. Two tracks from his album “One Word Extinguisher” come to mind. “Southerners (Interlude)” combines generic voice tracks from an old grammar lesson on American dialects with modern rapping to create an entirely original mashup. In another track, entitled “Esta,” Herren chops and screws several of the messages left on his answering machine (presumably the people who could not get a hold of him while he was locked in the studio cutting the album). These two tracks are representative of an entire cross-section of music in which the spoken word plays an interesting part in blurring the existing definition of music. To further their qualifications as postmodern, these are words borrowed from other sources, taken and manipulated by Herren, not created by him.
The inclusion of cross-cultural sounds and themes becomes another important part of postmodern music. Artists like Beirut (a project of musician Zach Condon) usurp the sounds of other cultures. The album “The Flying Club Cup” is inspired greatly by French music, film and culture. While the latest album “March of the Zapotec,” is inspired greatly by the mariachi sounds of Mexican music, incorporating also the modes of electronica.
Further incorporations of the cross cultural can be found with bilingual and international artists. Yael Naïm, an Israeli singer-songwriter, sings in English (which is certainly not her native language). Similarly, Nelly Furtado included Portuguese songs on her October 2000, mainly-English album entitled “Whoa, Nelly!” In their ability to blend cultural languages and stylings, these artists transcend the traditional boundaries of nationalism and break into the postmodern. Compilation albums like “B Music Cross Continental Record Raid Road Trip” (compiled by electronic musician Andy Votel) juxtaposes tracks from all over the world. Dusty Groove America praises the album with the tagline: “18 Mind-Blowing Vintage Vinyl Discoveries from Around the Psychedelic Globe.” In this way, Votel compiles music that is not his own, combines different cultural influences, and resurrects the old mode of the psychedelic to create something entirely postmodern.
Though Jameson does not really address music in his article, choosing instead to focus on the subjects of literature, film, and architecture, his principals and observations apply seamlessly to modern music. In so many ways, modern musical artists make use of the nostalgic and the pastiche. Through the blurring of spoken word and song, the mimicry of traditional sounds, the recreation of old performances, and the invention of entirely new electronic sounds, many musicians can be classified as postmodern. Whether Raphael Saadiq recreates the Motown phenomenon in its sounds, colors, and movements, or Girl Talk makes a Frankenstein’s-monster-style song using only pieces of other old songs, they fit the postmodern criteria that Fredric Jameson outlines in his 1983 article Postmodernism and Consumer Society. In many ways they leave us wondering, what else can be done? And what will the next revolution in sound possibly be like?

In this photo

2009-02-23T23:29:00.000-05:00

I am too young
and too tired
to notice
the lace curtains hanging
on the windows behind us.

The ones we would wash every year
and hang on the line, leaving
the tub full of dingy water.

I am too young
and too hungry

to notice
the cross of St. Brigid on the door
where it still hangs
and the rocking chair in the corner
where it still sits.

I am too young
and too happy

to know
that one day I would nurse you
administer breathing treatments
and feeding tubes
spend hot summer nights at your bedside.

I want to wake

the infant in

this photo
and tell her to remember
the man holding her,
just as he is there,
in flannel and suspenders
thick glasses and white hair.

AWP Chicago 2009

2009-02-16T20:03:00.000-05:00

I have just returned from a long weekend in my favorite city.

AWP conference went really well, there were some amazing authors there and I attended some interesting panels.

One was on the Poetry Everywhere program that attempts to unite poetry and film.

Some of the animations are done really well, most of them I actually disliked.

However, it is wonderful to hear authors read their poems aloud.

Check it out ---> Poetry Everywhere: PBS

The highlight of the conference was the reading in honor of Gwendolyn Brooks on Friday evening. Major Jackson and Lucille Clifton spoke about Brooks as a poet and a woman and read some of her poems aloud. Really inspiring.

It was also great to be in my favorite city and meet up with old friends. Wonderful to see Konrad and Michelle and Luke.

Missing the Windy City already.

Inaugural Poem

2009-02-09T00:27:00.000-05:00

The last time

I believed

like this

I was a small girl

celebrating African American History Month

in a February classroom.

When the two or three black

students at the miniature Catholic

school were

singled out.

We were an inaccurate scale

model of the real world.

A microcosm of

privileged kids

and strictly

monitored hem lengths.

Still

I understood

that dream

from the famous speech

by a black man.

And it was mine

as well.

And the last time I believed

like this

I was a small girl.

Better words than mine

2009-01-21T14:14:00.000-05:00

"I learned how to live, how to be in the world and of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never, never again run away from life, or from love, either." (Audrey Hepburn, Sabrina, 1954)

Toronto

2009-01-12T21:11:00.000-05:00

I remember stopping, tipsy,
scraping together our last Canadian currency
at the hot dog vendor
when we both ate meat
and it was easy not to think about origins or consequences.

Buying socks in Little Italy,
to fix the hot blister on my heel
from the vintage Frye boots I wore
when we walked across that metropolis.

I remember spending $120 on whiskey at the show
and buying beers for the minors behind us
in exchange for whistling lessons.

I remember wanting you so badly
there, in the dark
and you snoring loudly
when my desire failed to disturb you.

And how small my universe was then
at the intersection of King and Spadina
in that flash-frozen city.

Tea

2009-01-11T18:08:00.000-05:00

Long drive on the Michigan plains

Tea and music and a new hand in mine

Passing the car cemetery --

hundreds of rusty skeletons

visible among the barren

January trees

dusted with snow.

I drank Darjeeling

so you could have your choice.

You picked

the moon

and

the stars

and

the sun.

Cosmos

brewed and poured out

Held to our lips

Greedy somehow.

Winslow Homer

2009-01-11T18:04:00.001-05:00

12/28

It is so sad and grey,

the way you can't tell

the sea from the sky

on a Prout's Neck evening.

And one moment the white you see is

a soft cloud and the next

it's an explosive wave.

And its so hard looking at art with you.

And we just can't agree

on the meaning of a painting

because you try to crack the code

and I know that the whole point

is the sharp first moment that you

feel the twinge --

That dagger to the spleen

sting in the tearducts.

The kind of feeling that

makes you run to the docent

and ask for a pen.

back in action

2009-01-09T11:13:00.000-05:00

after a long winter hiatus (a very productive hiatus, i might add)
i am back to Business.

Exciting news:
*new poetry workshop twice a week which should help me generate lots of material for Business and for my looming thesis project
* AWP creative writer's conference in Chicago Feb 11-14, the head of the creative writing department invited me and offered me a free registration
* exciting visiting authors for the winter: Margot Singer and Olena Kalytiak Davis
The graduate students are always invited to send their work to visiting authors ahead of time and then have a conference with the writer once they are on campus. This time Kevin (my boss in literary events) has offered me the opportunity to send some of my work. So I will have a conference with Olena Kalytiak Davis when she visits in February.

Enough prose.

Aurora Borealis

2008-11-19T01:34:00.000-05:00

Winter time finds me,

with the onset of the cold,

wanting only to flee

this town

and drive five or six hours north

to a latitude of higher geomagnetic activity

where the Aurora will shine green and red and brilliant.

Where we will take pictures with your Holga

and cross our fingers that they turn out.

Far away from the town-glow

the terrible side effect of strip malls

that follows you for 5o or 60 miles,

and 20 some odd years,

until you are far away in the dark.

The trick is catching it.

Calculating that exact moment

the perfect latitude

the right moon cycle

the juncture when that storm of space dust

will burn brilliantly overhead.

Find someone on your exact same wavelength

and try to freeze time

with a picture.

Exhibitions

2008-10-28T22:01:00.000-04:00

you and me kid

right back where we belong

between the wars

with

miro

dali

chagall

with oblong heads

and geometric bodies

filled to the brim with primary colors

and political agendas

tired lonely pissed

and that sculpture looks like wood

from far away

but if left outside

wood would rot

so we both know its not.

10/28

2008-10-28T21:34:00.000-04:00

I heard a wild crash two blocks to my right.

They had knocked a piece of the sky loose

during construction.

It was blue and serene

except for the one shard dangling

over the clock tower.

It is the oldest building around here;

The only one with a clock.

I guess I was the only person to hear.

Or just the only one to stop.

Word Riot

2008-10-19T14:46:00.000-04:00

Keep an eye on the poetry section of www.wordriot.org

"Quandaries" and "Underground" will be showing up in one of their future publications.

Moustache and a Trumpet

2008-10-14T02:53:00.000-04:00

I listen to the universe
and suddenly I am a
history in rust
thrown back to
long wintry
drives
through Ontario
buying donuts
at our last chance to use
US currency
forgetting gas is
measured in liters
up here
where the air is thinner
and my heart beats quicker
just remembering you
and I
doing
making
saying
thinking

Learning Commons

2008-10-13T23:56:00.000-04:00

the uppers and the downers got
in a fight inside my head
thought someone was breaking in the house
and the imagined creaks and
bangs of robbery
interrupted the self-induced
orgasm I was
just
almost
I should really lock the door.
Popping pills to stay awake
long enough to work out
all the work
Smoking bowls to fall asleep
long enough to wake up
and work
Self-destructing for success
earning degrees
measuring degrees
of sanity
walking cold bricks home
alone
thoughts racing
waking thin lines between
taking meth head as a compliment
thinking and writing
prolifically
interrupted
"the time is now 11:30 and the library will be closing in 30 minutes
if you wish to remain please move to the learning commons on the second floor"

Sarabande

2008-10-13T01:00:00.000-04:00

in some fundamental way
this cello captures
everything that is sad
and beautiful in the world

the hard rain of gray days
the solemnity of funerals
the joy of weddings
the complexity of solitude

with every reverberation of the strings
i remember dark days of
childhood and wonderful ones as well
and i feel peaceful
listening
but inadequate.

skeletons

2008-09-30T11:53:00.000-04:00

6. 15. 2008

Your hands and feet...

I like the bony places

where I can see your

fragile framework.

Every interlocking part

that makes you -simply.

Layers after

that make you

strong

smart

handsome

remarkable- remarkably.

Against all odds

against all expectations.

I like the thick skull

that anchors your black hair

the deviated septum

that makes you snore

loudly

then quieter

when I kick you.

Color Wheel

2008-09-23T14:13:00.000-04:00

November 14, 2007

I miss your blue cashmere coat

Your black Honda CRX

Our white bird house

The yellow dollhouse doorbell

Your moments of pink compassion

That seem to have been replaced

by this sea-green depth between us.

boiled eggs

2008-09-16T01:18:00.000-04:00

I am realizing a great many things these days

like the

should have dealt with this differently feelings

of unsophistication

that accompany

the filling of voids with

drunken desperate fucks

on late lonely Saturday nights

and hazy early Sunday mornings

rife with ulterior motives

and hiding true feelings

with a thin veil of

Cool Hand Luke indifference

slipping through the floor boards

when the warden ain't lookin'

the "i don't want anything serious" lies

told when one knows they have

failed

and been cast aside

thrown away

the unwanted

wanting so much

having no idea what we really want

at all

wishing we could eat 50 boiled eggs

to prove our worth

ain't nobody can eat 50 eggs.

sanity

2008-09-10T17:06:00.000-04:00

I want that right-brained brilliance

that accompanies mental illness.

That invisible inner-cerebral muse

whispering a poetic genius.

I want that megalomania -

The imagined greatness

born of melancholy

raised by decades

and immortalized in anthologies.

The sexual deviancy in the past

that haunts and whispers

"write

write

and be brilliant."

Late Nights (a haiku)

2008-09-08T22:29:00.000-04:00

It is scary how

little it actually

has to do with love.

April 24

2008-08-26T10:29:00.000-04:00

It is daily now that I am struck by the beauty of the world surrounding me.
I have skipped classes for dread of going indoors.
I have seen bees soar above my head in a mating dance
that is intricate and violent
passionate and dangerous.
I have felt the love of the sun on my shoulders until it was seared in.
Only the sting at night to remind me of its warmth in the day.

Sometimes I care so much that it hurts
it overwhelms me
and makes me helpless.
Sometimes I want the relief and refuge of indifference.
The burdenless beauty of self-centeredness.
If only I could pretend that the world was a centrifuge spinning endlessly around me.
That I was the eye of the storm - everyone else an inconsequential raindrop.

It must never hurt to be self-centered.
To never feel the ache of empathy,
the incurable sadness of mourning for another's pain,

the hard sting of beauty

the inadequacy of words.

vegetarianism

2008-08-14T13:53:00.000-04:00

I hated it when my mama would pan-fry hamburgers

the smell would crawl up the stairs and settle into

every fiber of my carpet and clothing.

You have woven yourself into my life

every photo and ticket stub

you have crawled up my legs and settled into my mind.

You sneer out from every poster on my walls

every blanket on my bed

every intersection

every movie theater

and restaurant

and i want to hate you

like the greasy smell of

dead frying meat.

flight

2008-08-14T13:49:00.000-04:00

I almost cried when i realized

that airplanes held no more

magic for me.

A strategic combination of

fuel and speed and

aerodynamics.

No longer the alchemy of people

in the sky

where they don't belong.

July 10 2008

2008-07-27T18:21:00.000-04:00

That is when I love you most

early A. M. drives on expressways

coffee and cigarettes

the bright sun over our left shoulder

windows down

fast breeze

There is no more linger

about us

no more intense "stay with me"

no more late night swims

no more house to ourselves

no more family gatherings

I want to empty our change purse

and count what is left

for us.

Natural History

2008-07-09T15:48:00.000-04:00

7/9/2008

i was too scared to walk

into that room

the scale model of the womb

red lights

heart beat

umbilical cord

The origin of every notion of comfort

i went halfway around the world

to wander through museums

pretending that i came looking for

great masters of art

hearing instead

school groups

running and yelling

nearly knocking over the collected centuries

not understanding

"Please Do Not Touch"

i went looking

and found grown-up

ideas of "Please Do Not Touch"

grown-up feelings of guilt

i went looking for me

instead i found you

everywhere.

Underground

2008-07-09T15:44:00.000-04:00

6/29/2008

you sit google-eyed

on a bench

wanting only to tell the black woman

who just got off the train

that you like her bag.

A tall, gray man once said

"the heart never fits its wanting"

does yours?

you want for nothing

i want to be you

roaming the underworld

with a rolling suitcase and

a bunch of grapes

no wants in my heart

five teeth in my mouth

500 voices in my head

a smile on my face

bonfire

2008-06-21T03:16:00.000-04:00

June 20, 2008

The intestines of the fire
are a scale model of the
Grand Canyon
Red Rock
We sit around and discuss art -
"are you a fauvist?"
"i'm an I-don't-know-vist"

How many debates
revolutionary whispers
circle the flames
like the ash flakes of the
burning cardboard
some float up and
away
some stay still and
burn
burn hot.

bricks

2008-06-10T00:25:00.000-04:00

March 31 2008

I wanted to push those bricks back together

cement their fissures

repair the erosion of time

use a steam roller to

seal them in a moment

somewhere before they'd

learned of pain and division.

editor

2008-06-09T16:36:00.001-04:00

I am the new poetry editor for next year's edition of Sphere, the journal that just published my poem.

A meditation on a friend

2008-06-04T22:32:00.000-04:00

April 4, 2008

You express wonder like a child.

It invades you and sets up

camp in your face.

Glowing outside

from within.

Your eyes spread

and your crystal blue irises

sparkle. Your pupils reflect

the object of your adoration.

I want to be that object.

I want to cause that

magical reaction in someone.

Make my image the one upside

down, frowning back at

me. In those wonder pools

Black-hole pupils bending

the space time between

body and soul.

New Artists

2008-06-02T23:44:00.000-04:00

So the chair of the English department here at OU has nominated me to represent the English department on the Arts for Ohio committee.

Tomorrow morning (at 8 a.m. sweet Jesus) is my first committee meeting.

Basically we review a bunch of proposals from people who want their art programs funded.

Some are really cool.

So far I've learned about 3 awesome artists that may get to have their work exhibited here next year. The three that I found most interesting are Laylah Ali, Michael Minelli, and Stephen Talasnik. All very different. Michael Minelli was actually commissioned by the Wexner center at OSU in 2006; he did a piece called "Shiny" for them.

It could be really interesting to have input into what events come to the university.

Butterfly photos

2008-06-02T11:01:00.000-04:00

Photos I took in October at home.

Quandaries

2008-06-01T15:54:00.000-04:00

I was recently published in the Ohio University undergraduate literary journal Sphere.

This is the poem, in the magazine it appears on page 81:

Quandaries

What if God is the fizz in my ear every time

I take a sip of soda;

The consequence of sugar and acid

The curse of narrow Eustachian tubes.

What if we got on a train and left.

Toronto India Anywhere

What if you wore a grey suit

and I danced a two-step.

What if we talked?

What if we stopped pretending?

In Chicago Hershey

Any day now.