since middle school, i have loved robert fulghum. i am not into the inspirational, but i am into the personal essay. and he writes them well. in his book "maybe (maybe not)", he ends an essay with this question:
"how will you know if someone really loves you if they only meet your expectations and not your needs?"
i like this.
it asks me to consider my needs.
i can easily answer questions of expectation.
all of us can. turn on a television. ask a neighbor.
we all know what to expect of love.
but, what do we really need?
9.14.2008
curtains!
i'm heading back to the classroom in october. partly b/c i'm just sick in the head and partly because i have an unwavering faith in the power of human connection.
we can save ourselves. i have been both the life vest and the swell; i have created as much as i have destroyed, and choice is the determining factor. i again choose to be part of the solution. it's the only way i know how to be good to myself.
a kid i taught sent me this poem. most people read it and want to claw their eyes out. they only see the pain.
i see the names of people who lived exceptionally, yet hopelessly. and the understanding that being good to ourselves is the first choice to be made each morning.
Trouble
by Matthew Dickman
from the New Yorker: August 11, 2008
Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
we can save ourselves. i have been both the life vest and the swell; i have created as much as i have destroyed, and choice is the determining factor. i again choose to be part of the solution. it's the only way i know how to be good to myself.
a kid i taught sent me this poem. most people read it and want to claw their eyes out. they only see the pain.
i see the names of people who lived exceptionally, yet hopelessly. and the understanding that being good to ourselves is the first choice to be made each morning.
Trouble
by Matthew Dickman
from the New Yorker: August 11, 2008
Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
8.27.2008
paranoid android
at a fall astronomy lecture, i took some notes that i found in a drawer i throw old journals in. all my life on little scraps of paper in 2 drawers.
shit.
that day i learned about the life-span of stars, considered the origin of the universe, and understood the logistics of sending information through space. i had the normal feelings of insignificance. and at the same time, felt connected.
stars have a life span.
they are born, live, and die.
just like us.
the sun we revolve around is half way through its life cycle. the damn thing will be dead in a few billion years. and so will we.
what struck me next is that NASA continually sends messages to places light years away. some of the smartest people on the planet are trying to connect with little scraps of cosmic communication that will NEVER get to anyone while humans are on earth. we will all be so dead that sending it doesn't matter.
in those drawers, i also found the scraps of my last marriage counseling session. the therapist made us write down 10 things we loved about each other. our in-class assignment was touch the other person and read the list of 10.
i was so many light years away from him that i literally almost laughed when he read his to me. that was the last time i said i love you, and i said it from an out-of-body, outer space place.
tangled in the astronomy notes, i found his list of 10. like the brightest minds in science, he had written a hopeless message. and we were so dead that the sending has never mattered.
shit.
that day i learned about the life-span of stars, considered the origin of the universe, and understood the logistics of sending information through space. i had the normal feelings of insignificance. and at the same time, felt connected.
stars have a life span.
they are born, live, and die.
just like us.
the sun we revolve around is half way through its life cycle. the damn thing will be dead in a few billion years. and so will we.
what struck me next is that NASA continually sends messages to places light years away. some of the smartest people on the planet are trying to connect with little scraps of cosmic communication that will NEVER get to anyone while humans are on earth. we will all be so dead that sending it doesn't matter.
in those drawers, i also found the scraps of my last marriage counseling session. the therapist made us write down 10 things we loved about each other. our in-class assignment was touch the other person and read the list of 10.
i was so many light years away from him that i literally almost laughed when he read his to me. that was the last time i said i love you, and i said it from an out-of-body, outer space place.
tangled in the astronomy notes, i found his list of 10. like the brightest minds in science, he had written a hopeless message. and we were so dead that the sending has never mattered.
8.20.2008
sharon rose
my great-grandfather spent the 1930's collecting sharon rose depression glass. it's baby pink: rose patterned. duh.
when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.
i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.
for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.
for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.
finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.
i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.
when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.
i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.
for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.
for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.
finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.
i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.
8.19.2008
queen of the surface streets
i never knew that heaven
a) would be in my kitchen
b) would have me baking chocolate chip cookies
c) would include a soundtrack by devotchka
d) would only serve local yazoo ale
e) would require a dress code of underwear and aprons
f) would have no air conditioning
a) would be in my kitchen
b) would have me baking chocolate chip cookies
c) would include a soundtrack by devotchka
d) would only serve local yazoo ale
e) would require a dress code of underwear and aprons
f) would have no air conditioning
white wedding
this morning when i was walking from my parking lot to the garage, there was this white balloon floating about 2 feet from the ground. it was on a ribbon that someone had curled at the end, and it wasn't an egg shaped balloon. it was shaped like an orange.
it was beautiful against the asphalt and it made me think of the kind of wedding where people have crappy food and flowers, but they are in love. like really in love- to the point where they never once thought about her bouquet of white carnations.
i like white carnations.
it was beautiful against the asphalt and it made me think of the kind of wedding where people have crappy food and flowers, but they are in love. like really in love- to the point where they never once thought about her bouquet of white carnations.
i like white carnations.
8.06.2008
sestina, baby part duex
sestinas are fun. i've played with them before on here.
i wrote this one on the plane from chi to nash.
the words were given to me by my man, who was sitting next to a man. a very. big. man.
Hell hell hell orange gummy big Sestina. Hell.
Her Sestina for the Newlywed made swell
An in-flight urge to write my own. Well,
I unfurl your contribution and see hell, hell, hell.
Now I am unsure. And the glare of orange
Sun from the wings makes my gum
Turn my stomach as I notice how big
The man we would pass these six words over is. Bisecting
The aisle with a note, I feel embarrassed. Hell,
Kind of annoying. But I am so bored. My
Eyes cross over the part of him that he
Can’t keep from spilling into 27B, a swell
Of bad choices, covering your arm rest. He is foreign
And too must feel as though in hell.
Snicker of a drunk. Reach of your arm. How big
He is in this airspace. If he sat by the window, orange
Light reflecting from fuselage would not pass. Well,
Maybe I’m exaggerating. But his hell
Is as our hell is as her hell: kind of gummy.
Present, congealed, of our own creation. Yup. Gummy.
Like the worms I bought in the airport shop. Not candy shells
But soft and changing as we spit, worry, and chew. He
and his excess blocking the sun, big
with heat and sweat. I wonder if like fires in hell
the light he sees in the glare of memory is orange.
Though I hate to do such shame to orange.
It’s a lovely hue. One of my
Heart. And anyway, I don’t believe in hell.
Couldn’t possibly. Have you been to Chicago? Hell.
A bed on Columbus Avenue with motor oil bisecting
The concrete palette of sleeping regret. That’s hell.
And in the smell of that street, my chest swells
With pangs of an eye twitch, a telling orange
Moment that that seems small in the big
Space of what we might create. If we don’t gum
It up by stoking the fire of what we know as hell.
The little pieces of them we carry. Real Hell.
Can you write about hell on an airplane? A shell
Of steel, not so big this far from Midway? Orange
Window-seat light at, well maybe, 30,000 feet. Oh Hell.
i wrote this one on the plane from chi to nash.
the words were given to me by my man, who was sitting next to a man. a very. big. man.
Hell hell hell orange gummy big Sestina. Hell.
Her Sestina for the Newlywed made swell
An in-flight urge to write my own. Well,
I unfurl your contribution and see hell, hell, hell.
Now I am unsure. And the glare of orange
Sun from the wings makes my gum
Turn my stomach as I notice how big
The man we would pass these six words over is. Bisecting
The aisle with a note, I feel embarrassed. Hell,
Kind of annoying. But I am so bored. My
Eyes cross over the part of him that he
Can’t keep from spilling into 27B, a swell
Of bad choices, covering your arm rest. He is foreign
And too must feel as though in hell.
Snicker of a drunk. Reach of your arm. How big
He is in this airspace. If he sat by the window, orange
Light reflecting from fuselage would not pass. Well,
Maybe I’m exaggerating. But his hell
Is as our hell is as her hell: kind of gummy.
Present, congealed, of our own creation. Yup. Gummy.
Like the worms I bought in the airport shop. Not candy shells
But soft and changing as we spit, worry, and chew. He
and his excess blocking the sun, big
with heat and sweat. I wonder if like fires in hell
the light he sees in the glare of memory is orange.
Though I hate to do such shame to orange.
It’s a lovely hue. One of my
Heart. And anyway, I don’t believe in hell.
Couldn’t possibly. Have you been to Chicago? Hell.
A bed on Columbus Avenue with motor oil bisecting
The concrete palette of sleeping regret. That’s hell.
And in the smell of that street, my chest swells
With pangs of an eye twitch, a telling orange
Moment that that seems small in the big
Space of what we might create. If we don’t gum
It up by stoking the fire of what we know as hell.
The little pieces of them we carry. Real Hell.
Can you write about hell on an airplane? A shell
Of steel, not so big this far from Midway? Orange
Window-seat light at, well maybe, 30,000 feet. Oh Hell.
7.28.2008
shouldn't be ashamed
if you thought last week's library selections were frightening... you were wrong. i LOVED them both. this week's however, fall in the self-help category and therefore engender true embarassment. hopefully, the FBI isn't checking my records for homeland security b.s. cause then i'd have to admit i suck at relationships.
7.21.2008
faithless, the wonder boy
what i've checked out from the library this week.
Soon I will Be Invincible : Novel / Austin Grossman
The Astonishing X-men #1-25
someone needs to get me subscription to cosmo.
i used to be a girl.
Soon I will Be Invincible : Novel / Austin Grossman
The Astonishing X-men #1-25
someone needs to get me subscription to cosmo.
i used to be a girl.
7.17.2008
don't change your plans
i am not creative right now.
i'm too tired, but something that's been on my mind is the idea of placeholders in our lives. sitting in the vanderbilt cafeteria the other day, drinking really good coffee from fiesta ware, and talking to a mentor about what the future holds, i got chastised. hard core.
man said, "poet laureate of coney island, you can't put off going to grad school just because you MIGHT have children in the next five years."
seriously, i am a 32 year old woman who is afraid to go balls to the wall after grad school because i know that if i do, i will not do anything about making a family or a life with another human being. that will be it. i'll be crazy career lady.
instead, i am crazy placeholder lady.
or seat saver lady.
maybe, a million in the bank wearing kmart clothes lady.
and it's fucking stupid.
i'm holding a seat for something that is not even a shadow in my life,
i'm not married.
i don't live with anyone.
in fact, i stutter when i use the word boyfriend.
but i can say that i'll wait on what i want to do for something i'm not sure about just because to not do it would be more than the rest of the world can handle.
i officially suck.
working on it.
i'm too tired, but something that's been on my mind is the idea of placeholders in our lives. sitting in the vanderbilt cafeteria the other day, drinking really good coffee from fiesta ware, and talking to a mentor about what the future holds, i got chastised. hard core.
man said, "poet laureate of coney island, you can't put off going to grad school just because you MIGHT have children in the next five years."
seriously, i am a 32 year old woman who is afraid to go balls to the wall after grad school because i know that if i do, i will not do anything about making a family or a life with another human being. that will be it. i'll be crazy career lady.
instead, i am crazy placeholder lady.
or seat saver lady.
maybe, a million in the bank wearing kmart clothes lady.
and it's fucking stupid.
i'm holding a seat for something that is not even a shadow in my life,
i'm not married.
i don't live with anyone.
in fact, i stutter when i use the word boyfriend.
but i can say that i'll wait on what i want to do for something i'm not sure about just because to not do it would be more than the rest of the world can handle.
i officially suck.
working on it.
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