Once Forgotten

While rocking out to my Twilight mix (of course, made for each book, chapter by chapter--in some cases paragraph by paragraph--if you want a copy, let me know!) and prepping goodies for my cook-ahead, Slow Cooker Chicken Enchilada Casserole, I heard a song I haven't really heard in ages: "Have You Forgotten" by Red House Painters.

When I first heard that song was in my in-between-years as manager of the Saks Off-Fifth Women's Department at Aurora Farms in Aurora, Ohio, when I wanted to study poetry in a MFA program but more importantly I wanted to find myself. I listened to the song many times during many late nights doing stupid shit (there's no other way to put it) with my then (and still) bestees: Gattozzi, PL, & Stokes.

My most vivid memory with "Have You Forgotten" is in Grad School, though. I had wandered down to Falstaff's on my way home from teaching one Friday evening--early on in my Grad career, my first semester. This was my fav bar which happened to be the best burger joint in town: in Grad School my two favorite things comboed in one.

The owner and cook, John, knew me by name. (Yes, it was a Cheers moment every time I walked in.) I was in there one night sipping my Jack & Coke and devouring my cheeseburger and fries after a rough week when I heard "Have You Forgotten."

John was an avid indie radio supporter, and the song was most likely playing on the college radio station. I don't remember. But what I remember was in a bar the size of any good college bar with glossed oak wood counters and four pool tables, it was just me and John listening to "Have You Forgotten."

No one else was in the bar.

That was the loneliest moment of my life.

I missed my brother, my sister, my parents, my Stokey, my Gattozzi, my PL, my Alice, my life in Kent, my job with designer clothes perks, the love of my life (wherever he was), and myself.

What's weird is I never remembered that specific emotional state until tonight. I've heard that song countless times since then, but never with any emotional potency.

What made tonight so special? The smell of onions browning in a non-stick LeCruest skillet?

Food and memory are intrinsically linked...

At first I thought to include this memory in a private letter to my friend PL with a stack of CD burns I've been promising to send him since December, but for some reason that didn't seem to be enough.

This past weekend my sister-in-law Suz told me I needed to update my blog. That she missed it. That she enjoyed reading it.

I thought to myself, "For real? My blog is a joke."

I complain. I whine. I rant.

But the smell of onions reminded me:

I share.

I remember.

I appreciate.

That's good enough by me.

What else are blogs for?

Farwell, my dear friend, Time.*

I like to think I have a sunny disposition. That I'm happy, warm, lovable.

That I spread my joy to all who know me.

Until this week. (Don't worry, next week I'll be fine.)

This week, though, is my last week of summer. And today is the only day that is going to be totally mine. Therefore, I must make it count. I will cross off these six things on my to-do list today: swim, finish reading Rachel Zucker's The Bad Wife Handbook, finish the first draft of a new chapbook, dry the Blue Basil leaves I have no idea what to do with, wrap FD's bday presents while snacking on cheddar cheese and NutThins or raw baby carrots (I'm not much of snacker but I LOVE cheese, to put it mildly), oh, yeah, and complete this blog tag** from Stokes.

Easy enough.

10 years ago I was entering my 4th year of undergrad, just taking filler classes like yoga and ice skating because I finished all my major classes in 3 years and I was going to the gay bars to dance my off ass because I didn't want to be worried with being assaulted by drunken frat boys and I was discovering the world of poetry. It's funny to think today I'm the teacher, preparing for the first-year writing students, who dances around my house while dusting, a Swiffer as my imaginary microphone, and who knows full-well that the world of poetry isn't all that magical.

It's this last week of summer, though, that makes me wish I was a billionaire. That I could teach a few classes here and there when I felt like it. And set up a pretty fat retirement plan for me and FD as well as for both of our families too. And build my prefab dream house with a guest house and two detached offices (one for me and one for FD) all with the arty, expensive appliances and furniture I see in Dwell each month. And give money to worthwhile foundations like Alicia's Voice. And travel to cool places like Japan and India. And do yoga whenever and whereever I want. And hire a cleaning staff, a chef, and, because if I was rich why not have kids and hire a few nannies. Finally, of course, I would be a shareholder of The Grey Colt and wear extra fabulous clothes all the time.

Yeah, that'd be the life. But then if I was billionaire, would I really appreciate the days when I cleaned residential construction sites, sweeping wood and dust into piles and shop vacuuming it all up? Or when I cleaned model homes, how I adored making perfect vacuum lines in the never-used carpets? Or when I worked for a cleaning service and scrubbed the settled cigarette smoke off cheap vinyl floors in some office that could totally be in a 70s sit-com, even though clearly we were in the 90s? (God, no wonder I'm a clean freak!) Or when I managed Hons' clothing resale shop & every Thursday Stokes & I would go to Applebees for dinner & drinks b/c she got a discount there. Or how about when I was the women's clothing department manager at Off Fifth & I went into debt buying hoity toity designer clothes. (No wonder I'm a label whore!) Or my days struggling as a TA, trying to figure out what kind of poet/teacher/woman/person I wanted to be until I finally figured out & became the poet/teacher/woman/person I always wanted to be.

Really would all that be lost if I became a billionaire? How would my values change? Or how would I teach my children values, that is if I decided to have kids?

Maybe it's simpler knowing I start teaching again next Monday and life will regain it's schedule, a schedule that I know & have come to love.

That doesn't mean I won't dream of living on Captiva Island, FL; or in Portland, OR; or Martha's Vineyard; Napa Valley; Boulder, CO; Ireland; Scotland; or even just plain ol' Clevelend, OH.

I guess as much as I don't want to, I need to look on the sunny side of this summer, the good times had, the time that I wasted doing God-knows-what.

Last week of summer, please treat me well. Be kind to me. Help me accomplish my to-do list in the best of moods. And help me smile when I wake up in the morning of the 25th, ready for school to begin again.

*Said in a unbearably tight hug that turns into a sloppy sob fest 08.
**I tag SEM, Chop, & C.L. Jones.

Oh NO She Didn't...!!!

28 hours later. I'm done.

Booya! I am motivated after all.

After 3 hours of taking pictures of my wardrobe.

4 hours after uploading pics to Walgreens, petting Bleu in between uploads (approximately 20 minutes for each 12 pic set of 136 pics).

2 1/2 hours waiting for Walgreens to call on my order.

4 1/2 put together time. (Well, calculate in 45 mins of Project Runway [We have the original DVR TIVO]. Thank God for Tim Gunn giving me a break while firing me up!)

AT 12:30, here I type, should-be-drunk-on-wine-but-exhausted-and-accomplished-yet-still- looking-for-some-pics-that-seem-to-be -missing.

Each pic in the binder contains the buttons & tags as well as the story behind the garment.

If only I was this motivated & OCD about my writing. Maybe one day...Maybe...

However, b/c I'm a label & money whore I'd be willing to this for your closet at a fair price. Fair being a very subjective word depending on your warobe & care of it...

Book Review: Bonomo's _Installations_

Installations by Joe Bonomo

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Bonomo's _Installations_ is mysteriously gorgeous and intellectually haunting. Each prose poem (beginning with the lines: "A large, well-lit, white-walled room. You walk to a red line painted on the floor.") serves as an installation art piece that is examined by a "you." These pieces (the poems/prose/memoir) replicate the art pieces in an innovative way--one that realistically enacts viewing art into written word. Like viewing art sometimes I just moved on to the next piece without hesitation, sometimes I lingered, other times I obsessed and forgot the time, and almost always I acknowledged rigorous thought and felt some kind of emotion.



Note to self: One emotion I felt several times was jealousy (over the form, language, concept) but, of course, the kind that is from the most loving place.



Like minimalist contemporary art some of the pieces "seemed" easy or underwhelmed or repetitive in a non-repetitive way. Though these qualities could be viewed as shortcomings, they appear to be intentional, at least in my reads. These are aspects I would like to hear Bonomo discuss, though.



The pieces (as identified by their last lines) that I gravitated towards were: "6:47," "Planes and birds glide in eternal gravity," "Your body, in mourning and great reluctance, received you back," "With history in front of you, you feel a tingle at the back of your neck, and you turn around," and "You want to open that drawer."



My all-time fav for its ability to articulate my own art viewing emotions most closely: "What is that small bloom of dread in your chest that you can't name?"



_Installations_ is full of real and surreal surprises, lockets of images, and invitations to join in. And join in, you should.






View all my reviews.

I Just Might Be A Dog: A Tribute to Bleu

As Bleu and I rounded the corner onto our block this morning during our walk, I remembered being called a "dog" by my middle school bullies.

Based on how much I love BooBoo, I'd now take being called a dog a compliment.

~

Last night I bawled my brains out when Sam the Dog in I Am Legend died. As GLM pointed out too, I'd much rather see humans die than dogs. What has happened to me?

To comfort me, FDR paused the movie and said, "It's ok. You now just get 'it.' You're now a dog person."

I'm a big black lab person who also loves a mouth-less white kitty.

Oh, the pangs of being a Gemini...

~

The only other living creature I know who is as food-obsessed as me is my dog.

~

In the past 7 months we've spent enough on Bleu to qualify his furry ass as a smooth-bottomed baby:

environmentally-friendly premium dog bed for the living room (check), dog bed for our bedroom (check), specialty collar (check), back-up designer collar (check), Gentle Leader (check) all-natural, allergy-free food (check), 20 vet visits to get rid of parasites picked up from his birth kennel and to figure out his food allergy (check), throwing out the food that he had allergic reactions to (check), new vet (check), flea, tick, heartworm, & other monthly meds (check), pet shampoo & wipes (check), obedience lessons and puppy playdates (check), dog art & bed time books (check), an XL kennel for when he grew out of his L kennel (check), eco-friendly poop bags (and Mama's favorite dog store!!!) (check), deshedding brush (check), pet vac (check), hunting gear (check), countless supposedly "indestructible" toys that we have thrown away (check), Nylabones: the only indestructible toys (check), self-help dog books and dog owner memoirs (check), brake-fast® dog bowl (check), countless-other things-I-can't-remember-b/c-there's-just-too-many-of-them (check). A good $1000 or more.

Bleu resting his little-big head on my feet while I write this blog post; Bleu licking my tears away during I Am Legend; Bleu wagging his butt when he prances out of his kennel when we come home from errands; Bleu swimming like a little gator; Bleu performing any command perfectly for an ice cube; Bleu play-bowing at the words "walk," "eat," and "hunting"; Bleu carefully watching bunnies hop across the yard; Bleu barking to guard his mama from the mailman; Bleu rolling over so I can scratch his belly even more; Bleu trying to sleep in my lap like when he was a puppy; Bleu flopping down and sighing before taking a nap in the shower; Bleu snoring. Priceless.

~

At nine months I couldn't be more proud of my canine best friend. He's still a crazy pup-pup, but he's starting to mature into a handsome dogus.

Happy 9th month birthday, my little moose!

Dot in the Universe by Lucy Ellmann

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Once I started understanding and appreciating the experimentation of the blur between first and third person narration, I couldn't put this book down.



The themes/discussions of birth, life, death, love, lust, consumerism, and everything else (I'm leaving out a lot) are incredibly well written.



I laughed many times and other times thought Lucy Ellman actually had entered my brain, especially during Dot's realization and reflection on death and bodily functions.



This book is hardcore, I'd say. Not for the weak in stomach or mind. If you read it, be ready for the vulgar and embrace it. Once you embrace it the book becomes an accurate account of the human experience in its most honest form.


View all my reviews.

Because Idea Theft Is Something I'm Good At

I like ideas.

Even better than liking ideas, I like taking ideas and refining them. Which gives me license to be a little sneaky.

Sometimes I just like to borrow ideas outright. For that, I always give credit where credit is due.

For example, my idea of borrowing ideas comes from some of my fav female poets: Mary Ann Samyn, Alice Fulton, Brenda Hillman.

I said I give credit.

Yes, so I "borrow" a lot for my writing. Which now includes my blogging.

I was reading Clamhead's blog and came across this post called "Life Cloud."

I like tag clouds. Which basically are word clouds.

Clouds are awesome.

Seriously how much more awesome can a cloud be if it's made up of words?

So I checked my Twitter Stats and made my own Word Cloud. Cool, huh?

Now I've just got to think of something original to do with it...

Of course, I could words from Word Cloud in the poems I intend to write very soon...

But there must be something beyond that...

In Need of Some Help

Meet my new button man friend.

Sad thing is he doesn't have a name.

Can you help me think of one for him?










Also, Nameless-As-Of-Yet Mr. Button Man has a request for you too:

If you're an artist or vendor, Alicia's Voice is looking for items for its silent auction on June 18th at our annual benefit golf outing. If you're interested in donating an item, gift card, or service, please leave a comment with contact info and I'll get in touch with you. All proceeds go to Alicia's Voice and The Center.

Together We Can!!!

Obsessed Yet Again

If you're on Twitter, you might have seen this RAD contest.

But if you're not, let me explain.

Patrick Sullivan Jr. won a VanHalen towel from a Twitter Zappos contest, and with the towel the very kind Tony included an a surprise, a $100 Zappos gift card.

Well, now the very kind Patrick Sullivan Jr. is paying it forward. He's giving the $100 Zappos gift card to the lucky Twitterer who tweet the best 6 word story.

Upon logging into Twitter this morning, my first thought was: "$100 in Zappos! Campers, darlings, here I come."

But now the contest has been become muchmuch more; it's become an obsession.

As some of you may know, I've been writing one to two line poems for quite some time. As it is, poetry is compressed language, and I'm in search of even-more compressed language that tells a story. The thing is I forgot about this quest over the past nine months b/c of, well, honestly, my job. But now that I'm home for summer I have all the time in the world, as they say.

And I have a sweet-ass Twitter contest to motivate me. Or now to help me realize my goal once again.

Though I want to win so I can get a new pair of Campers (or Vans...) b/c shoes mean the world to me (cliche yet again), I'm thinking I might not. My tweets are little out there.

But why don't you decide for yourself? Hell, which would you pick to win? We'll make our own contest...Well, that doesn't make sense, but I'll send some Hello Kitty stickers to the best (that's subjective) comments regarding this blog post.

My 6 word stories:

She outgrew her wood baby coffin.

He saw only the television reflection.

Loss, a you-never-know away.

Her desire is the snow's reflection.

I welcomed a fistful of mums.

This world full of opened scissors.

She left before the paint dried.

Poolside her toes shattered the water.

Her heavy hand frozen in reach.

My house: it's only one story.

Elated she frosted the chocolate cake.

The dog snores as I vacillate.

Fragile dishes clink in the sink.

The crack in the china is unrepairable.

Body: a shelf lined with bowls.

My dreams are hollow button holes.

Click of keyboard, but no words.

Her voice was garbled with longing.

The boy transferred to another school.

I know this story too well.

Don't make yourself sick over fish.

My palm around the bath’s knob—

My voice lost in a vacuum.

The beauty of it isn't mine.

~

Told you I was obsessed. That's 20 so far...

Most of the "stories" are from some of my poems. Others were on the spot.

I'm still thinking of some and probably will add a few to my list here...I have until midnight. How am I going to sleep tonight?!

OMG, 8:20 and I'm babbling about 6 word stories. American Idol is on. WTF?!

I am obsessed.

A Week of Thankfulness (2 for Tuesday)

Today, I'm thankful for two things:

First, yoga class.

We began class by breathing in a meditative posture. Then we moved into poses I was pretty familiar with like Downward Dog. But then we did Plank, which I hate because I have no upper body strength. And when Megan, my yoga teacher, told us to do a side plank, I rolled my eyes at her. Seriously, I'm pretty sure she saw because she smiled the smile that says, "I saw that." I hate plank, but what I hate even more is rolling onto the side, not the sole, of the bottom leg's foot and balancing there on only the side of the foot and one arm.

What I'm thankful for, though, is my ability to surprise myself. Actually, I had more upper body strength and balance than I realized. I could actually do side plank, not perfectly, but enough to feel proud that I did it.

So when Megan said, "It's time for Triangle," I almost squealed, "THANK YOU!" Triangle is one of my all-time favorites! It always makes me happy. (I need to remember that...) From that point on, my practice was focused because I was focused and in side angle series heaven. Time just flew by.

Sitting here, typing, I feel tired but renewed, which is a feeling I'm definitely thankful for this week.

Also, I'm thankful for the new issue of NOON: journal of the short poem. They aren't online, but this link will give you sense of what it looks like. I have one one-liner and one two-liner in it. Getting published makes me feel good about my writer-self, but even better is the fact that the journal is based out of Tokyo (Hello Kitty's homeland) and that it is the MOST beautiful journal I've ever seen. It's hand-bound and the paper is glorious, so soft and fine. I'm thinking it's rice paper. Seriously, I almost wept with joy when I opened it and saw how special it was. I thought to myself, "It's worth being picky about where I send if the end result looks as awesome as this!"

You can order your own copy by contacting NoonPress at noonpress@mac.com or, as Philip Rowland wrote in his email to subscribers & contributers, sending "$10 / 5 pounds / 1000 yen, but please add $4 / 2 pounds / 400 yen for airmail postage and packaging, or 200 yen in stamps for postage within Japan to

Philip Rowland
Noon: journal of the short poem
Minami Motomachi 4-49-506
Shinjuku-ku
Tokyo 160-0012
Japan.

British bank cheques or international postal money orders (made payable to Philip Rowland),
cash and international reply coupons are acceptable forms of payment. The journal receives no funding other than that of the editor and subscribers, so your support would be much appreciated."

Thank you, Philip, for such a fabulous literary magazine and for letting me be a part of it!

Ugh...

I'm having one of those days where I don't really like people. (Generally speaking.)

Does everyone feel this way? Every once and awhile?

Two examples: I'm in a CTLT Web 2.0 Presentation today (I signed up hoping to learn more about del.icio.us), and this idiot's cell phone goes off. (Imagine: he's sitting in the front row in a computer lab. And the presenter is standing next to him.) He doesn't silence the phone and apologize. NO, he TAKES THE CALL!!! HE TALKS ON THE PHONE DURING THE PRESENTATION!!! WTF?!?!

Then I sign into my blog and find this ad about some lady who has a book based off her blog which is a bunch of to-do lists (huh?), much like PostSecret lists secrets. While I do like PostSecret (they rock!), I don't like this lady. (Disclaimer: I'm sure I would like her if I met her, but I'm saying this for effect and to illustrate how I don't like people today.) How do these people make money off of this stupid shit? Who do they know? And how can one call this stupid shit art? I got my freakin' MFA. I have freakin' debt. And I can't get this blog turned into a book to save my life! WTF?!?!

In order to stay sane, I'm brainstorming career changes. I need to getaway from these crazy people.

Sadly, I realize they are everywhere.

I think I need a career change that involves being a hermit.

OK, OK, I know God's trying to make me humble and appreciate others' art and feel love and kindness for all that is good, smart, happy, and wonderful. And all this is really nice. Really, really nice.

But today it's pissing me off.

The more I think about creative non-fiction and writing and art, the more the "I" is becoming so boring and drab to me. Even me as an "I" is Snooze Fest '07. And the more I hear about these specialized books like a to-do-list-blog-turned-book, the more I feel disgusted by art, consumerism, and self exploitation. Which makes me wonder what is the point of art today? And wonder whether I really want to contribute to this whole mess of culture. And wonder why I blog and pick blog topics like these that are way too honest and make me look like a schmuck.

Is this frustration stemming from jealous or some inner-battle to get to the heart of my own art and beyond my "I" in my essays and poems? Or is it some intellectual fight with art and society? Or just end of the semester stress? Or dare I be cliche and chuck it up to PMS?

All sound equally good.

Right now, all I know, for sure, is I need something like a to-do-list-blog-turned-book, so I can work a hell of lot less and play on Facebook a hell of a lot more.

Sunday Reflection

Last night, FD and I went to the opera.

For real.

We saw La Virtu de Strali d'Amore (The Power of Love's Arrows), which was put on by BGSU's Bowling Green Opera theater and the Eastman School of Music Collegium Musicum.

It was nothing like what I thought the opera would be like.

First of all, I expected to see women in evening gowns. So I chose to wear a grey dress I'm quite fond of--which looks dressy cas. I fit in perfectly. There were women wearing jeans.

Needless to say, I shouldn't have busted FD's chops for wearing jeans and sport coat. He totally fit right in too.

Then we were worried about being able to understand what the hell was going on. Thankfully, they provide programs with the plot in summary as well as the translation of dialog for each scene. And, even better, our theater had a screen above the stage that showed the translation, much like subtitles in a foreign movie. We knew what the hell was going on after all.

There were gorgeous costumes, a simple yet lovely set, some pretty good humor, fab acting, and three brief intermissions for stretching. (Don't get ahead of yourself, FD and I are certainly not going to become all-out opera goers...but we are going to start going to more university functions. Once I figure out how to find out about them. I heard about the opera through Facebook--see Facebook does have some realistic benefits!)

The main reason we went was because my yoga teacher, Megan, was one of the leads. I know how talented she is. One time, during mediation, she sang to us, and I vowed to go listen to her the next chance I got. And so I saw her perform opera first-hand. Awesome. I don't feel biased in saying this, but I know it will sound biased: she was my fav. She made her character (the god Amore) come to life--with her voice and her body language. Yes, all the cast did a great job, but she really stole the show.

FD and I really enjoyed ourselves. It was neat to do something new on a date night--something we've never done before that showed us a new side of art/culture.

The opera. Who knew?

~

This afternoon, after a much-needed trip to the Anderson's House of Meats, I made one of my favorite cook-aheads--Tamale Pie. I got the recipe from the Low Fat Moosewood Cookbook.

While making it, I chilled out with Ira Glass' This American Life. (Which reminds me, I need to check out Radio Lab...)

This episode was one that will remain dear to my heart. It was on Special Ed. For the first time ever, the voices of those with Special Needs were represented. I was really moved. In that way, that I have so much to say, but I don't know how to say it yet. It really got me thinking about my sister project and ideas for essays.

When I am a better able to articulate myself, I will.

~

Having a weekend at home has been nice. FD and I in our little place. It feels good after so much traveling and so little alone time.