Yearning: Truth: Beauty

So often I wondered what she was trying to give me, trying to tell me. As I said earlier, I was not listening to her, this persona of my recent poems. I have been so very prolific in the last several days ... writing poems with a frequency that makes me desire so many connections with people and the world than ever before.

And there is still a coast we draw nearer and nearer to everyday. We will get there and it won't be very long until we do.

The Next Topic May Be Control ...

Maybe controlling language is the most powerful of things in the human world ... and it should therefore be respected like the chants of mages. But still I do this ...
and very frequently ...

The Song of My Renewal

So the beautiful song, "Cosmic Dancer" by T-Rex is the song of my renewal. The manuscript is so close to being ready for the Wednesday postmark ... I will continue to revise it for the March contests, but there must always be a first step.

I am just very delighted that I have begun the steps ... I hope so much for my poems. For this little beating being whose voice I captured. I had been resisting, but I am very glad I didn't. My empathies are so deep with her ... she will be the guide I sometimes reluctantly listen intently to ... but I will. I have to.

My Truth is Beauty, My Beauty is Truth

After some time with my depression again, after my seeming fall into the proverbial pits of realization, I am cured in the mission I am now a part of -- the mission of Truth and Beauty. I accept this and all things completely. I shall devour the world lovingly and pass onto it my findings. It may terrify, but mostly it will comfort. The arterial pockets of the world will be filled with this Truth and Beauty.

Now that I have allowed delusion to die in me, the very notion I thought was my ticket to happiness, I immediately see the freedom and newness of all of it. I have a mission and I am important to that mission. I accept it like the moon accepts its cycles. It is all a cycle. We are all a cycle.

I had lost my way. I had begun to lose poetry. And in that I had begun to lose Truth and Beauty. And I think I did lose it all for a few moments ... but it came back to me as soon as I let go of delusion. As soon as I wrote all night ... in scribbled words I found the answers and found the ground I am meant to tread again. I deserve the torque now not because I am a great poet, but because I am a poet who will seek all the necessary everythings in the world.

My visions of airports, of hearing in this vision my out-of-breath running, I know that mission has begun now. It is all so massive. I am terrified but comforted.

And I have the wisdom of you ... and you know who you are ... on that coast I need to make it to, that West, that North: No matter what you think, there is always more to love.

This is the first clue to all of it.

The Clues are Here Now ...

The clues I have been waiting for have come to me. All of a sudden. 5 a.m. will always have a great significance for me for the rest of my days. The time, the code, the clues cascading into my heart and mind. I am a new person now. In many ways, wishes were granted. I will accept that grace of granted wishes. I will go with it, with the rightness of what's inside of me now. I will go with it no matter what anyone else thinks.

Even though it has never felt like it until now, this is my life.

There is a lot for me to do.

Regret will never again have her way with me.

There is a lot of beauty I will discover.

I will pass it on to the diabolical world when I find it.

I hope in the end I am a panacea for something.

One of My Muses ...

I simply wanted to share the beautiful narrative in this photo by Mary Ellen Mark since there can never be enough real beauty in the world.

My Little White Shadow ...

So I cut yet another 5 poems from Manuscript 2. That's the not-so-good news. The great news (exciting for me at this stage of the Manuscript) is that the reason this had to happen again is because it has really taken on a life, a personality, a persona, a heart and emotion. In this realization I now know it is close to completion.

The persona of Anhedonia has infiltrated the life of my book in ways I never thought would happen. When I first came across this word, I was drawn to the sound of it ... and then I enjoyed the metaphorical fodder I found in its meaning. But now Anhedonia has become the little creature delivering the poems, giving them texture, meaning, life, and heart. I picture her as the wax mannequin entitled, Yearning by Detroit artist, Barbara Abel. She deserves great attention so please Google her. I have contacted Barbara, telling her excitedly about my admiration of her artwork and plan on sending her my Press Kit when it is finally completed. I am hoping for some sort of collaboration if this entices her: anything from her doing some artwork to accompany my poems, to taking photos of myself for publishing purposes, or a collaborative art show / reading thing. Nothing has been discussed on the collaboration yet, but it would be great to work with such a fascinating artist ... and so close to my current home ...

Oh yes, Anhedonia. I think I had mentioned erasures before. Poet Mary Ruefle's Little White Shadow is an example of one. A great, fantastic one. Well, my little white shadow, my erasures, may be the very thing coming to my Manuscript's rescue. This morning I was reading through my erasures and though they are taken from medical texts, they have a pronounced personality ... my erasures even possess this persona of Anhedonia. And I was reading my high school poetry today ... wow. It is horrible and horribly obvious I was obsessed with Henry James and Spencer's The Faerie Queen when I was writing them! Not that it is good writing ... it's not. Gave me a good laugh, though. I mention James and Spencer because that is a definite symptom I notice in young poets ... writing what they know. If you're reading Shakespeare as a young poet, your voice (that you haven't found yet) will have a degree of that language and tone. Not as good by a very very long shot, but that archaic tone. Same with young poets reading Ginsberg ... lots of swearing in those.

But I digress, again. These old and horrible poems have a couple of great lines and images I now feel I can slice right out of that old poem and make new ... poetry surgery ... a transplant of sorts. We'll see. But going back to old writing (no matter how old and the older the better because you no longer have any emotion for it and no matter how bad) is very good for a writer of any genre. Do this, trust me. I am sure you will be pleasantly surprised.

Still reading Pessoa, but in small morsels ... large bites make my sadness magnify and my mind obsessively roam.

Such a Thing as Too Much Pessoa ... at least in one night ...

Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet is both exactly what I needed and exactly what I didn't need. Unlike Berryman and Lowell and some other authors I have been reading, Pessoa is rawer than raw. By this I mean he is unapologetically cynical, diabolical, self-absorbed yet deprecating and much more. This can wear on a person like me who is not feeling my healthiest emotionally lately. Four hours of Pessoa was simply too much for me. I was warned, but did not heed that very important warning. A dab will do you of Pessoa ... in one night. Like a good scotch, Pessoa seems at first merely calming, comforting, and oddly sweet ... but the next thing you know, you're drunk and haven't the foggiest idea where you are. All you know is the place where you find yourself is a walled-in dichotomy ... a place you want to run from and a place you never want to leave.

No Kitty! And No More Anteater ...

It is truly amazing what a meeting with an idol of yours can do ... I feel much better post-Christopher Moore. My idols are usually poets or dead obscure artists or poets ... it's nice to have a living idol, a fiction writer even! I am so picky about my fiction since it seems a great investment to me. But as I have said before ... I love Christopher Moore. It's smart and fun, a pretty good rarity in "popular fiction." Another "popular" fiction writer I truly feel is truly great would be Jasper Fforde. There are others, but these are my current passionate fiction pursuits.

The Christopher Moore reading was amazing. And he didn't read at all, attesting he was not a good reader and talked smartly and hilariously off the cuff ... and off of sticky index card notes. I did not know sticky index cards existed, but I am going to have to get some. Did you know the really old anteater at the Tahoma Zoo passed away? Neither did I ... till Mr. Moore told us so.

I got some photos, blushed A LOT and giggled A LOT, a problem I have when meeting writers I admire ... and I really wish I didn't. I feel it gives me a "stupid" vibe or something. When I was taking a photo he said, "BFF!" so cool. I almost fainted. No, I didn't ... but I was like: "BFF ... Cool!" I am such a geek! But I did give him a signed copy of my book ... he said he'd have something to read on the plane. I hope he likes it and tell me so!

The other good news about that magical evening at the Borders in Ann Arbor was that my poetry book, Small Murders, was in the poetry section. I was not expecting that and so was pleasantly surprised.

Often, I think serious readers are lonely. It is sometimes difficult to hang out with someone and be reading a book (though I have tried this and I have realized it's rude), hence the typical "loneness" of readers. I think that is why it is so great and so amazing to meet an author and like-minded readers. There were a few in line who seemed cool, but I was too shy (and nervous waiting to meet Christopher) to say anything to them.

Now I have begun reading Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. It is truly beautiful and poetic and I will save that discussion for later ... at least after Volume One, Swann's Way. And also Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet. I ran into a friend in the bookstore yesterday and he totally turned me on to this fascinating writer. Thanks, Little Paul! More on Pessoa (and Little Paul and I's bizarre chain of coincidences in the period of 30 minutes in Barnes and Noble) later as well. And of course, I always have to have a nonfiction book and a poetry book going as well, and those are The Lobotomist by Jack El-Hai, about Dr. Walter Freeman; and The Dream Songs by John Berryman (again, yes), respectively.

But just a taste of Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet:

Writing #154

Who am I to myself? Just one of my sensations. My heart drains out helplessly, like a broken bucket. Think? Feel? How everything wearies when it's defined!

My Dream Song

The house, the tide, the monster chasing me. It is all so constant. I spoke last night with someone I miss so terribly. But what can be done about such things? We both just need to live. We both just need to be brave.

I don't feel brave. I feel instead very unbrave and vulnerable. I inadvertently, unwantingly await my feet to kiss some emotional mindfield and that will be it. There is not much more I can do for myself. I need some kind of help. And I am always in a state of unrequited.

I watch a crane. The machine, not the animal. This crane is missing its object. And on that large hook I imagine my little heart dangling from it. The crane moves about looking for the space where it belongs. There is nothing. There is nowhere. There is no hole deep enough for my heart. There is no perceivable end in sight to this sadness. It is constant. It is the only lover I will likely ever know. And I simply have to accept it like one accepts any disability. So I keep a dream song, my dream song, so close to me since nothing else and no one is or can be close to me. John Berryman, you save me again today and will save me again tonight.

Dream Song #109, by John Berryman

She mentioned 'worthless' & he took it in,
degraded Henry, at the ebb of love --
O at the end of love --
in undershorts, with visitors, whereof
we can say their childlessness is ending. Love
finally took over,

after their two adopted: she has a month to go
and Henry has (perhaps) many months to go
until another Spring
wakens another Henry, with far to go;
far to go, pal.
My pussy-willow ceased. The tiger-lily dreamed.

All we dream, uncertain, in Syracuse & here
& there: dread we our loves, whereas the National Geographic
is on its way somewhere.
We're not. We're on our way to the little fair
and the cops & the flicks & the single flick
who'll solve our intolerable problem.


And I look tirelessly for my little fair, that little place for my little and insignificant heart ... as my pussy-willow truly ceases and my tiger-lily truly dreams.

The Seemingly Undetectable Barbed Wire of Bridesmaid Dresses ... and Coffins

Interesting day. And really for no other reason than my being stuck in a bridesmaid dress for 10 minutes. The girl who was helping me was sweet and cool, very much not like your typical stuck up bridal shop employee who has somehow convinced herself that you will steal a giant, 15 pound bridal gown if she doesn't keep an eye on you. So this cool bridal shop employee was asking me if I was okay ... I said yes. I mean I didn't want to get in trouble for the stuck zipper! But I finally managed to get out of it ... after a Jedi-esque force came to me and I had to make the zipper descend down its tiny, toothy track with my mind ...

And I kept mistakenly picking out maternity dresses! But they were far cuter and classic than the non-maternity dresses. To accomodate a pregnant orb they were empire waist of course ... and flowy. They looked so ... Shakespearean. Or at least Elizabethan. Very cool. I had a moment that I felt like Lady MacBeth and I swear if I was sure no one was around I so would have belted out the "Unsex me here" soliloquy.

And I liked the long marternity dress best ... and the girl said she thought it "looked cool even though I am not preggers" (paraphrasing but "preggers" is a direct quotation) ... I believed her. She was sincere. It was nice and refreshing. This was also the dress that I was stuck in and I thought since this dress and I had already had a moment ... a tough moment we got through together basically unscathed is a good sign. And the chick at the shop had a great point. I said to her ... do you think it is some weird sign or omen or something I am gravitating toward maternity dresses? She said no, walking away with a flow of chiffon following her saying over her shoulder: "I'd worry if you were picking out coffins."

If YOU SUCKing is Wrong, Then I Don't Wanna Be Right ...

After finishing Christopher Moore's You Suck: A Love Story last night, I felt the way I often feel when finishing a majorly fun and weirdly wonderful voyage through a book ... sad. Sad it was over ... or is it?

I shan't give away anything about the book in case you haven't read it, but it is truly great and its ending could morph thus: into yet another sequel, making this bloodsucking fiend / love story thing into an epic trilogy; or it will be left as is, leaving us wondering, considering ... yet knowing somehow what is in store for the characters we have become so invested in.

I have never been a fan of vampire fiction, but Christopher Moore makes it real, and makes fun of that gothic over-the-topness vampire fiction so often possesses with the truly delightful and creepy teen characters of Abby Normal and her buddy Jared.

Fun stuff. Do read it. But my humble suggestion is this: start at the beginning with his first book, Practical Demonkeeping, then maybe read Bloodsucking Fiends, then BSF sequel, You Suck.

I am so excited about seeing him at the Borders Books in Ann Arbor, Michigan on the 15th! Happy Valentine's Day to me!

The Outside Looks Like My Inside ...

Here is a poem I want to share ... so good for a day like today when the outside looks like my inside.

"Home is So Sad"
by Philip Larkin

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.