Officially the saddest attempt at a Christmas tree December 7, 2008

‘Tis the Season… December 7, 2008

Just splurged on the bamboo interchangeable needle set I’ve been eying for the past few years. (www.knitnewyork.com) Perfect gift for any knitters on your list. No more searching for the right needle size/length! Every size you will ever need in one charmingly cute package! Worth the $99 investment because you’ll never have to buy another needle again. And it’s just so damned cute. Knit NY is on 14th St. & 2nd Ave in Manhattan. Any knitter would love a gift certificate from here (hint, hint). My favorite yarn is the chunky alpaca in the back room.
Gorgeous colors and soooo soft! I’ve knitted many a scarf with this yarn. Happy knitting to all.

A Public Service Announcement… December 6, 2008

(I would cite the source, but I know it not. Thank you, whomever you are!)

NINE WORDS WOMEN USE

(1) Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right
and you need to shut up.

(2) Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five
minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes
to watch the game before helping around the house.

(3) Nothing: This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and
you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in
fine.

(4) Go Ahead: This is a dare, not permission. Don’t Do It!

(5) Loud Sigh: This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often
misunderstood by men.   A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and
wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about
nothing. (Refer back to # 3 for the meaning of nothing.)

(6) That’s Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can
make to a man. That’s okay means she wants to think long and hard before
deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

(7) Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say
you’re welcome. (I want to add in a clause here – This is true, unless she
says ‘Thanks a lot’ – that is PURE sarcasm and she is not thanking you at
all. DO NOT say ‘you’re welcome.’   That will bring on a ‘whatever’).

(8) Whatever: Is a woman’s way of saying F— YOU!

(9) Don’t worry about it, I got it: Another dangerous statement, meaning
this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is
now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking ‘What’s wrong?’
For the woman’s response refer to # 3.

* Send this to the men you know, to warn them about arguments they can avoid
if they remember the terminology.

* Send this to all the women you know to give them a good laugh, ’cause they
know it’s true!!!

The Best Pick Up Line Ever December 5, 2008

So he says, “Do you read Yeats?”

I say, “Sure.”

He says, “Are you familiar with the poem ‘For Anne Gregory’ which is about the down side of being a blond?”

I say, “No. No I am not familiar with that.”

He says, “Would you like to hear it?”

Now, at this point in my life, there is only one other person who has ever recited a poem for me, someone I hold very dear, and it was also Yeats, and this one other person is about 50 years younger than the fellow sitting at the table next to me at the Comfort Diner today, and in fact I had just days prior discussed Yeats with this other much younger reciter, though the recitation itself was years ago. It should also be mentioned that our involvement with the table next to us was entirely predicated on the appeal of Nita’s stripy socks, and that we had skipped directly from socks to Yeats without actually introducing ourselves.

I say, “Yes!”

And here I have to lean in a bit, because this fellow is 80 and hard of hearing & the diner is very, very noisy.

And so:

FOR ANNE GREGORY
(author W.B. Yeats, as recited by Mr. Bill at Comfort Diner on 23rd Street around 1:30pm this afternoon, and which recitation involves, by necessity, a leaning in toward each other of both the reciter and the listener, and, not by necessity, upon the fourth line, said reciter reaching across to touch a lock of said listener’s admittedly blond hair, for emphasis of course.)

‘Never shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.’

‘But I can get hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.’

‘I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.’

Oh, Mr. Bill. You smooth talker, you. Your wife’s a lucky gal indeed.

My day at the Anna Maria Island Seafood Festival . . . February 17, 2008

So I was in one of the many gift shops in Bradenton Beach, buying more shit for my niecelings and nephlings which I now have no idea how I’m going to get home, when I overheard someone ask something about the location of some festival. Hmm. Ears perked, I asked the nice lady at the counter which festival that might be. ‘Oh, the seafood festival. In Cortez, just across the bridge. Can’t miss it.’

Mmmm. Seafood festival. I was still kinda full from the heavenly sweet & savory crepes I had just devoured at the legitimately French creperie just off the pier, but I felt pretty confident that I could work up an appetite.

I had, after all, just that morning, walked along the shallows of the Gulf of Mexico, which was like walking through a seafood platter . . . sea urchins and oysters and crabs, oh my! One fella had managed to scoop up a baby octopus, which he was generously showing around to not only his own kids, but all the kids on the beach. Nothing is more delightful, by the way, than small children discovering sea creatures. (I include myself in the “small children” category, in spirit.)

 

So I dropped off my loot in my hotel room (I relocated on Friday from the Tradewinds Resort to two doors down to their sister resort, the Tortuga Inn, after deciding, nope, I was not ready to go home yet. I have a lovely room with a garden view, not one but two rocking chairs, and a bidet in the bathroom, yehaw!). An aside . . . I’ve never quite understood the mechanics or purpose of the bidet, so I have just Wickipediaed it, and found some rather fascinating information . . .

Bidets are primarily used to wash and clean the external vulva and the anus, as well as the skin near these areas, including the perineum. They may also be used to clean any other part of the body; they are very convenient for cleaning the feet, for example. Despite appearing similar to a toilet, it would be more accurate to compare it to the washbasin or bathtub. In fact, the bidet is used by some for a baby bath, though there are some who recommend against this.

Users who are unfamiliar with bidets often confuse a bidet with a urinal, toilet, or even a drinking fountain. The user should use the toilet before using the bidet; its purpose is to wash afterwards. It is generally understood that the user should sit on a bidet facing the tap and nozzle to clean the genitalia, or with their back to the tap and wall to clean the anus.

 

Well geewillickers, who knew all that?!?

Anywho, enough about genitalia bathing. Off to the seafood festival!!! Crossed over the bridge to Cortez, which is a really really really old fishing town & still chock full o locals. In theory there were manatees in that there water under that there bridge to Cortez, but once again, I didn’t spot any sea cows.

Wow. Seafood festival. Not hard to find, as it seemed everyone on the island of Anna Maria was there, or headed there, so I just followed the crowd until I got to the $2 entry fee booth & got my “grouper” hand stamp.

Now, most people I’ve run into here on the island are either 80 or 8, but here, drinkin $2 cups of Bud Light while slurpin down oysters on the half shell, sucking the meat out of spicy crawfish, and picking ’round the bones of smoked mullet (the fish, not the hairstyle), were the 18-30 crowd.

Naturally, this made me want to leave. But then I found my way to the sound stage, got myself a 1/2 dozen oysters, and plopped down on a bench. Besides, I knew I wasn’t leaving until I had a whole lotta seafood in my belly, so that was that.

 

After enjoying the local band, and I wish I could post the video here but I apparently do not have the right format or something to upload it, I wandered into the beer-drinkin fray and found my way to the animal tent. (Again, another very amusing video was taken with my phone, featuring some apathetic turtles, funky chickens, a thirsty goose, and some other animal tent inhabitants.) But here I will share the pictures I did manage to take . . .

And yes, if you are wondering, that pig is in fact scratching his ass on a turtle.

More wandering. Lots of crafty tents. Spent most of my time & effort trying really hard not to buy any more sea turtle paraphernalia, as I had already used up my sea turtle luggage space allotment. Enjoyed the funny lookin blowfish in the mini-aquarium (too mini for manatees, sigh). And then, and then good people, I did not find Jesus, but I did find the Jesus Tent, complete with some tall fellow, one of the brothers in the quartet, belting out the lowest bass notes I’ve ever heard; glory hallelujahing aplenty; sunlight streaming down in godlike fashion upon my heathen head; and a crib, which I can only assume was for the sweet baby Jesus himself, cuz weren’t no earthling babes occupyin it.

Well, I mean really. What’s left after the Jesus Tent? I knew it was almost time to scoot on home, partly because I figured nothing could top the Jesus Tent, but mostly because I kinda had to pee and didn’t want to use the port a potty.

So I headed back into seafood land. Was sorely tempted by the smoked mullet (whatever the hell kinda fish mullet is). Got sidetracked by some disappointing etufe, and finally decided to get myself one o them $2 Bud Lights, find a shady spot to sit in (for it had blossomed from “pleasantly warm” to “jesus hell it’s hot out” over the course of the past 24 hours), listen to some tunes for a spell, then grab me a mess o crawfish for the road.

 

And once again, good people, little chickens, dear friends, I am saddened that I cannot figure out how to post videos here, for it means I can only tell you about the Sunshine Express Cloggers, and email it to you at your request. The Cloggers are a very earnest, though very badly costumed group, of which the youngest member is probably in her late 40s or early 50s, the oldest, I dare not guess at, and not a one of ‘em should have been wearing those highly unflattering short white flouncy skirts, but there you are. (Note to Carmy: I think I saw Gradma Lila in the back row. Does she lead a secret double life as a Sunshine Express Clogger? I’d believe it.)

Sated with beer and clogging, I decided I was done with the seafood festival. I handed over my last 8 food tickets for a gigundous container full of spicy crawfish, headed back over the bridge, dropped of my gigundous container full of spicy crawfish, and scooted across the street just in time to enjoy my final Floridian sun set . . . (for now) . . .

The End.

 

 

 

 

Friday’s Rilke . . . February 16, 2008

From Letters to a Young Poet:

You are so young, so before all beginning, and I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

**

You characterized him [Richard Dehmel] very well with the term: “living and writing in heat.”—And in fact artistic experience lies so incredibly close to that of sex, to its pains and its ecstasy, that the two manifestations are indeed but different forms of one and the same yearning and delight. And if instead of heat one might say—sex, sex in the great, broad, clean sense, free of any insinuation of ecclesiastical error, then his art would be very grand and infinitely important. His poetic power is great, strong as a primitive instinct; it has its own unyielding rhythms in itself and breaks out of him as out of mountains.

**

Almost everything serious is difficult, and everything is serious.

**

Physical pleasure is a sensual experience no different from pure seeing or the pure sensation with which a fine fruit fills the tongue; it is a great unending experience, which is given us, a knowing of the world, the fullness and the glory of all knowing. And not our acceptance of it is bad; the bad thing is that most people misuse and squander this experience and apply it as a stimulant at the tired spots of their lives and as a distraction instead of a rallying toward exalted moments.

**

In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love revive, filling it with sublimity and exhalation. And those who come together in the night and are entwined in rocking delight do an earnest work and gather sweetness, gather depth and strength for the song of some coming poet, who will arise to speak of ecstasies beyond telling.

**

And when what is near you is far, then your distance is already among the stars and very large; rejoice in your growth, in which you naturally can take no one with you, and be kind to those who remain behind, and be sure and calm before them and do not torment them with your doubts and do not frighten them with your confidence or joy, which they could not understand.

**

Your solitude will be a hold and home for you even amid very unfamiliar conditions and from there you will find all your ways. All my wishes are ready to accompany you, and my confidence is with you.

A Valentine to my Friends February 14, 2008

been reading Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet . . .

“You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts. Now (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give up all that. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all–ask yourself in the stillest hours of your night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple, “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it . . .

A work of art is good if it has sprung from necessity. In this nature of its origin lies the judgment of it: there is no other. Therefore, my dear sir, I know no advice for you save this: to go into yourself and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept it, just as it sounds, without inquiring into it. Perhaps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what recompense might come from outside . . .

Leave to your opinions their own quiet undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be pressed or hurried by anything. Everything is gestation and then bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one’s own intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist’s life: in understanding as in creating.

There is here no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer. It does come. But it comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide.”

If a picture’s worth a thousand words . . . February 13, 2008

well, what else can I say . . .

Greetings from Anna Maria Island, FL. More blog updates/pics soon, maybe tonight when I get back from trolleying around the island . . .

somniloquy (som-NIL-uh-kwee) noun February 4, 2008

So I’m subscribed to this email list called Word A Day, right? And as I am sipping my 1am cup of coffee, having awoken from a quite satisfying 3 hour nap, I am checking my email, and I see that, for the week of Feb. 4, the theme is “words having to do with sleep.”

Sleep has been called temporary death, but there’s so much that goes on
during that time of repose. While visiting that other world one might walk,
talk, grind teeth, and sometimes dream.

Your brain is more active while you’re asleep than when watching television.
[thank god] And that’s even when you you don’t walk or talk in sleep. No wonder our language is rife in sleep-related idioms. You can sleep in, on, out, around, with, and over. You can lose sleep over things.
You can go without food for a while but you can’t cheat on sleep. [you can't? says who?] It demands its dues [oh, poo poo]. According to a report, you would be 25% less alert on just an hour’s loss of sleep. [uh oh.]
This week’s five words are all about sleep.

Furthermore, for the DAY of Feb. 4, the word is SOMNILOQUY:

somniloquy(som-NIL-uh-kwee) noun

The act or habit of talking while asleep.

[From Latin somni- (sleep) + loqui (to speak).]

Well, it seems I have found my blog entry title for the day. Good morning.

Stay with me here, if you will. I have a lot to say, generally under the topics of “hope” and “despair.” Feel free to skip to one or the other. But first, a little SOMNILOQUY . . . cutting and pasting a few pieces from my genre-ambiguous manuscript which seem to have something, if very little, to do with sleep . . .

1.

Poppy

A dress the color of poppies, and a black shoe carried against her mid section, so that for a moment I imagined she was not a woman at all, but in fact a flower hurrying toward me, a singular motion of big waxy petals pushed open.

2.

Reconstruction

She kept having dreams about her father dying. Heart attack, cancer, boat accident, brain aneurysm, falling off the roof, stray bullet in the grocery store parking lot. Each time it happened, she would call her father the following afternoon. He would ask her, eventually, he always does, if she knew what he had been doing in the yard. This was the thing they would talk about. No, tell me, she’d say. So far he’d dug two miniature fish ponds, re-landscaped the entire yard five times, installed and uninstalled various walkways, erected a green house, turned the green house into a storage shed, built an addition to the storage shed, knocked down the storage shed. He’d poured concrete into various shaped areas of ground for dining and sitting, demolished part of the garage to create a patio, erected awnings, cut down trees, replanted shrubs. Each time she went home for a visit, the vegetable garden, which had taken up almost the entire backyard during her childhood, was diminished and a new strip of grass put in where the lettuce, or the green beans, or the kale had once been. He would tell her these things, and she would not tell him about the dreams, and they would hang up.

3.

A Not Entirely Untrue Problem

This morning he is sad, gets up early to sleep on the couch. She feels it. The sadness. It wakes her. But she does not feel she should disturb it, at least for an hour or two, so she remains in the bed, burrowed underneath the blanket and the down comforter, stretching out diagonally and feeling the warmth of where he just was with her toes. The sun comes and goes with her waking and sleeping, saturating the leaves outside her window. The leaves are full and green, but she does not hear them rustle because the weather has turned and their windows are closed. She lets an hour pass. Two. Finally she gets up, goes out to the living room. He is curled onto their tiny couch, much too big for it, with her plaid throw blanket barely covering the curve of him. She has an urge to brush back his wild morning hair but does not. He was fantastically drunk last night, part of the reason for the sadness this morning. Some filter disappearing and letting in thoughts of their lack of closeness, a not entirely untrue problem. She can’t remember the last time they slept together: he doesn’t like to ask, for fear of rejection; she knows it won’t be worth the effort. But she does love him, on this morning of his sadness. She sits across from him on the coffee table, touches his hand. Hey, she says. Hey, wake up. Come to bed. He does.
4.

Three Deer

I look up from the book I am reading, and see three deer in the field. Two adults and one fawn. They are white-tailed deer, far off in a corner close to the trees. It is overcast, and their tails, lit up like clouds, follow behind their brown lanky bodies as they graze in the dim afternoon light. The fawn hangs back, but one adult ventures further out into the field, head bent, nuzzling the grasses. I will them to come closer. I will my windows to be cleaner and less warped with age, but they are part of this nineteenth century house I cannot argue with, and I dare not make the noise of opening the side door to step out onto the porch for a better view. These are not the first deer I have seen. The other night, in the dusk, I looked out of my studio window to find another white-tail staring at me from the path that winds around my studio and out to the pond. I see now that the bedroom window, though dirty, is a much better place for spying on the deer, a task I decide to take on, as it has much more potential for satisfaction than writing, and is a less demanding distraction than reading the Proust translation I had been so ambitious as to pack in my suitcase. I feel I can accomplish three deer a day more so than, say, three beautiful paragraphs, Proust’s or my own. It is decided. I am cleansed in purpose. I will count deer. I will perform my reconnaissance here in my bedroom. My studio is surrounded by overgrowth, but here I look out over this wide field, pale green but for a few patches of tiny purple blossoms. At any moment, there could be deer in this field, tempted by its sweet grasses. This thought—in retrospect, such an obvious one: field therefore deer—later causes me to continuously crane my neck to peek out the window. I cannot be satisfied. It is, after all, my job now. My three deer for today head back to the woods almost as quickly as they have emerged, white tails flashing in their funny see-saw leaps into the darkness underneath the trees. I look back at my book lying on the bed, but then sit at my desk to write these words. There, the day has not been a total loss.

5.

Relativity

I try to read about empty space, about negative energies and Einstein’s theory of relativity, but the frogs—the sun is lowering in the sky and the frogs’ burring is tickling my ears.

6.

Better to read Proust

It’s late, and there is no progress. Will she give up or stay? It seems she has no story in her tonight. Better to go home and read Proust in bed with the covers pulled up.

7.

The Lover, 4

Lover who is not my lover, we spent a week together not being lovers. Every night we crawled into our own giant beds across from each other, curled into our own sleep sweet dreams. Don’t think I did not notice how my head fit against you on the plane, leaning over your shoulder to read. Or how our arms touching created heat specific to our bodies, lover. Do you know, I would lie in my bed and dream of us, and in the morning I would wake to find that you spent all night in your own dreams, lover? Did you not feel it, the swing of our sleep steeped steps in unison? Lover, we walked along the river every night and once, once you let me lead you to the dancing place, music pulsing in our pulsing, sweat mingling, scents mingling. And once, on our last night as non-lovers, we went up to the observation deck—only later, when we were back in our lives with our lovers, did you reveal your fear of heights, lover—and we watched our world drop into darkness. I stuck my head out, wanted to be a piece of the wind. I wanted to run through you, lover, send shivers down your back. You stayed close to the building, anchored. You chatted with the security guard. You let me stay as long as I wanted. You let me be wind. But, lover-not-my-lover, you could not let me have the thing I wanted most.

8.

Night Hunters

Lover, I wrap my leonine paws around your heart. Settle myself around it. It is in my nature to be protective, and fiercely defensive, of what I love. It is in your nature to let your heart wander where it should not. To frolic with the night hunters. They are not frolicking, lover, they are prowling. For you. So until you grow your thick skin, I will keep it safe for you—your heart—in my lair, my den. I will not let the wolves pass. I will defend it to the death with my lion pride. True, it is not mine to give away. It is not mine to keep. Lover we are not lovers in that way. But it is a good heart, lover, and no night hunter shall take it’s sweet sweet, no night sharpened claws shall trace its tender veins. I am all skin and I am ready to bristle in your defense. Rest easy, sweet heart. Your journey has tired you. Rest here for a bit, wrapped in my skin. As the night stretches into years I will tell you stories and you will sing me to sleep with your rhythm. I will lick your wounds with my paper tongue, hang your heartaches on Orion’s belt and tattoo the night sky with your lost loves. Together we will understand our delusions and delude our understandings. My hot breath will warm you and your beat beat beating will mark my time. My sharp eyes will keep us under cover. No one. Nothing. Shall enter here tonight.

9.

Valentine

Today I want to crawl deep into an arctic cave. Circle around my home. Lay my tiredness down. Burrow my cold bear nose into my fur bear belly. Let sleep come. Let past lovers detach their leech hold from my insides, flow into the cold dark night to seep into a horizon I cannot see in my sleep blindness. Let them become stars, brief, then extinguished. Let them leave me in peace. Tonight I want to be alone with my loneliness. I want the howl of the wind to lull me to sleep. I want to mourn my past with tears that will steal into rock, become ice, break done stone. I want to be a tiny dot in the universe, nothing more. I don’t want to be reminded of hot flesh, bare skin. The cold is my home tonight, the darkness my blanket. No one sings to me but the wind. No caresses can get past this thick bear pelt. No one enters. No one leaves. I want to wake up and have no memory of this day.

10.

Settling

I’m settling into these bones of mine, into my life. Alone is how I roll these days. I’ve come to know my own skin and what it contains. Bandits try to get in and steal my heart, but I’ve got a sharp eye. I see those night hunters rummaging around in the dark, and I’m staying inside where it is safe and warm. I’ll let you in for the night, raccoon lover, but in the morning you and your masked eyes, you’ve got to leave. Find some other nest to stir up. I am not opposed to some feather ruffling. Sweat. Skin. You know the drill. But the sunrise is mine alone. I will slip out of my bed, leave you slumbering in your heat, press my head against the winter morning glass, mingle my soul frost with the seeping, sleeping sun to make the morning. Daybreak is my insomniac lover. Bare branches of trees claw the skin sky, coax out the drowsing sun, draw blood. Whisper bland promises of fidelity to the orb emerging slowly, bleed lust into skin, into sky. I watch, notepad at the ready. I am learning to be a new lover.

Okay, it seems there may be a strong “sleep” theme ahappenin in that manuscript of mine.

***

And now, ladies and gentlemints, as promised, a little HOPE, a little DESPAIR . . .

HOPE

It seems like a nice thing to do to start of with a smidge of hope, before delving into despair, but, don’t worry, little chickens, I will end with hope, the extended version.

But for now, chew on this, which is taped above my desk, as of yesterday (acquired at AWP at the Kore Press booth. Lovely press. Do check them out.):

“For a very long time everybody refuses and then almost without a pause almost everybody accepts.” — Gertrude Stein

DESPAIR

I have just emerged from the land of AWP conferencing (Association of Writers and Writing Programs), which, in a nutshell, is basically a bunch of despairing writers/publishers/editors/et cetera looking for a little hope. I did indeed find some much needed hope. There are a lot of excellent small presses and literary organizations and individuals who are trying to change the world, one book at a time. This gives me hope. I was especially delighted to hear Johnny Temple of Akashic Press inform a crowded room full of writers that what his press was all about was publishing the books that get passed over by gargantuan giant mega publishing houses; that, though agents are lovely, he actually prefers to work directly with authors; that his main goal is to see to it that his authors love every minute of the editing & publishing & book birthing process; and that if a manuscript is part of a bidding war, eh, he’ll pass. That ain’t his thing. He just wants to publish the books that deserve to be published, but that no one else will publish. So, before I start my general rant at the state of publishing, hats off to Johnny, and hats off to Akashic and all the other fantastic small presses out there who are doing the good work (Graywolf, Kore Press, Orchises Press, Wolsak and Wynn, Host Publications, Four Way Books, Fence, Wave Books, Counterpoint, and Soft Skullto name a few, not to mention the hords of university presses, god bless ‘em.)

That said, I am now quite ready for my rant. Ready? Good.

Slight apologies to poor, dear SS, who happened to be the first of my friends to email me this morning (by which I now mean yesterday morning) and so got the first wave of THE RANT. But now, I cut & paste it here, for all of you. It starts off as a rant about the publishing industry in relation to women writers, which emerged out of a most excellent panel I attended (having meant to attend the Charles Baxter panel but having once again ended up in the wrong room) called THIS IS NOT CHICK LIT: THE BRANDING OF WOMEN’S FICTION, but, stay tuned, it kind of opens up into a more general rant about the branding of women in general. And if you happen to not like the words “fuck” or “fucking,” well, fair warning, moral outrage gives me quite a potty mouth:

I’m tired, too. [He was tired, this friend of mine.] This conference I have been attending for the past 3 days was exhausting, but also amazingly GOOD!! Now I just have to find a way to productively channel my rage at the publishing industry, who thinks of male writers just as writers, but when it comes to women writers, the marketing dept. ain’t happy until they’ve pegged us into the “appropriate” box. Chick Lit. Woman Writer.  Southern Woman Writer. Southern Lesbian Woman Writer. Et cetera. The result of which is that, wherever they decide to “place” us, we get shoved in some obscure corner of whatever bookstore is carrying our book, and no one can find our books, so no one can read our books, and no one of intelligence would necessarily know to pick it up, cuz it’s got a goddam chick lit-esque cover on it, or some other thing that is truly degrading and/or wrongly stereotypical that has absolutely nothing to do with what’s on the INSIDE of the book . . . but, sadly, people do indeed judge a book by its cover. I do. We’re just hardwired that way. It’s a shortcut to sorting information.

And of course, the audience for this particular panel was 99.9% female. Men just don’t give a shit. Why should they? They don’t have to deal with any of this. They are just “writers.” Even if they write fucking chick lit.

It’s bullshit, I tell you. And it’s not just publishing where this happens, women face this, on some level, in every fucking industry, in every fucking aspect of their lives. I mean, look at Hillary for fuck’s sake. Is there any greater current example of a woman hitting the glass ceiling, a woman who is profoundly overqualified, but is being poo pooed as “uncharismatic” or “cold” or “fake” while people fawn over the new, pretty, shiny, smooth talkin Obama. And I LIKE Obama, I do, but GWB has so, so, so fucked up our country and the world that we CLEARLY need someone who can step right on day one with her sleeves rolled up, ready to do the good work. Instead, she fucking has to answer questions about whether her “emotions” will work for or against her in her campaign, and is attacked whenever she stands up for herself in response to Obama’s attacks on her (how very unwomanly of her), and has to answer stupid ass questions about her husband, who is, for the record NOT running for president, people. And this whole business of being seen as “fake.” Oh my god. Don’t even get me started. Every fucking woman in the world, every girl, everyone you know, everyone I know, EVERY female HAS to “fake” it sometimes to get by in this world, because it is so much still a man’s world, and for now, it’s the only way we can get by.
Sorry for ranting in your general direction . . . those rants have been building up over the past few days/weeks and I only now have moments to verbalize them and put them in writing . . .

Ohhhkay. I think we can get back to HOPE now . . .

So, yeah, sucks to be a woman. Sucks to be a writer. But as I mentioned earlier, there is hope to be found in small presses who actually care about books, and I suggest we all head over their way en mass, and leave the major mega publishers to their chick lit, their non-fiction best sellers, their mass marketed paperback piles of crap. (No offense to the authors who do manage to publish with the big ‘uns. Good on ya for actually making some $$, if you have actually managed to make some. You deserve it. I hope your cover art was not too atrocious, and your book was well place in B&N.)

But here’s what else I have to say about HOPEwhich relates to my favorite rant topic, the trials and tribulations of owning a vajayjay.

1.

We have an opportunity to elect a female leader of the free world.

Because the world at large tends to not hear women, let me repeat: We have an opportunity to elect a female leader of the free world.

As someone deeply involved and committed to female mentoring, particularly in my puppy dog, full on slathering, sloppy love of and involvement with Girls Write Now(www.girlswritenow.org) I have witnessed first hand the power of a strong female role model in a young girl’s life. 100% of our girls go on to college. 100% of our girls owntheir voices. They are strong, bold, powerful, intelligent, sexy. But they are also awkward, shy, and think too much about boys (or girls, if that’s their druthers). The same is true for their mentors, though they may not know it at first, or ever, because they look to us, and they think we got it goin on, and got our lives together. What they don’t often realize is that we are looking at them, thinking the same things: Damn, this girl is only 14, and she got it goin on, and she’s got her life together, and goddamnit if she isn’t a better writer than me to boot!

So, this gives me hope, and Hillary Clintongives me hope. Because if nothing else, she knows from personal experience how fucking hard it still is to be a woman or a girl, and how even intelligent men (and women) will still give you a fucking hard time and make you constantly have to explain yourself and justify your (unwomanly) existence and ambitions and qualifications, and they will judge you for the choices you make in life, and who and how you sleep with, and who you happened to be married to, and they will judge you for showing emotions, and they will judge you for not showing emotions, and they will continue to polish the glass ceiling above your head that gives you all those internal bruises, and they will continue to ignore you, put you down, refuse to listen . . . but Hillary, if you can just make it to the White House, there will be a new well of hope in the hearts of young women everywhere, across the globe. And yes, this gives me hope. A lot, lot, lot of hope.

2.
And so, now, my final story of HOPE. An inspirational tale. I’ll try to keep it short, because, little chickens, if you are still with me this far down in this excruciatingly long blog entry, you deserve it.

The setting is the Girls Write Now end of year reading at Astor Place Barnes & Noble. The voice is that of Jessica Valenti, who is reading from her newly published (by a small press, of course) Full Frontal Feminism. She, too, develops a potty mouth when talkin up the moral outrage. So at the end of the reading, this teacher who had brought along some of her students to the reading (I think maybe 5th grade, but don’t quote me), checked in with them, wanting to know if they had any questions or concerns about the reading. She thought they might be offended or shocked or at least blushingly giggly about the potty words, and so she wanted to give them the chance to voice their thoughts so she could properly respond to them, reassure them.

They didn’t give a fuck about the godddamned potty words. (Why would they, really. Surely they’ve heard them before.) This is what they asked their teacher:

“We want to know more about this word, ‘feminism?’”

So there you are, folks. Short and sweet. There is still HOPE in the world. For women, for writers, for future generations. As the Dixie Chickssay (ahhh, remember when they were lambasted and labelled “unpatriotic” for saying something not glowingly positive about GWB? Like, that maybe he should not have dragged our country into war so quickly. You know, that war that has been going on for umpteen years now, in which thousands and thousands of people have died. For . . . what exactly? Really, what werethey thinking, those Dixie Chicks? Clearly unwomanly thoughts. Not very dixie or very chicky of them to dare to open their pretty, painted mouths other than to sing pretty, happy, i-love-my-country songs). Ohhh, look how I got one last little rant in there. Wahoo! But back to hope, for real, and cowboy hats off to the Dixie Chicks, and all other female artists who won’t keep their pretty mouths shut:

Sunday mornin’, heard the preacher say, Thou Shall Not Kill.

I don’t wanna hear nothin else, ’bout killin, and that it’s God’s will.

‘Cause our children are watching us, they put their trust in us, they’re gunna be like us.

So let’s learn from our history, and do it differently.

I hope for more love, more joy and laughter.

I hope we’ll have more than you’ll ever need.

I hope we’ll have more happy ever afters.

I hope we can all live more fearlessly.

And we can lose all the pain and misery.

But no, I can’t just leave it there. I have to leave it here, circle back around to my own voice and the voices of the women and girls who inspire me and give me HOPE every minute of every day, the women and girls of Girls Write Now. Yes, indeed, something was in the air on May 19, 2007:

3.

Straight Outta Workshop…
An Exercise from the Creative Nonfiction Workshop

Normally, we just feature a few outstanding pieces from a GWN workshop. But something was in the air on May 19, 2007. Mentors and mentees had such incredible responses to this exercise, we couldn’t resist sharing many more.
Enjoy! — Write On, Girl!

Turn off your logical brain that says 1 + 1 = 2. Open up your mind to the possibility that 1 + 1 can equal 48, a Mercedes-Benz, an apple pie, a blue horse. Don’t tell your autobiography with facts, such as “I am in sixth grade. I am a boy. I live in Owatonna. I have a mother and father.” Tell me who you really are: “I am the frost on the window, the cry of a young wolf, the thin blade of grass.” — from Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg

Jeanette Anderson: I am the body that rolls over drunk with harsh shots of morning air. I am the crack in the window letting bits of Brooklyn in. I am the hands on your hips discovering you like a tourist on Broadway. I am the wine who rivals her sister Red. I am my mother’s coffee cups left in the bathroom after a shower, waiting. I am the plane you almost missed as socks spilled from your luggage, hungry to escape.

Grace Bastidas: I am your favorite t-shirt, an unexpected wink, that cherry on top, a sneeze in the morning, and a single white cloud coasting on a blue sky.

Caroline Berger:I am the sun bleeding into a cool Bed-Stuy morning as seen from my fire escape. I am my grandmother’s wedding ring, which I wear around my neck. I am the cat who waits patiently by the door for you to come home so I can swat playfully at your dangling, homemade scarf.

Nana Brew-Hammond: I am a raised fist shaking with conviction and fear. I am an overflowing waffle cone of vanilla ice cream. I am the song I sing in a 20-minute shower.

Kerri Davidson: I am the dust that dances in the light of a sun-filled window. I am the thought that has yet to be written, the sand on a California beach, held in a souvenir bottle.

Sami Diaz:I am a plague upon existence, the black ink in the felt of a Sharpie, the pixilated picture on myspace. I am made of real hair and eyelashes and nails. They call me Sami Cyanide, the poison that stops your mitochondria. The instant death, the sound of your computer starting up, headphones on your dresser, your posters, your idols smeared with black eyeliner. That old book smell that keeps you going, the turn of the page, bad handwriting, your flaws and imperfections, the holes in your stocking, the poison, the zombie. The girl.

Jazmine Gray: I am the perfect verse over a tight beat, I am the one pink rose in the midst of weeds, the dream that never came true.

Lauren Gurfein: I am a single leaf caught in a swirl of wind, lost and free, the sticky air that surfaces when summer rain meets pavement.

Mona Haddad: I am a collection of other people’s stories, ice cream in the freezer, the surveillance camera outside, a half-cracked glass, a hidden jewel. I am the thing that can only be felt, not seen or named.

Stephanie Huancas: I am…the first snowflake that falls on a warm face, the adorable laughter of a child, the twilight breeze through your hair, the encouraging smile you anticipate.

Sarah Jang:I am the “Oh! What’s in this?” the overly curious newborn puppy, the soft light that reflects the white wall, the huggable plushie.

Phantasia Johnson: I am the letter-creating words that make sentences into a story. I am the colors of a rainbow that represent gay pride. I am the eyes of an observer that see everything but says nothing.

Lisa Ko:I am a wound watch, ready to turn. I am the still air before a summer thunderstorm–weighted and expectant. I am the lion hiding in the grass, biding the time, catching her breath.

Ebony McNeill: I am an angel flying through the sky, dancing among the twinkling stars. I am the clouds bursting with chocolate strawberries. And I am the chocolate strawberries that fill your mouth with joy.

Zaedryn Meade:I am one solid tree in a field, I am the blenny fish in the tidepool after you’ve overturned the rock, I am caught sheep’s wool on a wire fence.

Rhonda Palacio: I am the sun while it’s at ease. I am the rainbow after a sun shower, I am like burnt bread, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside.

Mary Roma: I am the Wonder Woman on Halloween and all other days (but I’m just not wearing my costume), a human library of celebrity parentage and sob stories, a dream of guppies.

Catherine Shu:Appearances can be deceiving. People tend to think that I am very sweet and polite but, in reality, I have a mouth so filthy that being force-fed the entire contents of a Bath and Body Works distribution center wouldn’t clean it out. I am so deceitful that I make Dick Cheney look like Little Lord Fauntleroy. I have so little self-control that I make Mary Kay Letourneau look like Martin Luther.

Erica Silberman: I am that frisky horse that runs away on the first beautiful day. I am the scent of hyacinth remembered from a long time ago. I am a hurricane that rattles things and chairs up your deep desires.

Michele Thomas: Who am I really? I am the last grain of sleep before you wake up, I am the scent of your favorite dish, I am the friend you forget you know, but have always really liked.

Natalia Vargas-Caba: I am a blood spurt from an open-heart surgery, the neglected shirt hanging behind his bedroom door. I am the stitches on an animal in laboratory testing. I am the sunrise, watched by another male.

Briana Wilson: I am the chores your mom makes you do, I am the guilty conscience, I am the crack in your mirror, I am the addiction you can’t break, I am the white lines on your bathroom sink.

Rashri Shamsundar: I am a hurricane, the twisted tornado jumbled up, the quiet right before the storm.

Not so much a blog post . . . February 3, 2008

as a note to self that i truly do intend to post something new. someday. soon. maybe today.