Ugly houses, ugly poems

I have a habit of staring at houses. I love it when they're lit up at night, and I can see into them from the street--the lit world of another life. I know you're not supposed to look into other homes and worlds, but if they leave the lights on, how can I not look? But there's this one house on the circle near my home that is really sweet. It has a huge porch and many windows, a back yard full of trees and deer and a creek. The house has been for sale forever. The owners keep fixing it up and fixing it up. Everything about this house looks ideal, at least to me. But what do I know? Yeah, I know--houses everywhere are for sale, but the hideous one that looks like a tomb that is a block away--it sold in a matter of weeks. As did the one that is the color of puke. And the double wide . . .

I sometimes think of my poems when I pass by these houses. I sometimes think my crappy ones get swept up right away. And the ones I like, I keep fixing up and fixing up. I can't ever fix them up enough of course. That's my curse.

92

It's my mom's birthday today. She's 92, and going strong. People always ask me, so how old was she when she had you? Old, my mom would have answered. She liked to tell me that having a child after 40 is more risky (genetically speaking) than having a child with your first cousin. And she'd add that that's why my uncle is autistic -- most likely. Then she'd say that you'd never breed an old cow.

My mom loved to compare folks to cows. And what she said is true. Recently the health news has been reporting these facts as if they are new. Old parents, yes even old dads (perhaps esp. in the case of autism, though I'm not sure the verdict is in on that), increase the risks for various issues for kids. It's not a popular fact these days when waiting to have children is the norm. Not something I like to think about much, considering what it might mean in my case, not that I can do much about it. And having a mom whose 92, well, that's genetics too I guess. 92. And that is old. I'm not sure I will go that long, not if I have a choice about it. And I probably do. Maybe I'll take up smoking in my 80s.

AWP and the Dead

I always feel strange after AWP. As if I have to remember who I am. And then friends ask me what I did and what it was like, and I can't remember. Except I was sick at the end. That always happens at AWP. At a certain point, the urge to hurl is overwhelming.

I know I should remember something else about the conference--the readings, the panels, the book fair, the famous writers . . . . But this year I kept seeing this woman who looked like my dead cousin. She was blonde and tall and lightly freckled, and she seemed to be smoking on the other side of the twirly doors every time I was about to go through. I would stop and remember, she's dead.

It reminded me of the year I first knew someone who died. Her name was Mary. I was in first grade. She was like a grandma to me, and I kept seeing her around town after she'd passed. My mom hadn't told me she'd died, and by the time I realized she was gone, I couldn't remember what she looked like.

My dad told me you never really remember the faces of those you love, as if to comfort me. I found a photograph of Mary years later, and it looked nothing like I expected it. Sometimes I still stare at it. That's Mary? Maybe that's why I started memorizing the faces of loved ones. I still do that. I do it every day, carefully noticing scars and freckles, a change in hair color, a new strand of gray. My dad was an artist and he loved to have his kids draw, and I often pretend I am drawing people when I look at them, tracing their features in pencil. My mom always said it's rude to stare, and I do stare. How can you not want to stare? But If I look too hard at one part of someone's face, they will inadvertently reach up and touch it. Then I know I need to look away.

Books I Love

People often ask, what books do you love most? And why? I don't have a clue how to answer that. Some books I love because I feel as if they're so stunning. Some I love the story, some the language, some the paragraphs, some the smell, some the size, some the humor, some the mood, some the magic . . . Yes, the magic . . .

Like Brockmeier--I love him for his many, many beautiful paragraphs . . . Like this one from The Truth about Celia:

Here is Celia, running like a rabbit through the sunlight, on a day so perfectly pitched between winter and spring that she can feel streamers of warm air in the wind. The grass looks willowy and tender, and she very much wants to take off her shoes and flatten it beneath her feet, but her mom told her that if she went pounding around barefoot outside she might catch something. She is afraid of catching something. When she was six, she caught the flu, and when she was five she caught the chicken pox. She stops by the pond and looks into the water, creased by the breeze. There is a cluster of minnows swimming just beneath the surface, and when she tries to touch one they scatter away in a spray of silver Vs . . .

Okay that's not even the best one, but it's a first one I remember reading, the opening to the book . . .

One of my favorite Brockmeier's is the story, "A Fable of White Paper Spilling from the Pockets," which begins: Once there was a man who happened to buy God's overcoat. He was rummaging through a thrift store when he found it hanging on a rack by the fire exit . . .

Another good book, and a huge contrast, is the graphic novel, Fun Home, which is one of a kind--totally new to me, at least. I don't think I've read a book so honest. I totally believe every second of this book by Alison Bechdel. And I am suddenly aware that I've never really believed any of the memoirs or autobiographies or so-called confessional poems before this one. This one feels so totally real. Maybe because some of the story is mine, because I see my dad in this dad, but only a tiny bit of my dad. Maybe because it's a graphic novel. Maybe because it is.

But there is no singular paragraph or moment in the book . . . . And I don't mean that as a negative. Just that I usually have a page in a book that I remember better than any other page--a particular memory or thought or image or . . .

And with many books, all I need is to love one particular page, and the book is a winner.

Then there is Chris Barzak who dares to try to do everything I would like to do but can't ever try at the same time. In his new book,The Love We Share Without Knowing,--there's the personal tale, magical realism, the bigger than life issues--okay--life and death issues, the love story or the lack of love-- story, and the twisted myths and fairy tales of and for a strangely twisted world . . . and, and . . . . There is one character living on another's life stories. (Something I am so guilty of--always have been, feeding on other's tales as if they were a way to survive . . . though in the story it becomes dangerous to do so ). And his stories are connected like pieces of stained glass window, all the light shining together to make it a short story collection that is a novel . . .


Then there is this book, No Other Life, by Gary Young, which I bought ages ago and thought was boring. I picked it up a few months ago, and it's become one of those books I keep in arms reach. I don't know what he does and don't want to know or say right now because if I analyze something when the magic is happening, it stops the magic every time.

And then there's Galleano's --The Book of Embracess, a best- best friend, and Rick Bursky's The Soup of Something Missing, and of course, Henri Michaux's everything. And there's always the out of print The Prose Poem, an International Anthology, which is in so many pieces, floating around my office, and if I could ever find one, new and in working order, I'd be in heaven . . .

And then there's Michael Ondaatje's Elimination Dance. It's incredibly funny.

And of course, there are the children's books I totally love . . . Esp. books long out of print with pretty pictures like my copy of The Arabian Nights with illustrations by Maxfield Parish . . .

So many books, too many I guess, and yet never enough.

Male Logic

I just got off the phone with a friend who was bitching about women. I always find it odd when you have a male friend who bitches. Esp. who bitches about women, as if they are aliens. And then he bitches to a woman because after all, can men bitch to men? I mean, is that done? Women, he said, are just so "f-ing sensitive." I kept working and not really listening, though I was beginning to feel a bit sensitive myself. Sigh. I was very tempted to read him this little piece I wrote a while ago.

Male Logic

(an excerpt from a poem in Sleeping with Houdini.)


One day, I gave up and said, “Listen, Honey, I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just having a bad day. But I think we’re finished. I don’t know what else to say.”

That’s when you handed me that tape entitled, Reason Your Way To Bliss. I tried to listen to it. Honestly, I did. But I stopped, every time I got to that point where the speaker (a man, of course—only a man would equate reason and bliss) was saying: If you take a rock and examine it beneath a microscope, it is no different from a human beneath a microscope. Everything on earth is just atoms and molecules. But I ask you, can a rock have a bad day? Can a bad day be seen beneath a microscope? Of course it can’t. If a rock is smart enough not to have a bad day, then how could you be having a bad day? In truth bad days do not exist. Humans and rocks do. I had to turn off the tape. This, Love, is male logic at its best.

Ask Not What Big Brother Can Do for You

A friend of mine told me her father came up with the line: Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country. I always thought it was a great line until Jimmy commented that it sounds sort of totalitarian. Like some kind of pledge of allegiance to Big Brother.

Then I was reading an article in the New Yorker. The gist of it was--we are all waiting for Obama to save us. But things are so bad, we're going to have to save Obama.

As a writer and not a politician or an evangelist, I don't think I ever imagine I can save anyone. I don't think saving is part of a poet's mission. (Of course I've read poets who disagree with that.) No, I think of myself as one of the fiddlers on the deck of the Titanic. Someone who watches the icebergs sail towards her.

Best and Worst Presidents

Everyone is saying GW Bush will go down in history as the worst president ever. Is he worse than Nixon?

I hate to admit it, but as creepy as he was, I sort of liked Nixon, but mostly as a kind of character in a novel (too bad he was real), a study in paranoia. Maybe it's because I met him once, ever so briefly. He was so so weird, waving his fingers in the air. Hard to say I like someone who bombed the hell out of Vietnam without any sense of remorse, who was always sneaking around, doing creepy things. But his wife seemed decent enough. I mean she supported the ERA, was pro-choice (with reservations), traveled the nation and the world, went into the combat zone is South Vietnam, and seemed to have a social conscience. I don't think she knew about Watergate, and she appeared to enjoy Nixon (she always looked miserable with him, esp in the end) about as much as the rest of us did.

Laura Bush, I read recently, is so boring that several major publishers are not interested in bidding on her biography. GW said about her: She's the perfect wife. She does not go into the spotlight.

I think Andrew Jackson is hard to beat as a candidate for the worst president. It seems that Jackson, Nixon, Bush and Cheney all thought they were above the law.

Eleanor Roosevelt might have been the best president ever. She was the heart, the legs, the conscience, and probably most of the brains of FDR. Funny to think he initially wanted her to stay out of the public eye and serve tea to guests of the White House. Maybe join the stitch and chat with the other women of her day . . .

Another History Post

1. Camp David is named after Eisenhower's grandson.

2. President Johnson tried to broker a peace accord with Vietnam in his last year of presidency, but failed. Nixon had already asked South Vietnam to wait until he was elected, suggesting that he would bring them a better deal.

3. Johnson loved skinny dipping and Fresca, and was said to have announced his ideas for the The Great Society to his advisers while he was nude in the swimming pool.

4. Nixon had so many enemies, he had to keep a list of their names.

5. Carter turned the AC off in the White House during summer days, and it was said to have been broiling hot. Carter, the good southern boy and eco-evangelist, didn't seem to mind the heat.

6. Nancy Reagan served as Reagan's protector and had Donald Regan fired.

7. George Bush Sr. was so popular after Desert Storm, and so unpopular after he gave up on his promise--no new taxes. I think about that, and I worry about Obama. After all, so many president's approval ratings have depended on the economy doing well , and yet, economic woes are often inherited from prior administrations.

Another interesting fact:

Franklin Roosevelt's famous inaugural line, 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," was composed by Louis Howe.

(Okay, I know it's not surprising that FDR didn't write his famous lines. But I always wonder how it would change our perceptions if we had credits at the end of presidential speeches. Imagine: this speech was written by X, edited by Y, brought to you by . . . )

A Few More Facts

1. Grant was one of the early presidents to take on the issue of terrorism --he did a great job vs. the KKK. It was also said of Grant, oddly, that he cringed at the sight of blood.

2. Buffalo Bill killed over 4,000 bison in 8 months.

3. Many of the most famous rich American families made their fortunes during the Civil War: Rockefeller, Armour (meat), Carnegie,
Morgan . . .
"A man may be a patriot without risking his life," Mellon wrote to his son. "There are plenty of other lives less valuable."

4. Coolidge rode a mechanical horse during his time in the White House--it was his way of staying in shape.

5. FDR married his cousin. Yep, Eleanor kept her last name. Thomas Jefferson also married his cousin.

Odd facts

Just a few random, odd historical facts . . .

1. George Washington ran a distillery at Mount Vernon and produced thousands of gallons of whiskey . . . Rye and corn whiskey.

2. Thomas Jefferson was accused of having an affair with his slave, Sally Hemings, who was actually his wife's half-sister.


3. The Monroe Doctrine was not written by Monroe.

4. Andrew Jackson replaced about 919 of his government employees, rewarding his loyal followers and dumping the rest.

5. Zachary Taylor's body was exhumed in 1991 (I think that was the year) in order to verify that he died of natural causes. For years foul play was suspected.

I heard that

1. On Weekend America I heard that Obama won the election (in part) because of the font he used. The Obama signs-they never changed font. This is important in such turbulant times when everything is changing around us so fast . . .

2. On This American Life, I heard that 24 dead people in Ohio were approved for mortgages.

3. At the grocery store this week, I heard a woman telling her daughter how to behave at "an adult party." "You say hello. Nice to meet you. And shake hands."

"Yes, you say nice to meet you even if it’s not nice to meet you. No, that's not the same as lying."

4. At Great Harvest a man in front of me was asking for the white dinner rolls, but they were sold out. "I'm allergic to wheat," he said sadly. "I can't have your brown rolls."

5. At a party the other night I learned that we are running out of gigabytes of gas. No matter what the price of oil . . .

6. At Starbucks my daughter overheard two young women talking. One said --"Now that Obama is elected, I need to buy a gun."
The other said . . . "Me, I'd like to be trophy wife."

7. My son tells me they sell hotdog flavored bubble gum in Berkeley. Just in case you want to have hotdog breath . . .

8. On New Years Eve a man told me he interviewed prospective students for Princeton University. One told him she wanted to be a marine biologist. How did you become interested in marine biology, he asked her. From watching Free Willy, she said.

Cure for the aches and pains of writing . . .

My mother practiced yoga. Which meant that when my friends came to visit, my mom would show them how she stood on her head. And years later, when my daughter had friends visit her grandma, she would show them how she stood on her head. Once she stood on her head in the middle of a party. Another time she did it in the airport. Sometimes she stayed upside down for a while, her face growing redder and redder, as she told how wonderful it is for the body to be upside down. How it cures all kinds of pains and illnesses.

For years I thought she was nuts. (I mean, she is/was nuts.) But I’ve discovered that there are some aches and pains, esp. the kind you get from writing too long—that are best cured by going upside down.

Dreamers and Pragmatists

I envy idealism. I really do, but it also scares me. The way it sweeps people up, the way it can overpower reason. I've been reading and watching too many books and movies where the idealists and evangelists of one kind or another take hold of an audience. There's that voice of logic inside me that starts to panic . . .

At the same time, we need our ideals, right? And sometimes I envy the real dreamers and believers. But they need the pragmatists of the world to join in. It's one of my gripes about the Peace Corps--they take these young dreamers and send them out solo with no real financial support or training (or not much training).

The other night we had a small Peace Corps gathering. One told a story about Mali, how three of the volunteers were killed. The first two were electrocuted. The third was one of the leaders. She had this dream--to bring water to the village. She joined with another NGO and had a tower built. They filled the tower with water on the final day--a day of celebration-and the tower collapsed and killed her.

That story seems like such a metaphor to me . ..

The Dance You Learned As a Kid

Because you learned it as a kid, you do the steps without even thinking of it. You hum the dance tune in your head, even when it's not being played on the radio or stereo, and you don't remember if or when it stopped being played out there and started playing in your mind and dreams. You dance even when you're not meaning to. Dancing and dancing. You add a little flourish, an extra turn or twist, but no one really notices. You miss a beat here and there, but you always manage to catch your breath and jump back in. You think you'll never stop dancing. You think it isn't worth worrying about because for now, anyhow, you're still dancing. You think no one ever stops because even when they stop, even when and if they can stop that is, they still feel their feet moving and their arms and legs and hips . . Like phantom limbs and hips . . .

( I know it's a cliche, but sometimes I feel like oh so cliche.)

Scary Moments at the Grocery Store

There aren’t a lot of grocery store option in this part of Ohio. I get to pick between the 3 Giant Eagles. I mean, there’s the one where everyone from the bakery folks to the checkout ladies and baggers are eternally happy. How are you today, Sweetie. Or: You look a little down today, Sweet Heart. The second Giant Eagle is the one where there aren’t enough checkout people, so you go to the auto scanners. It’s sort of an honor system. I often watch the person in front of me pay for apples when he’s buying avocados, or for Boston lettuce when he’s purchasing a spring mix. Finally there’s giant cavernous Giant Eagle. Everyone there looks like they escaped from a prison or a zombie flick. If you are looking for something unusual, either in human or grocery specimens, odds are you might find it there but you go at your own risk.

A month ago I got lost in the giant Giant Eagle. I had just visited the doctor for a sinus infection, and he’d given me a sample of some kind of decongestant that wasn’t supposed to make you feel drowsy. Drowsy was the least of what I felt. The store started expanding in front of me, each aisle getting longer, and next thing I knew, these strange items were appearing in my cart. I kept walking and walking, pushing this overflowing cart, but I couldn’t find the exit. When I finally saw the door, I left as fast as I could, walked out into the sunlight, thankful that there was sunlight, thankful that there was still sky out there. Some miracles you can’t ever be thankful enough for.

Later I called the doctor to tell him the samples were a little scary. Oh, he said, thanks for letting me know. My doctor loves samples and gives them away to anyone willing to take them. In fact my doctor gave a friend of mine some sample anti-depressants once. My friend said every time he took a pill, he got an erection. A major erection that lasted for hours. No, it wasn’t Viagra. When he called the doctor to tell him, the doctor said, yes, he too had noticed this side effect. Then the doctor asked if he wanted some more samples. (And no, I’m not telling you the name of my doctor.) I have this drawer now full of random samples for a variety of occasions. I figure you never know when a sample might come in handy . . .

The Two Kinds of Poets

I sometimes think there are two kinds of poets. The gods and the anti-gods.

The gods are born knowing they are gods, knowing that their words are magic, that their words will be heard, that their words are meant to be sung . . .

These are the ones that know that they must be worshiped. That their words will be made flesh.

As boys and girls, they were the teachers’ pets, the golden children, the ones with their hands raised high in the air, the right answers always at the tips of their tongues.

Of course, the anti-gods are as dark as the gods are light, as invisible as the gods are visible.

The anti-gods are those who are born knowing that no one can see them. No one can hear them.

They are the unwanted, the lost, the unadopted . . .

They are born knowing that something inside them is missing, something is lost, something can never be answered . . . No matter how many pages they fill with words, they feel the blank pages flutter inside them. The emptiness. Some days a god fills the space, or a love, or a ray of sunlight, and they think at last. Of course. Thank you. But by morning the blank space has always returned.

How God Became a Poet

A woman imagines she is a poet. So she spends her life writing. She feels sometimes as if she is writing to someone far away, someone she has never met, a muse, an angel . . . Who knows who? But he or she is someone who wants to read her every word. She writes and writes.

One day she reads about saints who pray in the same way she writes-praying and praying to a god who never answers. She finds it disturbing to think of an unanswering god. Why doesn't he ever bother to answer? she wonders. One night she writes a long letter to the silent god, bitching at him for never answering his devotees, and for never picking up his phone or answering his mail or email.

But why should I answer you? God writes her back. It’s women like you that piss me off, women who expect something. Women who want something. Women who never stop asking . . .
In fact, that’s why I am interviewing for another job. A job where no one knows my name . . .

You could be a poet, the woman suggests . . .

(After that, the woman remembered why she never cared much for gods. And the god remembered why he always disliked women.)

Zen and the Art of Not Writing

Sit quietly at your desk. Arrange in front of you a pile of blank, unlined paper and your favorite pens or pencils, all freshly sharpened. (I prefer the Dixon Ticonderogas, or fountain pens, the cheap kind that bleed all over my fingers.) Breathe deeply. Let the mind be as blank as the paper. Do not think of a word. Do not write a word. Know: the word is but a blemish on the serene white face of the paper. Do not allow a single word to appear.

In this way, many poets have completed entire manuscripts in spite of their efforts to master their craft.

(It's true. The year my friend, Claire, said she wasn't writing another poem ever, and she wasn't sending out her work; and she esp. would never ever enter another book competition, she won a huge book contest and a Pushcart.)

Tales of Abstinence

Thanks Lyle, for your comment on my post below. And yes, I know . . .

There is a Zen story about the artists who go to the temple every year for seven years. For seven years they aren’t allowed to paint. When they finally are allowed to use their paint brushes, they create the most beautiful art.

Seven years, eleven years, and more . . . the mythic way of saying—a very long time.

There are tales told of love/sex like this.

1. A Zen friend told me—how her lover said they must wait for seven years before having sex. He said in this way he would know she loved him for him, and not for what he delicately termed—his other self.

Did you wait? I asked.
Did I waste seven years of good sex? she answered.

2. There was another story I was told once by my Zen friend. It goes something like this.

Once a king had a beautiful daughter, and when she was of age, all the princes in all the lands came to see his princess. (Her name, which I forget because it’s in Japanese, was Flower of the Sky. Or was it Cloud Girl? ) Soon all the princes were asking for her hand in marriage. Ah, the father said, but which one of you loves my daughter, not for her looks, not for her wealth and power, but for her very soul?

Which one of you will wait for seven years?

Each prince said me, me, me. And each day the princes came to visit the beautiful girl. But after one year, one prince gave up hope, and after two, many more gave up hope. Soon there was only one prince who returned to see the lovely girl. The father wasn’t pleased by this prince because he was smaller than the rest, more reserved, though he had impeccable manners and taste.

(Impeccable taste is also something only the Japanese know, my Zen teacher said.)

And so, after seven years, the king relented to the wedding. By then there were no other men in sight, so what could he do? After all, it isn’t good for a woman to marry too late in her life . . .

By then the prince and princess had become good friends. They understood each other. They knew each others inner most secrets. The prince knew how the princess had never wanted to be either a princess or a bride. And the princess knew that the prince was gay, but he lived in a world where many men were gay but none admitted it, especially not princes. And so the two talked of their sufferings, of their mutual feeling of oppression—And so it was that the two married and lived happily ever after, each setting the other free to live his or her life, just as s/he pleased.

3. The third tale I remember is about a man, an artist, who is allowed to love a woman from afar but never really to possess her. At least not for seven years. How did this work? (I can't recall exactly. Neither can the man.) Except that she was nude. Why was she nude? I don't know. Maybe she was model in an art class. Maybe he was a painter. I don't know, but she was always there in some strange room, and in his mind, and in a picture . . . But he could never touch her. (At least not yet.) At first he feared he would turn leathery and old without ever knowing the feel of her skin. But then he began to fear -- if he actually touched her, what then? What if she wasn't the woman he imagined? Best not to try to love her, he then reasoned, lest he lose her. And be disappointed forever after, as he so often was. After all, he was an artist, a perfectionist, a man not easily pleased . . .

The Art of Not Writing

There is a certain power in it. The power of resistance. The power of not giving in.

Sort of like not answering the phone. Not checking the mail or email. You know someone is there. (But it’s probably no one you want to hear from. The no one who is always there.) But if you don’t check, you know it becomes more likely that someone or something is there. The longer you wait, the more certain you can be that an urgent message is waiting. Like a red light beeping. Someone needs you. Someone needed you. Chances are my love -- it is already too late.

The Art of Not Writing

1.

A professor told me once that in order to write, one must learn not to write. One must understand the significance of not writing. Just as one understands winter. The snows fall, and the fields lie fallow so that spring may follow.

Sometimes, he said, he sits in front of a blank page for hours and hours, day after day. He sees it as a snow covered field. He sees the birds fly overhead, and the clouds. Poems will surely come, he says. He can never say when.

2.

A woman sits alone at her desk practicing the art of not writing. It’s quiet in her home. Her husband is at work. Her children are at school. From her office window, she can see that her neighbor is out in her garden, watering flowers. She listens to a woodpecker tapping at the outside of her house. The phone rings. The dog scratches at the other side of the door, and whines, begging to come in. The dog walks in and out of her poem, its long tail wagging and knocking over a vase of flowers sent by a secret lover.

3.

The professor and the woman are both sitting at their desks, staring out into space. Neither of them is writing. They are both practicing the art of not writing. They are both waiting for the poem that has never been written. The poem that is like the silence in a Zen painting. Like the lover they never had. In the morning news they read of children buried in mudslides. They read of travelers stranded in Denver without their luggage. Of masked men who broke into mansions and left no fingerprints and stole no jewels, no money, no artwork. What were they looking for in the carpeted homes of strangers?

Winter Moments

1. A woman is seated at the next table in Starbucks with a friend and her grade school son. What do you mean, you doubt God? the woman asks her friend. If there were no God, we would all be stones. Think about it.
Stones? the boy asks.
Stones, the mother answers.


2. My friend is talking to me about the economics of Youngstown. It’s a shadow of the city it once was. It’s what happen to cities, she says. It will happen to San Francisco next. All that rampant materialism out there.
San Francisco? I ask.
Yep, she nods.

3. A student has 2 poetry professors. Call them Poet A and Poet B. She admires them both and feels so lucky to be studying poetry with them. One day Poet A tells her he would love to nail Poet B’s balls to the wall. The student tells me that was her moment of awakening. Before that moment, she always thought poets had souls and minds as lovely as their lines.


4. A woman lets her daughter try on her favorite black keyhole dress. It’s a silky sleeveless dress with a hole (hence the term keyhole) in the back. The daughter tries it on, first with the keyhole in the front to show off cleavage. Then with the keyhole in the back. It’s great, the daughter says. I can wear it out dancing. And to funerals.

At the Mall

I am at the mall, and I have lost all interest or memory of why I am there. (I always do this at malls. It takes twenty minutes, and then I am out of my body. I am floating around, watching the other shoppers shop, the sellers sell, the mothers tug their children and large bags, the fathers wander off aimlessly like fish in the air . . . ) Some man hands me a card and puts out his hand for money. It's one of those cards that reads I am deaf. Give me money. Or something like that. I give the man a dollar.

I am suddenly distracted by a young girl. She's maybe twelve or thirteen, and she is trying on a skimpy skirt (the kind hat my dad would say- shows more than your legs), boots, and a clingy shirt. Her mother is appalled by the outfit. The girl is pouting and twirling around in front of a mirror. Her breasts hang loosely out of the top of the blouse. She is blond and red-lipped and angry.

You look like a slut, the mother says angrily.
I look normal, the girl says. That's the trouble with you. You have no clue what normal is.
The mother looks at me, suddenly, as if I might help her.
Is that normal? she asks me, pointing at her daughter. Tell her THAT is not normal. Tell her.
The girl glares at me.
I can't think of what to say. So I give the mother the man's card. I am deaf . . .

When a Woman Farts

I'm listening to this guy talk with his friend. He says --

This is the way it is with women. They put on this act for a few weeks,
and you do, too. You're all polished up. She's always gussied up.
She's always saying nice things, and you are admiring her this,
her that . . .
And oh, it's just so AMAZING. And you think how beautiful you both are . . .
And all you do is worry about the if or the what and maybe the when

and then one day you take her to bed once, and you're still so nice, and it's still so beautiful . . .

And so you take her to bed again, and she's still trying to keep her makeup on
and her nice nice on. And her beautiful this and that. And you, too . . .

But then one day, she doesn't care about the if or the what
and then another day she doesn't do or say or wear this or that
and you don't either

And then finally . . .
she farts.
She farts in bed.
(This is the moment you've been waiting for.)
When a woman farts in bed, it means the nice is over.

I mark that day on my calendar.
September 15. Alice farted.

That's when things get real.

The Shadow of the Wind

Last night I stayed up late reading The Shadow of the Wind. I thought if only I can finish this book, I can get on with my long list of things to do. This morning, when I finally put the book down, I was relieved for about 10 minutes.

Then I did a search to find out if the author, Carlos Luis Zafon, had written any other books. I am suddenly feeling desperate for another book I can't put down.

Almost You

I was in the store the other day, and this woman started gushing. I can't believe it's you. And when I turned to face her, she realized it wasn't.

No, I am sorry, I wanted to say. I wasn't you. But I was almost you.

You look so much like Sarah, the woman said.

Yes, I agreed. I do.

It's true. I don't know who Sarah is, but I am her mirror image. I have been mistaken for her many times. I have even insulted people who know her by snubbing them as I walk right past them, blank-faced. Sarah, I've learned, is kind of a bitch. She doesn't talk to just anyone.

www.ninandrews.com

Elsa Higby made me a beautiful web site! She's amazing. CHECK IT OUT!!

www.ninandrews.com

Funny Questions

Okay, now that I posted yesterday about funny questions, I'll add one of the funnier questions I have ever been asked at a reading.

The question was about a poem I had read, which included quotes from Elvis. "I liked that last poem a lot," a young man said politely. "Was that Shakespeare you were quoting?"

Questions from Poetry Readings

Someone asked me at my last reading what were the funniest questions I'd ever been asked at a poetry reading. I thought about the usual questions . . . None of which are particularly funny, but they make me smile a little, maybe because of the quantitative or perscriptive view of writing . . .

Do you write every day? Do you write at the same time with the same type of pen and paper every day? Do you write the same number of pages or words each day? Do you write for the same number of hours? Do you prefer lined or unlined paper? Do you compose on the computer or in the back of your mind? Do you belong to a book group or a writing group? Do you need to be with other writers? Do you like other poets? Which one or ones? Do you wish you lived in New York City or L.A. or D.C. ? Or do you prefer to live in Poland, Ohio? Are your kids ashamed of you? What about your mom? Do you feel guilty? Or depressed? What depresses you? Do you think all poetry and poets suffer from depression? Do you ever wish you weren't a poet? If you could not be a poet, who would you be?

Naomi Shihab Nye

is the best. I met her last night, and was so impressed. She's as beautiful as her poems. Such an amazing spirit! Meeting her is almost as great as meeting the Dalai Lama. A Dalai Mama --I think she is that.

Reading at Cedars

Suzanne and I went to the reading at Cedar's last night. Maggie Anderson was supposed to read, but she wimped out on us, due to snow. I mean, yeah, there was a tiny bit of snow, but there's always some snow. I mean it's winter in Ohio. But maybe it's best she didn't come. I mean, there weren't many people there. But the reading was so much fun anyhow. Among the readers , there was Mel who read a nice selection from the book she is writing about growing up in Malasia. Steve Reese read a really funny anniversary poem. Phil Brady recited a poem from Neruda that made the poem almost better than Neruda. (Okay, maybe you can't get any better than that, but it was beautiful.) And Chris Barzak read from his new book, The Love We Share Without Knowing--a selection from a love story in which the protagonist was feeding on the life stories of his beloved. He kept asking for more stories until he knew the other's life stories better than his own.

I can't wait to read Chris's new book. I just bought it . .

Like the narrator in his book, I love to hear people's life stories, as much for what they say about that person's life as for what they don't say. After all, it's impossible to tell your story without editing. Without framing, without deleting, creating and recreating . . .

Otherwise there's too much information. For me that's always been the experience anyhow. Life is such an overwhelm. You can't take it all in. There's too much pain, too much beauty, too much meaning, too much meaninglessness . . .

Even in the simplest moments. I remember once in a high school art class, I was painting a tree in spring. It was an assignment. And while everyone else was done in a day, I kept painting and painting day after day, trying to recreate every leaf and shadow before it changed . . . In the end I finished about a quarter of my picture. The teacher called my style pointillist and made me stop after a few weeks. He praised my eye for detail.

For me, it was just a good example of my particular form of frustration or neurosis or myopia. My ablity to obsess on small details and not get to the whole.

Which is probably the reason I write in small forms. If I compose a piece more than three pages, I think it's too long. And I start to whittle it down to size.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Suzanne, my daughter, has completed her Peace Corps Service and is home at last!

I am so thankful!

We fly to Charlottesville, Virginia for Thanksgiving, and on Friday I will give a reading with my childhood friend, Anne Marie Slaughter at the New Dominion Book Shop.

Amazing--now that I think about it, I can still remember where Anne M sat in first grade . . .

How she knew all the answers and always had her hand in the air. There was this girl, Lisa, who sat behind her and who liked to eat paper bags.

Odd the things one remembers years later.

I am really looking forward to our trip. I only wish our son, Jimmy, could join us.

The Miami International Book Fair

I had the most amazingly fun time at this book fair. I would recommend it to anyone who has the chance to go. It's huge, huge, huge! And there are so many stellar readings, one after the other. Unlike the events at AWP, I didn't go to any mediocre readings or panels. Everyone was ON. And I mean really great.

There were so many famous writers there. I shared an elevator with Scott Simon, a bathroom with Dave Barry. It was a UNISEX bathroom, one of the more interesting features of the Writer's Room. ( Barry asked me how many sexes were in the bathroom. I asked which ones was he hoping to find. ) Vernon Jordan was there. Scott McClellan. Salman Rushdie. And the list goes on.

I read with two amazing and beautiful women. Terri Witek, author The Shipwrecked Dress. And Mia Leonin, author of Unraveling the Bed. I am reading and enjoying both of their books now. I love finding new writers to love at these events.

One of the funnier writers I met was David Henry Sterry who wrote A True Story of Sex, Drugs, Roller Skates and Chippendales.

On the downside, if there is one, I would say the book fair is so big, you can get lost in it. Also, it was hard to find the books and then get them signed because the books sales take place in a different hallway from the readings (and the location is announced at the reading). And then the author is placed (after his or her reading) in still another room or hallway. So you have to run around just to find a book and then to get it autographed. With so many great readings to attend, it was easier to avoid the book buying part. I saw a lot of famous writers sitting alone, waiting hopefully for people to come to have their books signed as participants rushed past. And I heard a few complain that they didn't sell any books.

And then there was the table with Andrei Codrescu and Robert Olen Butler--no one was there (it turned out the fair had not ordered their books, though only a few people bothered to look for them) seated across the hall for their signing from Frank McCourt and Dave Barry who had an endless line of fans . . . The famous vs. the very famous . . .

Reading in Florida

Karen Schubert and I are going to the Miami International Book Fair this weekend!

Reading on Sunday at 2:30.

I'm looking forward to some sun and warm air.

(I'm also counting down the days until Suzanne comes home from the Peace Corps!)

Cows

Sometimes people ask me what it was like growing up on a farm. I can’t answer that easily, but usually the next question is—what animals did you own. That’s when I talk about cows. Cows and more cows. What did you do with the cows? they ask. And then they often say something about how dumb cows are. It’s true. But there are a few things to say about cows. In fact I just had two essays on cows taken by a literary magazine. Now THAT, I never imagined possible. But about cows—just because people ask . . .

Some days after school I’d lead train calves, leading them a little ways, then wrapping the lead- line around a tree while they bucked and fought, then trying it again. (The calves don't really appreciate being dragged around by their neck at first-for some reason.) After a few days of trying, they’d tire out and walk beside me. It was important to train them before they got too big—Ayreshire cows (the kind we owned) weigh over 1000 pounds, and they’re one of the smaller breeds. By show-time the cows always walked easily around the ring, and they stood nicely as well, stretching their necks just so when I pulled their heads forward, or posing with one back leg forward and the other back slightly to show off their udders for the judge who would come around to each contestant, touching her back to be sure it was straight, examining her tail and withers and etc.. The cow would look pretty hot and bored, and she’d usually start licking my arm or pants with her long sticky tongue or rolling her eyes at me. I’d want to apologize to her, to say, yeah, this is pretty dumb. I admit it, but when it comes to human behavior, this sure isn’t the dumbest thing we do. When it comes to questions of intelligence, I know we always look down on our bovine friends. But at least their behavior usually makes sense.

The Bush Library

Jim's department secretary forwarded this along. Pretty funny . . .

Plans for the Bush Library are already in the works. Below are some of
the rooms planned for the library.

1. The Hurricane Katrina Room which is still under construction and pretty much a mess.
2. The Alberto Gonzales Room where you won't be able to remember a thing.
3. The Texas Air National Guard Room where you don't even have to show up.
4. The Walter Reed Hospital Room where they don't let you in.
5. The Guantanamo Bay Room where they don't let you out.
6. The Weapons of Mass Destruction Room which no one has yet been able to find.
7. The National Debt Room which is huge and has no ceiling
8. The Tax Cut Room with entry only to the wealthy.
9. The Economy Room which is in the toilet.
10. The Iraq War Room where after you complete your first tour, they make you go back for a second, third, fourth and sometimes fifth tour.
11. The Dick Cheney Room is the famous undisclosed location complete with shotgun gallery.
12. The Environmental Conservation Room, still empty.
13. The Supreme Court's Gift Shop, where you can buy an election.
14. The Airport's Men's Room, where you can meet some of your favorite Republican Senators.
14. The Decider Room complete with dart board, magic 9-ball, Ouija board, dice, coins, and straws.

The museum will also have an electron microscope to help you locate the President's accomplishments!

I read things like this and wonder. As women, as girls, we are so lucky to live in this country.

news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7711554.stm

A Letter from Alice Walker to Obama

www.theroot.com/id/48726

A Few Thoughts

1. That poor man, Mom said happily when she mentioned Obama's win. Such a terrible time to be president.

2. 71% of Republicans approved of Sarah Palin--said she was a good VP choice.

3. A few years ago Strickland was at our home and said, I will make Ohio a blue state. I didn't believe him.

4. Jennifer Brunner, the Ohio Secretary of State, was sued by the GOP for making it possible for voters to register and vote on the same day. The U.S. Supreme Court sided with Brunner.

Funny and Not So Funny Moments on the Political Scene

1. A friend attended an Obama meeting in the week following the R convention. Everyone was feeling so blue, she said. So the young organizer had them all close their eyes and do a little meditation in which they relaxed, breathed deeply, and pictured Obama winning. It was a combination of Wayne Dyer and Zen and Obama fever.

2. My 91 year old mother called to tell me her 88 year old friend was knocking on doors for Obama. Wow, I said. I thought she'd identify with McCain. Oh no, Mom said. He's much too old and feeble.

3. Jim suggested I trade the political signs in people's yards on Halloween. I thought about it. But then I thought again--I could only do it in the dark. And there's that guy with a gun collection on the corner . . . I thought he might shoot me if I traded his McCain sign with the Obama across the street.

4. Jim is working as a poll-watcher today. When he arrived at the church in Youngstown where he is to observe, the church representative asked him to leave the premises and called the cops. When the police arrived, they informed this man that he had to allow Jim to enter (duh). He was nice enough after that--though he gave him a little talk on the ten commandments--a least until some of his church members started circling voters and handing out religious materials, complete with advice on how to vote--and then asking them to pray. When Jim called the Obama headquarters, they sent a Board of Elections rep. who came and told the church to curtail their activities.

Another Interview

I love this site. I am so thankful that Robert Brewer sought me out!

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/Interview+With+Poet+Nin+Andrews.aspx

Election Blues

I can't wait until the election is over, and all these calls stop . . . And no one knocks on my door. And the signs are taken out of everyone's yards. And I can walk into a coffee shop and not hear people making stupid political comments, and I don't have to walk out, biting my tongue . . .

Check this out!

www.palinaspresident.us/

Click on this and then click anywhere on the picture. It's really funny.

Don't Look at the Blondes

Years ago I read an article in the New Yorker that said your peers influence how smart you become. I don't remember anything else about it. But I thought it was interesting. The idea that intelligence is contagious.

Evidently, the reverse is also true. One who looks at blondes, for example, becomes instantly dumber. Yep, it's happens. To men and women alike. Looking at a blonde is like having a nice drink. It relaxes the mind. Which reminds me of my college friend who used to say intelligence is vastly over-rated.

thesituationist.wordpress.com/2008/01/22/the-situation-of-hair-color

A Short Interview with Peter Johnson and Me

www.mndaily.com/2008/10/15/visiting-poets-put-pro-back-prose

Agni

I have some new poems up at Agni. I am so excited!

www.bu.edu/agni/

Zito the Magician

To amuse His Royal Majesty he will change water into wine.
Frogs into footman. Beetles into bailiffs. And make a Minister

out of a rat. He bows, and daisies grow out of his finger-tips.
And a talking bird sits on his shoulder.

There.

Think up something else, demands His Royal Majesty.
Think up a black star. So he thinks up a black star.
Think up dry water. So he thinks up dry water.
Think up a river bound with straw-bands. So he does.

There.

Then along comes a student and asks: Think up sine alpha
greater than one.

And Zito grows pale and sad: Terribly sorry. Sine is
between plus one and minus one. Nothing you can do about that.
And he leaves the great royal empire, quietly weaves his way
through the throng of courtiers, to his home
in a nutshell.


by Miroslav Holub, trans. by George Theiner

Reading with Peter Johnson

I'm off to Minneapolis to teach and read at the U of M with one of my favorite poets, Peter Johnson.

We'll be at the Weisman Art Museum, U of Minnesota, 333 East River Road at 7:30 on Tuesday night. We'll be speed-reading to get back in time for the debates. Literally, they say 30 minutes total for both of us, so if you're in the area, you can zip in and out, no problem.

from Grist

Grist had an interesting article about the global warming crisis--why people don't get it. The problem with scientists--they are just too logical. Here's just a short quote from it . . .

Maybe we need some creative writers and thinkers to help us out with the rhetoric.

"Anyone who wants to understand -- and change -- the politics of global warming, must understand why the deniers, delayers, and inactivists are so persuasive in the public debate and why scientists and scientific-minded people are not. A key part of the answer, I believe, is that while science and logic are powerful systematic tools for understanding the world, they are no match in the public realm for the 25-century-old art of verbal persuasion: rhetoric.

Logic might be described as the art of influencing minds with the facts, whereas rhetoric is the art of influencing both the hearts and minds of listeners with the figures of speech. The figures are the catalog of the different, effective ways that we talk -- they include alliteration and other forms of repetition, metaphor, irony, and the like. The goal is to sound believable. As Aristotle wrote in Rhetoric, "aptness of language is one thing that makes people believe in the truth of your story."