Went to a poetry slam. I went early because I was friends with some of the people I knew who were putting it on and I wanted to be helpful, but when I got there, I discovered there wasn't much for me to do. I fooled around with the music that was playing before the slam. Someone had made a mix CD years ago, but the intern couldn't get it to actually play on the laptop, and neither could I. We tried to get last.fm to play, and it was playing, but we couldn't get any sound to come out.
The poet they brought in was really nice. He walked in with Freddy, who I hadn't seen in a few weeks. Freddy said hi to me and then wandered off. I actually didn't realize this was the poet, because he looked so different from his pictures. He was shorter and his hair was neater. He was really skinny and totally dressed like a hipster. And he stuck out his hand and shook mine.
He had lived in New York City and Portland, and was currently in Austin. He talked to us about living there, and there was a part of me that was totally jealous.
I then realized as we were getting seats together that I had no idea if Mark was coming or not and hadn't even thought of him. Sacre bleu, I found myself thinking. How could I?
I texted him, asking if he was coming. A few minutes later he texted back, saying that he was coming, but was going to be two minutes late. I laughed, but was totally surprised to discover that we have an injoke.
Mark sat with me, but he talked to one of the other inters, who he was in a playwriting class with.
Stephanie introduced him, mentioning that slam poetry was often political and that was fine and good, but it was nice to have slam poets who saw the beauty in life.
He's like the Mary Oliver of slam poets, I thought. Stephanie loves Mary Oliver, for reasons that sometimes escape me. I think she's an okay poet, but she always writes about the same thing, nature, and I've never read anything of her's that struck me as extraordinary, just fine. Stephanie always talks about how Oliver is so interested in joy in her poetry. Maybe I'm a miserable person but her poetry never makes me joyful and it frequently bores me.
The performance was amazing. The poet had all this amazing imagery. I loved his voice, which sounded so ordinary but powerful. I'm still not sure how he managed to do this, because usually when poets read they have their "serious poet reading serious poetry that is going to change the world" voice, and he just sounded like a storyteller from a mythical place.
He told stories in between his poems. He talked about how his Mom use to run a bookshop, which might be the best Mom job ever. He would go there every day after school (again, so jealous.) And that he loves to find new independent bookshops because of that.
He talked about how he read one of his poems once, which had a mermaid tattoo coming to life, and was interpreted to be about crack. Which is really funny but kind of horrifying. It sounds like the unnecessary freaking out of my own mother.
He also talked about how much he worked and traveled and performed his poetry. He said that if he was a musician he wouldn't have a chance in terms of making it, but that people were willing to shell out money for poetry.
"Poetry," he said, imitating people. "Yeah okay?"
This gives me hope that maybe I could make it has a poet one day. I always worry that there isn't really a market for poetry, because I swear to God that is the number one article I always read concerning poetry. "No one reads poetry except poets, and not even them" type of headlines. But maybe it's not all doom and gloom. Maybe there are people out there who will listen and read.
I realized as he began his last poem that I had heard of this guy before. A while back, Austin showed me a video of this poem being performed, and I was totally stunned to hear it.
I don't remember how, but occasionally Austin and I would hang out and talk poetry. He showed me videos of slam poets. He was always into slam poetry more than I am. I think slam poets are amazing, but I have no talent for doing what they do. Austin, however, did.
Austin eventually left school, for reasons I'm still not sure of. I was sad to hear he left, because he didn't say goodbye. And it meant he didn't graduate.
After the last poem, the poet took questions, and the first person asked:
"What do you dream about?"
"Seriously?" I said. Mark laughed, but he was misinterpreting my words. As crazy as that question was, it wasn't really that I was having trouble with: it was the voice.
It was Austin's.
As the poet answered (which was not terribly impressive. I think he might have said something about fishermen), I scanned the crowd. Austin was on the other side of the room. It was too dark to see clearly, but I thought I could make him out. He seemed to be wearing the same long black coat that he had always favored in the time I knew him and a knit cap, again, that he had always favored.
No way, I thought.
There were other questions, mostly about what the poet read and symbolism. After he stopped answering questions, he sold and signed books and gave people hugs. He came over to the side of the room Mark and I were sitting at and we sat there and talked. Stephanie came over to tell us that she was taking all of us out for a late night snack.
"Why not drinks?" I asked.
"Not everyone can drink," she reminded me. Oh yeah. I forgot that she had interns to watch over, who were fairly young.
Mark and I sat there waiting, and eventually I saw Austin. One of us hailed the other, I don't remember.
Austin came out saying right away that he was getting along again with a particular professor I knew. I was sort of surprised because that was so not the first thing I was concerned about. I mean, not that I don't want Austin to be picking fights or anything, but what I wanted to know was what he had been doing.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Hanging with Jon
Jon and I hung out. We went to this courtyard where we use to brainstorm ideas and talked about things going on in our lives.
Jon has recently gotten engaged, which was the big news. He told me about how he and his fiancee are planning their wedding.
He also showed me some art he's been working on. Apparently something he and his fiancee do. It actually looked like stuff similar to the stuff my Mom likes to make.
While we were sitting there, Nate and Sam walked by. Nate complained that I hadn't been by to spend time with him enough. It was a surprising thing to say, because I don't usually feel needed by anyone, and sometimes I get the distinct feeling people want me to go away.
Which is not to say I mind. Years ago, I complained about boys being too needy, but I don't feel that way about Nate. It might be because he's not a needy person, or it could be that I like the Nate's neediness. It makes me feel needed but not like I'm under emotional siege. (Which was the problem, back then. That and he was never very giving, in all senses of the word.)
Jon and I continued our talk, and I gave him a gift. Jon's been complaining about having writer's block, so I collected some cool quotes from writers and gave them to him. He thanked me.
I also saw one of my favorite conversational friends, but he was on the phone and just waved at me.
Jon and I went into one of the buildings nearby and dropped in on an art gallery party. Just because. They had these really bizarre mini rolls. They were like spring rolls, but smaller, and covered in this clear, kind of squishy film. It sort of made me imagine the larvae of some science fiction alien monster, which meant that I wasn't really into them. I felt like they should have been trying to move out of my hand as I ate them.
Afterward, the party ended and we dropped in on a poetry reading. I was mostly going because I had some friends who were going to be there and two who were reading, so I wanted to go to see what would happen.
Bobby and his girlfriend were there. I've actually never met his girlfriend before. Unfortunately, I didn't really get a chance to talk to her. But Bobby seemed good.
Bobby also formerly introduced me to his best friend, Cory. I actually met Cory last year, though I don't think he remembered me.
A couple of different teachers introduced the reading. Lia read first. She read poems mostly in the style of Mary Oliver, who, if I'm remembering correctly, she likes. She had one poem about shopping the grocery store late at night. There was something about it that was very calm, very dreamy. If I was writing that poem, it would be more scary or, at the least, fraught with a sense of how strange being under florescent lights late at night in a desolate place.
Then Cory read. Cory was more formal in delivery. He felt more like listening to a professor. He talked about his girlfriend, and how they didn't get along right away. The poem he read that sticks out the most in my mind was about a pistachio. No kidding. It made me brainstorm another poem for myself about a similar subject.
This is one of the many things I like about poetry readings: they always manage to make me want to write more.
There were more people reading, but Jon and I had to leave because we had to go to Virginia's concert.
(Like I've said I've been super busy. Three events in one night.)
Virginia plays harp. The night before, I had proofread her list of songs. I'm embarrassed to say that, since she was playing mostly classical songs, I didn't recognize much that was on there.
The concert had a lot of friends that I hadn't seen in a while: Dean, Jane, Marguerite, Erin, and Amanda were all there. Jon sat with his fiancee. I think I briefly shook her hand. Marguerite was reading a sample of poems I sent her and complained that I didn't need to send sixteen pages.
"Yeah, but there was only five poems," I said in reply, which made people laugh.
Virginia's parents and old teachers were there, which was nice to see. Virginia's Dad was older than I imagined and Virginia's Mom looked more like a typical Mom than I imagined. I sort of imagined that Virginia's Mom would look more like a hippie than she did. Her teacher there seemed like a sweet old lady.
Despite knowing Virginia for years now, I had never seen her play. It was really nice. I've always had a soft spot for harps. When I was little, my favorite instrument was a harp. I had a computer encyclopedia program and I would play their samples of harp music all the time. (I also played the violin, piano and guitar samples a lot, which I guess is pretty telling too, in terms of my musical tastes now. I love violin, especially when it's used in with a heavy beat, since that's uncommon.)
Harp is such an impressive instrument, partly because of its size but also because of the detailed finger work one has to use. Virginia also had a piano player accompany her and then later on, another harp player. Erin and Marguerite really wanted pictures of this.
During the intermission, I turned to everyone and said "I don't mean to brag guys, but I'm going home tonight with the musician." This got laughs from people. Obviously, since I was living with Virginia, I was literally going home with her, but the implication I was making about sleeping with her was false. Virginia luckily thought this was funny, and she laughed and put her arm around me.
Jon has recently gotten engaged, which was the big news. He told me about how he and his fiancee are planning their wedding.
He also showed me some art he's been working on. Apparently something he and his fiancee do. It actually looked like stuff similar to the stuff my Mom likes to make.
While we were sitting there, Nate and Sam walked by. Nate complained that I hadn't been by to spend time with him enough. It was a surprising thing to say, because I don't usually feel needed by anyone, and sometimes I get the distinct feeling people want me to go away.
Which is not to say I mind. Years ago, I complained about boys being too needy, but I don't feel that way about Nate. It might be because he's not a needy person, or it could be that I like the Nate's neediness. It makes me feel needed but not like I'm under emotional siege. (Which was the problem, back then. That and he was never very giving, in all senses of the word.)
Jon and I continued our talk, and I gave him a gift. Jon's been complaining about having writer's block, so I collected some cool quotes from writers and gave them to him. He thanked me.
I also saw one of my favorite conversational friends, but he was on the phone and just waved at me.
Jon and I went into one of the buildings nearby and dropped in on an art gallery party. Just because. They had these really bizarre mini rolls. They were like spring rolls, but smaller, and covered in this clear, kind of squishy film. It sort of made me imagine the larvae of some science fiction alien monster, which meant that I wasn't really into them. I felt like they should have been trying to move out of my hand as I ate them.
Afterward, the party ended and we dropped in on a poetry reading. I was mostly going because I had some friends who were going to be there and two who were reading, so I wanted to go to see what would happen.
Bobby and his girlfriend were there. I've actually never met his girlfriend before. Unfortunately, I didn't really get a chance to talk to her. But Bobby seemed good.
Bobby also formerly introduced me to his best friend, Cory. I actually met Cory last year, though I don't think he remembered me.
A couple of different teachers introduced the reading. Lia read first. She read poems mostly in the style of Mary Oliver, who, if I'm remembering correctly, she likes. She had one poem about shopping the grocery store late at night. There was something about it that was very calm, very dreamy. If I was writing that poem, it would be more scary or, at the least, fraught with a sense of how strange being under florescent lights late at night in a desolate place.
Then Cory read. Cory was more formal in delivery. He felt more like listening to a professor. He talked about his girlfriend, and how they didn't get along right away. The poem he read that sticks out the most in my mind was about a pistachio. No kidding. It made me brainstorm another poem for myself about a similar subject.
This is one of the many things I like about poetry readings: they always manage to make me want to write more.
There were more people reading, but Jon and I had to leave because we had to go to Virginia's concert.
(Like I've said I've been super busy. Three events in one night.)
Virginia plays harp. The night before, I had proofread her list of songs. I'm embarrassed to say that, since she was playing mostly classical songs, I didn't recognize much that was on there.
The concert had a lot of friends that I hadn't seen in a while: Dean, Jane, Marguerite, Erin, and Amanda were all there. Jon sat with his fiancee. I think I briefly shook her hand. Marguerite was reading a sample of poems I sent her and complained that I didn't need to send sixteen pages.
"Yeah, but there was only five poems," I said in reply, which made people laugh.
Virginia's parents and old teachers were there, which was nice to see. Virginia's Dad was older than I imagined and Virginia's Mom looked more like a typical Mom than I imagined. I sort of imagined that Virginia's Mom would look more like a hippie than she did. Her teacher there seemed like a sweet old lady.
Despite knowing Virginia for years now, I had never seen her play. It was really nice. I've always had a soft spot for harps. When I was little, my favorite instrument was a harp. I had a computer encyclopedia program and I would play their samples of harp music all the time. (I also played the violin, piano and guitar samples a lot, which I guess is pretty telling too, in terms of my musical tastes now. I love violin, especially when it's used in with a heavy beat, since that's uncommon.)
Harp is such an impressive instrument, partly because of its size but also because of the detailed finger work one has to use. Virginia also had a piano player accompany her and then later on, another harp player. Erin and Marguerite really wanted pictures of this.
During the intermission, I turned to everyone and said "I don't mean to brag guys, but I'm going home tonight with the musician." This got laughs from people. Obviously, since I was living with Virginia, I was literally going home with her, but the implication I was making about sleeping with her was false. Virginia luckily thought this was funny, and she laughed and put her arm around me.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Poetry Reading
So, picking up where I left off on my last little story, I went to the poetry reading and did manage to surprise this professor. It was sort of a relief to finally have achieved this surprise without too much ruining it.
There is always this table in the back to the theatre where they sell poetry books and sometimes other stuff, and I was back there talking to Stephanie and Lia. At one point they both looked over my shoulders and said "hey Mark!"
I turned around and, indeed there he was. When I saw him last, his hair was a light blonde and it was close shaven. Now he had grown his hair out, it seemed darker, it was highlighted, and he had a goatee. I was kind of surprised by this change of look, because he had changed his look not that long ago.
"Hi," I said, a big grin spreading across my face. I was very happy to see him. "You're looking very Renaissance."
I mean, obviously he wasn't wearing the tights and those poofy pants that Shakespeare rocked so well, but I think he understood and took it as a compliment.
Mark was surprised to see me as well, which was unintentional, since I wasn't even sure if he was going to be around tonight. But I was glad he was. We got to talking, shuffling off to the side to let people in. We did the usual small chat and then talked about a teacher we had together. I had seen this teacher recently and I reported to Mark that said teacher remembered him.
This was not the whole story, but I was reluctant to tell him the whole thing. When I saw this particular teacher, he had asked about Mark and I. And by asked, he simply said "So, how are you and Mark?" There was this terribly awful pause and then I realized this teacher thought we were dating.
We aren't.
The truly bad thing is that this is not the first person or even the first teacher to comment on Mark and I, which makes me a bit uncomfortable. It's one thing when your friends know you like someone. That's normal, especially when you make your preferences to them known. But it's another thing entirely when it's just people you work with or teachers. My feelings aren't meant to be so obviously to the world.
As Mark and I were talking, Lia came over to commend us for not talking so loudly. This was a problem I had last year. (Actually, it's been a problem I've had forever, but it became of particular issue last year.)
Derek came by, and it was my turn to be surprised. Derek graduated ages ago, and although it wasn't a complete surprise to see him, it hadn't crossed my mind that I would. He sort of looked at the two of us strangely and I realized that he was probably thinking the same thing as everyone else.
I guess it's a good thing I didn't pursue a career in acting?
Mark and I decided to sit together. We walked down to some seats near the stage. As I sat down, I noticed another teacher from a few years back sit down. He was surprised to see me, and I nicely waved at him.
On a whim, I turned to Mark and said "So, how's your girlfriend?" I couldn't remember her name, though I remembered she was a redhead, very pretty, and very slim.
Mark looked a bit surprised and uncomfortable, but he said "We're not dating anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
This was sort of a lie. On one hand, I've had enough bad breakups that I know it hurts like hell, and can actually make things between other friends miserable. (And has gotten to the point where I'm usually apathetic towards dating. It takes a lot to get me interested in a guy to the point where I want to date him, and frankly, liking him isn't enough for me anymore. I have to trust him, and the vast majority of guys I like never pass into trustable.)
On the other hand, I do like Mark, and she was the reason I didn't pursue him earlier. He was already dating her when I met him. It was sort of a disappointment, but I promised myself years ago that I would never encourage a couple to break up. If the guy really does like me, he'll realize it isn't fair to date someone else, and he'll do the breaking up on his own, regardless of whether or not he knows I'm willing to date an unattached version of him.
The reading was starting up, so I didn't question Mark further. I don't know if there would be that much to say either. I think I would have just graciously offered to hear Mark out if he needed someone to talk to (always something I've needed post-breakup) but then also make clear he was under no requirement to talk to me if he didn't want to.
The reading went okay. I really like this professor, and the poetry she has been writing the last few years has been super intense and Wallace Stevens like. I've been very impressed by it, especially since it was such a departure from her earlier work.
Which is why I was kind of disappointed that she read her less challenging poetry. She read more of prose stuff, not her deep image stuff. She read one poem about sheep blocking a road, and I thought about how that was the sort of poem that would please non-poetry people.
After the reading, I introduced Mark to Derek. Mark and Derek both happen to be big fans of Arrested Development. I told Mark about how Derek and I use to refer to one another as "Hey Hermano," which is a reference to the show. (There's actually a slightly longer story there, but one I won't bore you with.)
Mark and I continued talking, slightly in the corner. I told him about my roommate fiasco from a few months ago. I told him about how I was raised by a master of passive aggressiveness, who was also raised by a master of passive aggressiveness, so really, I was quite good at being that way.
"I can make anything sound passive aggressive," I said. "Even something like 'yeah, okay.'" I emphasized the words so that they sounded the opposite of "yeah" and "okay."
There is always this table in the back to the theatre where they sell poetry books and sometimes other stuff, and I was back there talking to Stephanie and Lia. At one point they both looked over my shoulders and said "hey Mark!"
I turned around and, indeed there he was. When I saw him last, his hair was a light blonde and it was close shaven. Now he had grown his hair out, it seemed darker, it was highlighted, and he had a goatee. I was kind of surprised by this change of look, because he had changed his look not that long ago.
"Hi," I said, a big grin spreading across my face. I was very happy to see him. "You're looking very Renaissance."
I mean, obviously he wasn't wearing the tights and those poofy pants that Shakespeare rocked so well, but I think he understood and took it as a compliment.
Mark was surprised to see me as well, which was unintentional, since I wasn't even sure if he was going to be around tonight. But I was glad he was. We got to talking, shuffling off to the side to let people in. We did the usual small chat and then talked about a teacher we had together. I had seen this teacher recently and I reported to Mark that said teacher remembered him.
This was not the whole story, but I was reluctant to tell him the whole thing. When I saw this particular teacher, he had asked about Mark and I. And by asked, he simply said "So, how are you and Mark?" There was this terribly awful pause and then I realized this teacher thought we were dating.
We aren't.
The truly bad thing is that this is not the first person or even the first teacher to comment on Mark and I, which makes me a bit uncomfortable. It's one thing when your friends know you like someone. That's normal, especially when you make your preferences to them known. But it's another thing entirely when it's just people you work with or teachers. My feelings aren't meant to be so obviously to the world.
As Mark and I were talking, Lia came over to commend us for not talking so loudly. This was a problem I had last year. (Actually, it's been a problem I've had forever, but it became of particular issue last year.)
Derek came by, and it was my turn to be surprised. Derek graduated ages ago, and although it wasn't a complete surprise to see him, it hadn't crossed my mind that I would. He sort of looked at the two of us strangely and I realized that he was probably thinking the same thing as everyone else.
I guess it's a good thing I didn't pursue a career in acting?
Mark and I decided to sit together. We walked down to some seats near the stage. As I sat down, I noticed another teacher from a few years back sit down. He was surprised to see me, and I nicely waved at him.
On a whim, I turned to Mark and said "So, how's your girlfriend?" I couldn't remember her name, though I remembered she was a redhead, very pretty, and very slim.
Mark looked a bit surprised and uncomfortable, but he said "We're not dating anymore."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
This was sort of a lie. On one hand, I've had enough bad breakups that I know it hurts like hell, and can actually make things between other friends miserable. (And has gotten to the point where I'm usually apathetic towards dating. It takes a lot to get me interested in a guy to the point where I want to date him, and frankly, liking him isn't enough for me anymore. I have to trust him, and the vast majority of guys I like never pass into trustable.)
On the other hand, I do like Mark, and she was the reason I didn't pursue him earlier. He was already dating her when I met him. It was sort of a disappointment, but I promised myself years ago that I would never encourage a couple to break up. If the guy really does like me, he'll realize it isn't fair to date someone else, and he'll do the breaking up on his own, regardless of whether or not he knows I'm willing to date an unattached version of him.
The reading was starting up, so I didn't question Mark further. I don't know if there would be that much to say either. I think I would have just graciously offered to hear Mark out if he needed someone to talk to (always something I've needed post-breakup) but then also make clear he was under no requirement to talk to me if he didn't want to.
The reading went okay. I really like this professor, and the poetry she has been writing the last few years has been super intense and Wallace Stevens like. I've been very impressed by it, especially since it was such a departure from her earlier work.
Which is why I was kind of disappointed that she read her less challenging poetry. She read more of prose stuff, not her deep image stuff. She read one poem about sheep blocking a road, and I thought about how that was the sort of poem that would please non-poetry people.
Mark and I continued talking, slightly in the corner. I told him about my roommate fiasco from a few months ago. I told him about how I was raised by a master of passive aggressiveness, who was also raised by a master of passive aggressiveness, so really, I was quite good at being that way.
"I can make anything sound passive aggressive," I said. "Even something like 'yeah, okay.'" I emphasized the words so that they sounded the opposite of "yeah" and "okay."
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I Am a Failure at Surprises
One of my old professors was giving a poetry reading, and obviously I wanted to go. She hadn't seen me in a while, so I decided I should try to surprise her.
The problem with me trying to surprise someone is that it often gets ruined.
I decided to go that afternoon to a study room to do some reading and writing. I frequent this particular study room, and it's usually pretty quiet on weekday afternoons. At most, I've seen one person in there at this time of day, and even then, it's usually someone who just looks in and then walks away.
I went in and, for about an hour, worked. And then Chelsea walked in.
I hadn't seen Chelsea in a long time either. I was trying to remember the last conversation I had with her. I vaguely remembered talking to her about four years ago about a book series we both liked. I remembered this conversation because I didn't really know a lot of people who read this series; my best friend had introduced me to them years previous to that, and I had only spoken about the series with a man in a library once who read The Dresden Files, which I was also familiar with and was similar. I think during that conversation Chelsea also mentioned that she was really good at interviewing for jobs and that's why she was always employed. At the time this had impressed me because I had always felt like my interviewing skills were terrible. (I am happy to report now that I've learned better interviewing techniques and that I think I've even impressed some people.)
But Chelsea didn't really acknowledge me. She just sat down and read something. Oh, I thought. She must not remember me.
Not that she really should remember me. We were really friends of friends and I mean, I'm sure there have been more important people out there.
We sat in silence for another half hour, I continuing with my work. Then she looked up at me.
"Have you ever read Foucault?" she asked.
I had, but it had been a long time ago. And because I had found him frustratingly difficult in English, I had looked up a passage in the original French. It had been easier to understand, but that was all I remembered.
Chelsea talked to me about some of Foucault's ideas. She mentioned being in a particular class, which Kristina was also in. (And had mentioned I should come to just to see what it was like.)
Chelsea, as a fellow feminist, was not so sure she liked the ideas of Foucault. He said some problematic things about women.
"I always interpreted Foucault to be saying simply what is and not how things should be. I don't think his statements are meant to be interpreted as him endorsing that view, just observing it."
She nodded her head, looking far away. "That sounds like something Foucault would say."
I smiled. Now that was a compliment. Alex had liked Foucault. It was one of the things we had talked about in the interview. Alex had said how beautiful she found his writing.
I suddenly realized that I had a question for Chelsea. "Are you one of the people from that feminist organization that recently formed?"
"I'm not really part of it. That's Bianca."
That surprised me. Bianca and I had been in a class together last year. She had been relatively quiet. Despite this, it had been obvious to me she was thoughtful and way cooler than I am (though, I would argue pretty much everyone is cooler than me.)
I made a mental note, if I ran into Bianca anytime soon, that I should tell her how much I had admired her work. Erin had told me all about it.
"Are you going to the poetry reading tonight?" So Chelsea must have known more about me than I anticipated, because she remembered that I worked with that professor.
"I am, but she doesn't know I'm coming, so don't tell anyone I'm here. It's a surprise."
Seeing Chelsea was really nice, but I had to go over to Nate's to get some stuff and to have dinner, so I said goodbye and left. I was turning the corner on the stairway, thinking merrily of how much I liked Chelsea and how I was going to get to see people tonight at this reading, when I was startled to see Stephanie, three steps down from me, staring up at me. Her eyes went wide.
And this wasn't just Stephanie my friend. She was also Stephanie, the assistant to this professor.
She hadn't seen me in a long time either.
Oh shit, I thought.
"Don't tell her I'm here!" I said, slightly loud. "I don't want her to know I'm coming tonight! I'm trying to surprise her!"
See what I mean about surprises? Hours before the surprise, I manage to run into two people who actually could blow it. This was especially annoying considering how long I'd been planning this.
Stephanie sort of laughed at me and was happy to see me. She gave me this great big hug that made me feel great. (Oh, to have a thousand friend hugs that I could store in a chest somewhere.) She wanted to hear what I was up to, and we talked briefly before both of us had to be elsewhere.
I went over to Nate's. It had been his birthday recently, and he had all sorts of coupons for free food. That night, he was taking me out for pizza.
The problem with me trying to surprise someone is that it often gets ruined.
I decided to go that afternoon to a study room to do some reading and writing. I frequent this particular study room, and it's usually pretty quiet on weekday afternoons. At most, I've seen one person in there at this time of day, and even then, it's usually someone who just looks in and then walks away.
I went in and, for about an hour, worked. And then Chelsea walked in.
But Chelsea didn't really acknowledge me. She just sat down and read something. Oh, I thought. She must not remember me.
Not that she really should remember me. We were really friends of friends and I mean, I'm sure there have been more important people out there.
We sat in silence for another half hour, I continuing with my work. Then she looked up at me.
I had, but it had been a long time ago. And because I had found him frustratingly difficult in English, I had looked up a passage in the original French. It had been easier to understand, but that was all I remembered.
Chelsea talked to me about some of Foucault's ideas. She mentioned being in a particular class, which Kristina was also in. (And had mentioned I should come to just to see what it was like.)
Chelsea, as a fellow feminist, was not so sure she liked the ideas of Foucault. He said some problematic things about women.
"I always interpreted Foucault to be saying simply what is and not how things should be. I don't think his statements are meant to be interpreted as him endorsing that view, just observing it."
She nodded her head, looking far away. "That sounds like something Foucault would say."
I smiled. Now that was a compliment. Alex had liked Foucault. It was one of the things we had talked about in the interview. Alex had said how beautiful she found his writing.
I suddenly realized that I had a question for Chelsea. "Are you one of the people from that feminist organization that recently formed?"
"I'm not really part of it. That's Bianca."
That surprised me. Bianca and I had been in a class together last year. She had been relatively quiet. Despite this, it had been obvious to me she was thoughtful and way cooler than I am (though, I would argue pretty much everyone is cooler than me.)
I made a mental note, if I ran into Bianca anytime soon, that I should tell her how much I had admired her work. Erin had told me all about it.
"Are you going to the poetry reading tonight?" So Chelsea must have known more about me than I anticipated, because she remembered that I worked with that professor.
"I am, but she doesn't know I'm coming, so don't tell anyone I'm here. It's a surprise."
Seeing Chelsea was really nice, but I had to go over to Nate's to get some stuff and to have dinner, so I said goodbye and left. I was turning the corner on the stairway, thinking merrily of how much I liked Chelsea and how I was going to get to see people tonight at this reading, when I was startled to see Stephanie, three steps down from me, staring up at me. Her eyes went wide.
And this wasn't just Stephanie my friend. She was also Stephanie, the assistant to this professor.
She hadn't seen me in a long time either.
Oh shit, I thought.
"Don't tell her I'm here!" I said, slightly loud. "I don't want her to know I'm coming tonight! I'm trying to surprise her!"
See what I mean about surprises? Hours before the surprise, I manage to run into two people who actually could blow it. This was especially annoying considering how long I'd been planning this.
Stephanie sort of laughed at me and was happy to see me. She gave me this great big hug that made me feel great. (Oh, to have a thousand friend hugs that I could store in a chest somewhere.) She wanted to hear what I was up to, and we talked briefly before both of us had to be elsewhere.
I went over to Nate's. It had been his birthday recently, and he had all sorts of coupons for free food. That night, he was taking me out for pizza.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Poets and What They Read
Mark and I had a conversation about six weeks ago about if poets should read poetry. (It's not necessarily the answer you think.) And tonight, I came across this quote by John Giorno: "“I certainly won’t curl up in a chair with a book of poetry.”
I was arguing against reading poetry (sort of. I was arguing that reading in general was more important that specifically reading poetry) and Mark was, as always, listening to me. (He's really far too good to me.)
That said, I've had conversations with other poets where this suggestion just horrifies them. It's totally anathema. I kind of like driving them crazy.
I was arguing against reading poetry (sort of. I was arguing that reading in general was more important that specifically reading poetry) and Mark was, as always, listening to me. (He's really far too good to me.)
That said, I've had conversations with other poets where this suggestion just horrifies them. It's totally anathema. I kind of like driving them crazy.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Advertisement
I have been reading lots of poetry lately, and this cool poem struck my eye. There's so much amazing imagery here. I really love the line about cushioning someone's misfortune with sleep.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
How Dark I Would Turn
I feel bad for essayists when a poet decides to become one, because almost always a poet turned essayist outshines the only-essayist. I was reading a Cherrie Moraga essay today, and she said "if my thoughts could color my flesh, how dark I would turn," and I was struck by how poetic that was. How amazing and perfect. And how much better she was as an essayist for having a poetry background.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Dream Outloud
Was reading tonight and came across a cool quote from Nanon Williams on poetry: "It gives us a chance to dream out loud." That's both incredibly true and inspirational.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Ghana Poetry Project
While doing some research on poetry, I found this cool organization called Ghana Poetry Project. Basically, this group wants to promote Ghana's poetry to other places around the world.
I only have read work on Africa when it was for school, but I always really enjoyed it. African writing in general is often ignored by the elite literary critics, just because it isn't Western and sometimes more recent and because of general racism.
I only have read work on Africa when it was for school, but I always really enjoyed it. African writing in general is often ignored by the elite literary critics, just because it isn't Western and sometimes more recent and because of general racism.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Giving up Poetry
Today I have been a good girl and have studied nearly all morning (taking a break to eat breakfast.) Among other things, I've been reading about Gerard M. Hopkins. Apparently, he made a list of things to give up for Lent and one of them was poetry. (He was a poet.) I find this really rather fascinating. I get that the point of Lent is to give things up, things you love, but the idea is to give up things you love and aren't necessarily good for you. For example, playing video games. Video games aren't bad, but they probably aren't good for you, especially if you are playing them instead of doing other work. I can't imagine what good reason anyone could come up with for giving up poetry.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Parents Just Don't Understand
I happened upon this post about recently banned books. I notice they're almost all young adult books, which makes me shake my head and quote a particularly great rapper: Parents just don't understand.
And if there's anything my parents failed to do, it was stopping me reading, especially if I decided I needed to read it. I worked through a lot of romance novels and religious books as a teen because I wanted to.
So, besides all the other problems with censoring books, I'm pretty sure it's a useless endeavor because bookish teens are usually the last people who are going to be told what they can't or shouldn't read. And if anything probably encourages them, it's telling them no. I can say from personal experience that it is really easy to hide books from your parents. I just removed the jackets of my Danielle Steele books and put all my religious books under the bed for easy night time access. (That's right: normal teens put porn under their bed; I put The Book of Mormon.)
So make sure you celebrate banned book week by doing something naughty: getting into bed with an "illicit" book. Trust me when I say it doesn't have to be a dramatic choice like Story of O.
And if there's anything my parents failed to do, it was stopping me reading, especially if I decided I needed to read it. I worked through a lot of romance novels and religious books as a teen because I wanted to.
So, besides all the other problems with censoring books, I'm pretty sure it's a useless endeavor because bookish teens are usually the last people who are going to be told what they can't or shouldn't read. And if anything probably encourages them, it's telling them no. I can say from personal experience that it is really easy to hide books from your parents. I just removed the jackets of my Danielle Steele books and put all my religious books under the bed for easy night time access. (That's right: normal teens put porn under their bed; I put The Book of Mormon.)
So make sure you celebrate banned book week by doing something naughty: getting into bed with an "illicit" book. Trust me when I say it doesn't have to be a dramatic choice like Story of O.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Patriotic Poets
Today I'm reading up on some poet biographies. Given that it is the 4th of July holiday still, I thought I would concentrate on a couple of American poets. Things I've learned so far:
-Phillis Wheatley was from what is approximately modern Senegal in West Africa.
-Even though Wheatley was "discovered" as smart early on in her life, they still made her work. She wrote poems about how she wished she could stop being a servant and live the life of an academic.
-Wheatley published broadsides, which, for those of you not totally obsessed with the literary world, is a poster version of a poem, usually printed so that the words are indented into the page, so you can "feel" the word. Broadsides are sort of a lost art in our culture, but I can assure you they're really cool.
-Wheatley had asthma. I honestly wasn't even sure people back then knew what it was.
-When most Americans wouldn't publish Wheatley's work, she turned to a publisher in London.
-Wheatley got to meet other famous people, including Benjamin Franklin and George Washington.
-A lot of Wheatley's poems were written in couplets, including iambic pentameter (that's what much of Shakespeare is in) and heroic (which is the form favored by epics.) This indicates to me that she must have been educated in the classics. She also wrote about death, which everyone knows is a favored topic of poets.
-Many British readers were uncomfortable with Wheatley's slave status. They often criticized her "family" and owners for keeping her in slavery. However, as a house slave, she got to avoid many of the worst aspects of slavery or the tough life of being a free slave in an overtly racist country.
-Her husband was John Peters, who was a free black. He may have been a lawyer. Since he was ambitious, a lot of white Americans hated him.
-"Refugee" slaves were slaves that were considered too sickly to work on things like sugar plantations in the Caribbean, so they were sold off as house servants in other parts of the world, including New England.
-Walt Whitman's father was a admirer and friend of Thomas Paine.
-Whitman was part of the first generation of American children.
-Whitman's brothers and sisters were given patriotic names, including Andrew Jackson, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson.
-As a child, Whitman was apparently picked out of a crowd by the Marquis de Lafayette (who was instrumental in providing French support during the Revolution.) and carried young Whitman on his back.
-Whitman's relationship with his father was imperfect; he respected him but they were never close. There is some indication that his father may have been an alcoholic. Whitman had a close relationship with his mother.
-Like Shakespeare, Whitman didn't have a lot of formal schooling. He spent six years in a public school in Brooklyn, and at around twelve began working. Whitman continued his education by spending time renting books from a library.
-Whitman liked Sir Walter Scott and James Fenimore Cooper. He liked Shakespeare's Richard III, which I also love.
-Whitman was not just a writer but a publisher, beginning with become an apprentice printer as a young man, at around twelve or thirteen.
-Even though Wheatley was "discovered" as smart early on in her life, they still made her work. She wrote poems about how she wished she could stop being a servant and live the life of an academic.
-When most Americans wouldn't publish Wheatley's work, she turned to a publisher in London.
-Wheatley got to meet other famous people, including Benjamin Franklin and George Washington.
-Many British readers were uncomfortable with Wheatley's slave status. They often criticized her "family" and owners for keeping her in slavery. However, as a house slave, she got to avoid many of the worst aspects of slavery or the tough life of being a free slave in an overtly racist country.
-Her husband was John Peters, who was a free black. He may have been a lawyer. Since he was ambitious, a lot of white Americans hated him.
-"Refugee" slaves were slaves that were considered too sickly to work on things like sugar plantations in the Caribbean, so they were sold off as house servants in other parts of the world, including New England.
-Whitman was part of the first generation of American children.
-Whitman's brothers and sisters were given patriotic names, including Andrew Jackson, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson.
-Whitman's relationship with his father was imperfect; he respected him but they were never close. There is some indication that his father may have been an alcoholic. Whitman had a close relationship with his mother.
-Whitman was not just a writer but a publisher, beginning with become an apprentice printer as a young man, at around twelve or thirteen.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
An Indulgence
I've been indulging in a little creative writing today. It's always indulging to me, because most people would probably argue that I should be doing more constructive things. What kinds of constructive things? I always wonder. So few things have grabbed me so fiercely and have refused to let go since.
I'm actually editing, which is not as fun for me as writing a first draft. When I first write something, I'm exhilarated, I want to get the words out now, now, now. There's something close to relief once I finish a rough draft. Honestly, it often feels like I'll never have to revisit those thoughts or ideas again, because, thank God, they're out. They're over. They're in the near past, and I'm continuing on with life, sans a toxic lover that I care for but know I'm better without.
I'm editing a set of poems right now.
One of the poems I'm editing right now is a strange set of surreal prose poems. I sat in on a rehearsal for plays which escape my memory over a year ago, and I just started writing down all the nouns people were using. It was an impressive cornucopia. I decided I'd write some poems with it. And I did. Now I'm editing them, and it's tough because so much of the poem isn't about the words themselves but what they do together. It's like a machine. If you throw one cog off, the machine can't run; it'll just make puffy sounds.
Another poem is a rewriting of the myth of Arachne. When I was fifteen, I was so sick of Greek mythology, because that was the sixth year in a row we had studied it in school, and I desperately wanted something different. But it's stayed with me, all these years later, because I find that I write poems based on it and find references in pop culture to it.
One of the things that's really annoying is that my word processor started doing that thing where every time you add something it erases the space right after it. I can work around it, but I wish I could figure out why that happened first. Might be helpful.
I'm actually editing, which is not as fun for me as writing a first draft. When I first write something, I'm exhilarated, I want to get the words out now, now, now. There's something close to relief once I finish a rough draft. Honestly, it often feels like I'll never have to revisit those thoughts or ideas again, because, thank God, they're out. They're over. They're in the near past, and I'm continuing on with life, sans a toxic lover that I care for but know I'm better without.
I'm editing a set of poems right now.
One of the poems I'm editing right now is a strange set of surreal prose poems. I sat in on a rehearsal for plays which escape my memory over a year ago, and I just started writing down all the nouns people were using. It was an impressive cornucopia. I decided I'd write some poems with it. And I did. Now I'm editing them, and it's tough because so much of the poem isn't about the words themselves but what they do together. It's like a machine. If you throw one cog off, the machine can't run; it'll just make puffy sounds.
Another poem is a rewriting of the myth of Arachne. When I was fifteen, I was so sick of Greek mythology, because that was the sixth year in a row we had studied it in school, and I desperately wanted something different. But it's stayed with me, all these years later, because I find that I write poems based on it and find references in pop culture to it.
One of the things that's really annoying is that my word processor started doing that thing where every time you add something it erases the space right after it. I can work around it, but I wish I could figure out why that happened first. Might be helpful.
Another Way of Looking at Wallace Stevens
"Continual Conversation with A Silent Man" is a strange but interesting poem. I like that the blue sky is "old" instead of whatever we usually think it is (beautiful, usually.) This poem also makes me think of "The Red Wheelbarrow," which is one of those poems I detest. There's also something mysterious here, like the poetry of Margaret Atwood.
"Farewell to Florida" is also kind of strange. I love the lines "the past is dead./Her mind will never speak to me again./I am free."
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sylvia Plath, I'm Revisiting that Poem I Wrote
As my last post would probably indicate, I have been poeming it up over the last few days. I've been reading poems, and now I have turned to writing more.
I just pulled out this old poem I wrote my freshman year when I broke up with a certain someone. I wrote this angry little poem about it. A teacher (who later became my thesis adviser!) said she liked it. Josie loved it.
And now I've rewritten it.
It's better now, though not perfect, and as you all know my writing must always be perfect.
But I'm going to be brave and submit it anyway.
Wish me luck, yeah?
I just pulled out this old poem I wrote my freshman year when I broke up with a certain someone. I wrote this angry little poem about it. A teacher (who later became my thesis adviser!) said she liked it. Josie loved it.
And now I've rewritten it.
It's better now, though not perfect, and as you all know my writing must always be perfect.
But I'm going to be brave and submit it anyway.
Wish me luck, yeah?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Thirteen Ways of Looking
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Romantic Life
Last night, I was at a poetry reading and ran into my friend Mandy. While we were talking, she said "your life is so romantic!"
Huh?
That's not how I see my life at all. I mean, for the most part, I like my life. I feel like I'm doing important things and I'm, within reason, generally pretty happy. But I've never seen my life as romantic. It just kind of is. When I imagine a romantic life, I imagine that would mean being rich and famous and wealthy and talented. I wouldn't mind being some of those things, but right now, what I have is what everyone needs: purpose, support and freedom. And I'm really grateful.
Everything I have in my life is the result of hard work. Sometimes, I think that hard work isn't obvious to everyone around, because I don't think a lot about it and I don't really talk about it because that's considered a faux pas. I think sometimes everyone just sees my smiling face and don't realize that some days I'm actually miserable, but I smile and try to be cheerful because I don't want to bring my friends down. I'm stressed all the time, and I don't like it, but that's the price we pay when we're perusing something we believe in.
I don't usually think of my life as being inherently better than other's. There are some people in my life who I believe I am happier than, but not everyone. In fact, I would say that the majority of people in my life are at about the same level of happiness.
Maybe I should just be grateful someone near me thinks there's something admirable about me. Even if I kind of disagree.
Huh?
That's not how I see my life at all. I mean, for the most part, I like my life. I feel like I'm doing important things and I'm, within reason, generally pretty happy. But I've never seen my life as romantic. It just kind of is. When I imagine a romantic life, I imagine that would mean being rich and famous and wealthy and talented. I wouldn't mind being some of those things, but right now, what I have is what everyone needs: purpose, support and freedom. And I'm really grateful.
Everything I have in my life is the result of hard work. Sometimes, I think that hard work isn't obvious to everyone around, because I don't think a lot about it and I don't really talk about it because that's considered a faux pas. I think sometimes everyone just sees my smiling face and don't realize that some days I'm actually miserable, but I smile and try to be cheerful because I don't want to bring my friends down. I'm stressed all the time, and I don't like it, but that's the price we pay when we're perusing something we believe in.
I don't usually think of my life as being inherently better than other's. There are some people in my life who I believe I am happier than, but not everyone. In fact, I would say that the majority of people in my life are at about the same level of happiness.
Maybe I should just be grateful someone near me thinks there's something admirable about me. Even if I kind of disagree.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Perspective
Since the weather got better a few weeks back, I've been going out for regular walks. Today was not quite as nice as two weeks ago, but that's not why I'm writing.
I'm writing because going out on walks, what is usually a solitary event for me, has gotten rather social.
Saturday I went for a walk with my friend Matt. I ran into Matt the previous Thursday, again, while walking. Both times we had nice, long conversations, mostly about nothing of consequence. We talked about things like Doctor Who, mutual friends, pennies, the future and cigarettes. We also talked a little about Matt's ex-girlfriend, Virgina. They had been dating for a long time and only broke up last week. I hadn't seen her, but I offered to be a sounding board for Matt, who I would imagine would take it harder than her. Matt actually is handling it better than I expected. He's obviously unhappy, but dealing with it surprisingly well. He mostly didn't want to talk about it with me, and that's fine, as I realize most guys aren't verbose on anything involving emotions, so I've let it go. If Matt wants to say more to me, I trust he will.
Today, I first ran into Mike. We met in a poetry class last year, and we've both recently been selected to read at a program for the English department. I'm very nervous about it, though I know I'm being a bit silly. It'll probably be fine. Mike talked to me about poetry. He said he had one of the professors for a creative writing class, and we had a short discussion about erasures.
Less than five minutes after parting ways I run into Mitch, coming back from West Circle. I really like Mitch a lot. Mostly I like how we always manage to have a laugh about something. Today, it was certain characters that we think are ridiculous and worth our quiet scorn. I have to say, sometimes he surprises me, since I didn't realize how much he disliked a certain someone.
This time, I think I managed seven minutes before I saw Virginia, coming to me on her bike. She was super excited because she got a job for the summer, at a nearby nature reserve. I think that's excellent, as that means it'll be another great thing for her resume. I don't know if she knew I was hanging out with her ex recently.
But really, that walk took me an extra twenty minutes to complete.
Matt once told me that I would have to choose amongst my friends, because I have too many of them. I disagree. I think life manages to choose for me. Geography, bad behavior, incompatibility all seem to have done a marvelous job of cleaning out my friends every six months to two years. I guess it would be easy to get sad about those moments where I realize I can't be close to someone anymore (or, sometimes even more disappointing, won't ever be close to someone), but I think this makes me just treasure the friends I've had for so long all the more dear to me. Plus, even if I only hang around someone for a little while, it's still a great opportunity to learn new things and see the world from another perspective.
I'm writing because going out on walks, what is usually a solitary event for me, has gotten rather social.
Saturday I went for a walk with my friend Matt. I ran into Matt the previous Thursday, again, while walking. Both times we had nice, long conversations, mostly about nothing of consequence. We talked about things like Doctor Who, mutual friends, pennies, the future and cigarettes. We also talked a little about Matt's ex-girlfriend, Virgina. They had been dating for a long time and only broke up last week. I hadn't seen her, but I offered to be a sounding board for Matt, who I would imagine would take it harder than her. Matt actually is handling it better than I expected. He's obviously unhappy, but dealing with it surprisingly well. He mostly didn't want to talk about it with me, and that's fine, as I realize most guys aren't verbose on anything involving emotions, so I've let it go. If Matt wants to say more to me, I trust he will.
Today, I first ran into Mike. We met in a poetry class last year, and we've both recently been selected to read at a program for the English department. I'm very nervous about it, though I know I'm being a bit silly. It'll probably be fine. Mike talked to me about poetry. He said he had one of the professors for a creative writing class, and we had a short discussion about erasures.
Less than five minutes after parting ways I run into Mitch, coming back from West Circle. I really like Mitch a lot. Mostly I like how we always manage to have a laugh about something. Today, it was certain characters that we think are ridiculous and worth our quiet scorn. I have to say, sometimes he surprises me, since I didn't realize how much he disliked a certain someone.
This time, I think I managed seven minutes before I saw Virginia, coming to me on her bike. She was super excited because she got a job for the summer, at a nearby nature reserve. I think that's excellent, as that means it'll be another great thing for her resume. I don't know if she knew I was hanging out with her ex recently.
But really, that walk took me an extra twenty minutes to complete.
Matt once told me that I would have to choose amongst my friends, because I have too many of them. I disagree. I think life manages to choose for me. Geography, bad behavior, incompatibility all seem to have done a marvelous job of cleaning out my friends every six months to two years. I guess it would be easy to get sad about those moments where I realize I can't be close to someone anymore (or, sometimes even more disappointing, won't ever be close to someone), but I think this makes me just treasure the friends I've had for so long all the more dear to me. Plus, even if I only hang around someone for a little while, it's still a great opportunity to learn new things and see the world from another perspective.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Frances E.W. Harper
So, I'm slowly working through a thesis right now. I like what I'm writing about a lot (political female poets from the 19th century), but I feel very sluggish about it. I hate sitting in my room writing papers. It's been really bothering me. I would much rather grab some reading I have to do for a class and read in another part of the building. And I hate sitting anywhere for long periods of time, so I find I'm moving myself a lot. Basically, I'm having trouble getting much done.
One of the poets I'm writing about is Frances E.W. Harper, who is most famous for her poem "Bury Me in a Free Land." The first time I ran across her poem, I was shocked by how good it was, particularly the imagery. When I discovered she was a free African-American woman writing during and after the Civil War, well, I knew I had stumbled across something important.
I want to write a poem celebrating her, but every time I sit down to write that, it just comes out a mess. How did these old school poets write things like elegies?
One of the poets I'm writing about is Frances E.W. Harper, who is most famous for her poem "Bury Me in a Free Land." The first time I ran across her poem, I was shocked by how good it was, particularly the imagery. When I discovered she was a free African-American woman writing during and after the Civil War, well, I knew I had stumbled across something important.
I want to write a poem celebrating her, but every time I sit down to write that, it just comes out a mess. How did these old school poets write things like elegies?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)