Notes from the desert

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

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

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)

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

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..."

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.

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?