advices

I'm in a bit of writing rut.

If you have known me in the last month or so, you'd say I'm crazy. I've been spending incredible amounts of time lost in my poems with a new manuscript in the works (perhaps!) and even the times when I'm not writing, I am thinking of it... but I guess that's just it—lost.

During my time at both Pitt Greensburg and Chatham, I was faced with a lot of ideas about writing. Each professor had her (mostly her) own MO when it came to writing—everything from muses and inspiration to navigation within the poem via line breaks and internal rhyming... well, you get the idea. Strange, but sometimes their words stick in me even when I'm not reaching for guidance. I've got a little committee happening. The worst part is that much is conflicting and, at some level, I need to find my own methodology, you know?

Professor V said: "There is no such thing as Writer's Block."
J still makes good at setting aside a time, like a schedule, for writing.
Dr. M. told me it was okay to keep writing about the same thing, that sometimes you had to just write it out of you. Also: when you're feeling it, like you need to write and you're on a roll, the rest of the world comes second.
B always told me to "write the fucking poem."

Just a brief snippet of what's on my mind. These are all in encouraging in their own way, but never before have I felt so stifled by my subject.

No matter. I'm sure it will pass. Going to re-focus my energies in acrylic.

Getting a porch show tonight, like last. This night, though, it isn't lightening, but UFO's, which we have (for solace?) dubbed as paper lanterns. They seems to be on fire—something like a dying firework, but they float strangely then disappear. It's a somber lullaby out here tonight, sung by the incessant, high-pitched snarls of neighborhood cats hunting each other.

I want another three-day weekend. Rightthissecond. I'm turning liquid again...
mpt

Saturday AM Review

I spend my weekend mornings, typically, downing coffee and writing things. More often than not, I'm wishing I were still asleep—unless it's super sunny. Then I want to eat the world.

Today isn't very remarkable in the weather sort of way. It's warm enough to be in boxers and a hoodie. Quite the dynamic. But I do feel like eating the world. Does anyone else ever feel that way? Maybe it was the stressful week—the onslaught of meticulous label-editing (for print!), the half-celebratory/half-disappointing end to the semester, the weight of unproductive socializing...

I'm the type of person that needs to do things to feel accomplished. I have too many hobbies and projects. This last year has been huge for me, though, and I'm thinking I need this carelessness right now. Is that ok? SOMEONE TELL ME IT IS OK. Haha. Still, I've been having fun with my friends... just gabbing and being animated and probably smoking too many damn cigarettes.

But summer is almost here. I have big plans for it in terms of my writing and art. My latest project, well two, are sort of absorbing my brain at the moment. My boss has commissioned me to paint abstracts in frames for her house. I have about 8-10 of her empty frames in my livingroom waiting to be filled. I love my boss. She's way cool. Only a few years older than me, but classy with an admirable sense of style. So yeah... I'm terribly nervous. I need to start painting, though, instead of worrying. She believes in me... that should be enough fuel, right?

My other project is poetry, of course (and avoiding the horrendous, but 11-chapter novel I have written). I haven't heard back from Finishing Line Press on my last manuscript endeavor, so I'll chalk it up as a loss. What's with that? You pay 15 bucks and they can't even mail/e-mail a rejection? Pfft. Then again, who knows with these crazy spam filters. (;

So what do you do on Saturday/weekend mornings? Do you jump from your bed and run out of the door? Do you clean? Do you go to church? What!?

And has anyone read anything good lately? I need some words.
mpt

Something Like Bieber Fever

While I have been toiling away at life matters—mostly teaching at this point, I have been immersing myself in Atwood. Her poetry is like magic to me. One night, being so inspired and honestly consoled by her words, I tweeted her, even. This is what crazy Bieber fans probably do, too, so I'm not shedding any positive light on myself here. I'm thisclose to screaming and waving my underwear around. But probably not.

Me: @MargaretAtwood Revisiting your poem today. Think your my word soulmate. (Picture of poem from book).


Atwood: Thank you...



C'mon, everyone. Clearly, I have an "infamous" reputation for mishaps—for those of you who do not know about my mistakenly using the word "infamous" on all things work-related/published, that was a treat. Yeah... I did that. But don't be judgmental; many people I questioned didn't know that "infamous" wasn't, in fact, another way to describe something as "famous." Unfortunately, the definition states: "Well known for some bad quality or deed." Shit. I doubt my company minds too much that I described our products as such.


Imaginary Person #1: How about that infamous Italian pasta? 
Imaginary Person #2: Oh yeah! I heard about that a few years back—kidnapped a stick of pepperoni and was never seen again.

But even with my super obvious spelling issue, Atwood responded! Don't you dare for one second think that I didn't tweet her again to right my wrong, because I did. I had to. Margaret Atwood, don't think I'm an idiot! (This is not exactly what I said.) It was late and I was gushing and obviously too concerned with how many times it took me to snap that photo without it being blurry or cut off. Truth.

For those of you who have no idea who Miss Atwood is, well shame on you! Haha. But even if you are avidly against poetry, do yourself a favor and read "Variation on the Word Sleep." If that last stanza doesn't gut you, you're probably not awake.

I realize this entry is about to become all about poetry, but I've been on a roll here—grabbing inspiration where I find it. Recently, I read an interview from 1978. The interviewer being the infamous (kidding), the famous Joyce Carol Oates. So in this Q & A article found in The New York Times, "On Being a Poet: A Conversation With Margaret Atwood," Atwood totally digs at the guts of being a poet. I wanted to highlight this one part, because it doesn't just answer the "who" but the "why." And I totally agree, though, I have never been able to say it so articulately.

Q. Who influenced you as a poet?


A. Poe was my earliest "influence" back in high school, when I was beginning to write poetry and before I'd heard of anyone after, say, 1910. I don't think of poetry as a "rational" activity but as an aural one. My poems usually begin with words or phrases which appeal more because of their sound than their meaning, and the movement and phrasing of a poem are very important to me. But like many modern poets I tend to conceal rhymes by placing them in the middle of lines, and to avoid immediate alliteration and assonance in favor of echoes placed later in the poems. For me, every poem has a texture of sound which is at least as important to me as the "argument." This is not to minimize "statement." But it does annoy me when students, prompted by the approach of their teacher, ask, "What is the poet trying to say?" It implies that the poet is some sort of verbal cripple who can't quite "say" what he "means" and has to resort to a lot of round-the-mulberry-bush, thereby putting the student to a great deal of trouble extracting his "meaning," like a prize out of a box of Cracker Jacks.


You tell 'em, Atwood.

The Sestina

Who chooses it? What it is that they want, that is. I tap my brain for hours wanting and desiring, and then hours more wondering why it is that I want what I want. Pretty unproductive, no? It can be as simple as choosing the type of syrup you want in your Dunkin Donuts Latte Lite or as overwhelming as that horrible what-do-I-want-to-do-with-the-rest-of-my-life decision. As autonomous beings, we have the right to choose (most times) but why—that's my question. And it's "loaded." And it "depends." And some are just riskier in their choices than others, am I right? Musing here.

I think that's the problem with thinkers—and by thinkers I'm not speaking about the cerebral type necessarily. I don't mean SMART people. You don't have to be smart to be a thinker, necessarily. Over-analytical. But yes, back to the problem. I've met so many people that spend more time in limbo (to be or not to be?) than actually doing anything. Now, I'm not going to come down on myself and say I don't get shit done. Because trust me, I'm busy. I get lots done; however, I think I'd get more accomplished if I could be more definitive in my thought process.

Where is this going? Sestinas, of course. What is it in me that feels this great need to keep writing these stupid things? Do you know what a sestina is? Do you care? Probs not. I know most people don't even perk up at the mention of poetry, let alone a lost form like the sestina. I mean, look at this chart, man. It's scary enough to picture a 39-line poem in your head (with repeating end rhymes!) but to witness it as this monochrome maelstrom of lyrics... shit.

Here is the point in this nonsensical entry where you tell me about what you want... things that don't make sense. Is it part of human nature to want what is seemingly unattainable? Better yet, are you decisive? How do you think you've come to be.

And if you're a good person, you'll respond to this guilt trip by filling me in. I need filled in.

Who is wearing all black?

To all those mourning this sacred, paper-heart holiday, don't. I see more people bitching and crying about Valentine's Day than not, so in the spirit of this, I thought I'd share with you a poem. Why, you might ask. I know you're biting your nails in anticipation, but this holiday--as is its biggest gripe--is about something that doesn't necessarily exist. Not in the lacy-red romance sort of way.

Eff that, I say! Romance does exist. Just not when it is overly planned and raised to such high expectations. My hippie friend say that Valentine's Day was conceived by greeting card companies. Shit. Every holiday I know of is commercialized to the max. No matter where it comes from, I wish for you--single or not--the passion of something this day. This and every day, really. I don't care if it's your fantasy hockey team that gives you that tingly feeling in your chest or the porn under your mattress. In a world where technology is slowly replacing thought and feeling, get it where you can.

And this poem. It stole my heart from the moment I read it. So raw and real and honest. Please read!

Morning

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
i beg you do not go

Frank O'Hara



With love,
mpt

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

"Nuggets," I like to call them. Those simple, unabashed moments of clarity when someone says something to you and it finally pokes through at the right moment. We're not all always ready to accept things, you know? We have to be at a certain "point," people say. Pencil-ended as I was on Friday, my dear friend said something that felt monumental to me. And even that sounds dramatic.

Let me also relay to you that "nuggets" don't necessarily denote anything spectacular. We're not talking just epiphanies here. For instance, there was a moment I realized that the scary test of the Emergency Broadcast System wouldn't, in fact, be beeping if there were an emergency. I used to sit in anticipation— face to the TV screen, wringing my little pink hands and listening to the long drone of that too-loud alarm. Clearly, I was waiting for them to instruct us on the emergency I'd need to hide under my bed from. Then there are the many billboards and signs that I see daily but never stop to comprehend fully. For the record, Steak 'n Shake has nothing to do with any type of new-rock dance crazy from the 50's... they're talking MILKshakes, not BOOTYshakes. Perhaps it's just the strange phenomenon of hearing something so often that you never even stop to consider what it actually means. Or my IQ is just slightly high enough to enable me shoe-tying and teeth-brushing capabilities. Ha.

Anyhow, this friend of mine—so wise in the world with such brightness, like the contagious kind—she says to me... "Life is too short to spend it with people that make you feel bad." And something finally sounded to the right parts of me.

Short, sweet and something to digest this snowy Sunday. I hope, at least, a few of you out there are at the "point" where you can gobble this up. Do yourself a favor in 2012... be near the people that make you feel great about you. Chances are, you're an awesome person and you spend way too much time comparing/envying/letting other people dictate your self-worth. And this is no damn revolution. We KNOW we shouldn't. But we do it anyway. So just don't.

Easy, huh? (:

In with the... ew.

I've been trying to figure out a good way to introduce the year. I feel a plague of pressure from this post, the first post of 2012. Everywhere I go, I'm surrounded by those raw, new year's hopes: Special K displayed on every endcap; hard-to-pass-up sales on silky, sweat-proof gym clothes; and a newborn "healthy options" section on the menu of every local restaurant. Honestly, it's as if weight loss is at the heart of every new year's mission, and while that is how I began my "healthy" lifestyle, it's overwhelming. I keep catching myself sideways-glancing in mirrors and shiny windows, wondering if I need to lose more weight or what I should be wearing to hide my love handles.

Where once December 31st meant getting sloshed and recovering with free Sheetz coffee the next day, the further from 21 I get, the more I feel like I'm slipping into this thing called "adulthood." I don't like it. These days, the new year is kind of depressing—the saying goodbye to what (already) feels like an old friend, or enemy (depending on your relationship with the past). Am I already becoming this crotchety? Listen to me! For instance, yesterday as I drove through suburbia, I spotted a few kids playing in the yard, and turned to Tash:

"Wow. That's something you don't see... ever. Kids playing in the yard. Do you? When I was younger, they kicked our asses outside for the day. We got to eat and piss."

Then I stopped.

Twenty-six can't be old yet, can it? I mean, I bought anti-wrinkle cream last night—thinking preventatively, of course. I spent literally 45 minutes in the aisle at Target. I kept walking away with something, coming back to pick up something different, going away... back again. At one point, I left the aisle with nothing. I'm sure if the employees were eagle-eyeing the cameras at that moment, they'd have thought I was insane or trying to steal shit. (I have this strange guilt/paranoid fear of clerks suspecting me of theft. What is that?) 

And to really push this new year into overdrive, I've got Facebook friends posting the "countdown to the apocalypse" daily. Not with an "end of the word" intro... just the number, ominous, and luckily at this point, three digits.

I'm not saying I'm not ready for a fresh start. I'm just saying this year feels funky already.

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