Parker shows up late and needs a place to stay. Sure. Fine. Here is OK. I tell him yes even though I'm concerned I won't be able to sleep as well. Then again, I think, I'm so tired already…surely I'll fall asleep quickly.
Time passes, he snores in little spits and gurgles, quiet enough not to wake himself but loud enough to keep my mind chugging along with the rhythm of his breath. I used to find this so endearing, like the mossy green of his eyes, the resonance of his voice. My, how things change. At 1:00 a.m. I give up and do some homework. At some point, I stumble back into bed and the alarm goes off at 7am just as I am dreaming about a one-eyed dog that gives me deja vous.
And it all would have been alright, really, except for the fact that on only a few hours of sleep, the universe handed me one of the most explosive days in years:
Early in the morning, Mom drives me to Marshall where we pick up the Volvo, get the title notarized, pay the fees, get the new plate, and shake hands with the owners. Mom heads to BigCity, NC for errands and keeping in tune with the area, the previous owners send me off with a wave and handmade mug formed and fired in their own studio in the mountains. It seems like the perfect send off and I hit the road with a smile on my face, the Volvo shifting with ease into the gray, rainy day. The send off is so perfect, in fact, that just three miles down the road I decide to get a car wash to initiate the Volvo into my ownership.
It only takes about thirty seconds under the high intensity hoses for the water to start dripping through the sunroof. At first there is just a threatening trickle, like the ripples that moved in water glasses during the suspenseful scene in Jurassic Park. Then a gush, a surge, and now a flood. The water moves without apology, along the sides of the sunroof, puddling into the seats and splashing into the back. Every muscle in my body begs to get out of the car - water pours in and the body wants to move out – but I am in the middle of a car wash for chrissake, and abandoning ship could be suicidal. I think of Oregon and the rain, my youth, the weeks of rain. I think of my childhood, the bubble baths, the suds, the euphoric splashes of bathwater. I laugh, cuss, pull at my braids, and scootch towards the steering wheel to avoid the sloshing puddle at my butt. I put on my raincoat and wait it out, not daring to look behind me at how the other people in line might be reacting.
Somehow, I recover. The damage is not that bad. I should have known better. A car with a sunroof made in the 1980’s? Who on earth would take THAT through a high-powered car wash. Not I, not anymore, no sir. I borrow rags from the gas station, I borrow paper towels, I gut the whole car and then pull up to the coin-operated vacuum hose. It feels good to have the puddles taken care of and the vacuum sucks up the moisture in the fabric nicely. It also sucks up the fabric on the roof lining, which rips and tears with such velocity that I can’t even squeeze out a good “Holy crap!” before I’ve ripped another hole in the lining. This is how I will surely die, I think. I will die by electrocution as I use a dry vacuum to suck the rotting wet out of my new-to-me-car and before I know it the car is clean and dry but the rain is thundering down and all the floor mats are outside. I vacuum them, curse the weather, the gods, the clouds, the sunroof, and replace everything, then hop in the car and hit the road.
The good news is that the sunroof doesn’t leak at all in the rain. Surely this was a matter of applying too much direct pressure to a precarious situation. I have a dry, hour-long drive to work and there is once again a bounce in my step.
The bounce, it turns out, is very helpful, because as soon as I walk in the coffeehouse doors for work I am on my feet for six hours serving and cleaning and finally mopping without end. It is one of our busiest days to date but life is good, right? And I have a new Volvo, right? And even though I’ve barely slept and life seems to be hurling things at me left and right, I will be ok, right?
I will ok, actually, because I am so smart that I’ve decided to haul today’s coffeehouse trash bags and dirty towels to the campus dumpster in my new Volvo. See, they’re so heavy from the busy day, that it’d be much easier to haul them in the station wagon than over my shoulder all the way across campus. I lock the doors, hoist the bags to the side of the road, and head towards my car to pull over and load up.
Alas, as I sidle in the smooth rolling Volvo to the side of the road there is a bump, then a burst, then a flattening, and yes my friends, I have earned myself another flat tire. I am dead dog tired again, it is dinner time and this is the end of my rope. But alas! Even today I asked the previous owners, “Does the car come with a spare tire?” and they exclaimed, “Oh! Yes! It is a full-sized one!”
So, changing a flat tire. No problem. I’ve done this before and this time I’m on pavement and it’s flat. Perfect weather conditions. Full steam ahead. I lift the spare compartment and hoist the tire out. It flops onto the road in two thumps, one for the tire and one for the hanging flap of rubber that has frayed from the tire, with thing ripples of steal glinting in the sun.
I promptly throw a fit.
I hurl the tire into the trunk. I say every curse word I know in English and the long syllabic one my grandmother taught me in Sicilian. I consider throwing the handmade mug from the previous owners into the pavement and practicing some extreme and violent ritual over a feast of flames.
Instead, I stop throwing things and stop crying and call Dad. “It’s this and this and this and then this and jesushchristonacrutchcanyoubelievethis?” and before I know it Dad is up the mountain with the spare tire from the family Volvo and we are back in business in no time. He follows me home, where I promptly drink two glasses of wine and call my girlfriend.
When the wine is done, I call my parents and say, “What a week. I give UP!”
Simultaneously, they say: “Good!” and then Mom clarifies, “You’ve been pushing too hard against the world and so it’s been pushing you back. Giving up is just what you need to do.”
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Um...Well...
Mom and Dad have me over for soy ice cream and I am dead dog tired, almost falling over as I walk in the door at 9:30pm – the time I finally got home tonight. I cannot write when there are loose ends in my life and I have always been this way. Since Friday I have spent seven hours on the phone with Delta, purchased two plane tickets, cancelled two others, bought a car, changed a flight, switched phone companies and renter’s insurance to the new house, switched car insurance to the new car, and practically gone insane.
But still, the writing will not flow and it is now, after three weeks of work and MFA and failing again and again at the desk that I have to say to myself, Now, now it is time, so we are eating ice cream and I remember the advice that Viv gave me and I just start to say it:
“Well there’s another reason why I haven’t been writing and why I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s an exciting thing,” I say to my parents.
“Did you miss your period?” Dad says.
I laugh, more to myself than at his words. “Um, not quite, actually. Far from it. I’m uh, I’ve been falling in love lately. I mean, for like the past four months and I’m very happy.” I say this but still, I won’t look them in the eye.
“Falling in love. Ooh!” Mom is happy already. Dad is too, I look up long enough to see them smiling, then I look away again.
“And it’s with a woman so no Dad, I’m not pregnant.”
They don’t flinch. They are all ears all happy all the time and wanting to know who and for how long and Honey Don’t Ever Worry About That With Us and We’re Happy You’re Happy and I still can’t look up from my ice cream bowl but now I’m smiling too, but I’m still worried and I have to say more:
“So you’re not scared that I won’t make babies or grandchildren for you and you’re not worried about my life or that I won’t make you happy and you’re not going to be stressed out just when you’re trying to get your lives straight and stress-free again and…” and I keep going and going until they interrupt with gentle laughter, saying No, No, No we are not worried, never would be. Don’t worry about us worrying and finally, I can look up from my ice cream bowl and into their faces and maybe, just maybe get back home in time to
sit
down
and
write.
But first I have to tell them more. That Cass is a poet and smart and funny and affectionate and that she’s already been to visit me for a week and that we met in grad school and that she’s coming back for another week in May and oh, she’s going to take me to the reading in Eugene for the essay contest I just won and also I’ll be staying with her for two weeks this summer. I have to tell them that I am not gay but I’m not not gay and I don’t know what I am and I even need to know right now and I just read Angela’s Ashes so I keep talking in run-on sentences and in fact, even just tonight I had a lovely dinner and hour long walk with a drop dead gorgeous blacksmith from Florida who’s been flirting with me all week over single shots of espresso and he is kind and gentle and wants to trade hats and he showed me his sketches for a commissioned sculpture and he looks me in the eyes when we talk and so “Dad, you might just get grandkids yet” which is another way of saying I’m still nervous so we all laugh and they try to comfort me more and finally, after almost two hours I am ready to go home, ready to sleep, ready to start again tomorrow only this time, with the biggest loose end ever tied up neatly, flat and tidy and almost seamless enough to write on.
But still, the writing will not flow and it is now, after three weeks of work and MFA and failing again and again at the desk that I have to say to myself, Now, now it is time, so we are eating ice cream and I remember the advice that Viv gave me and I just start to say it:
“Well there’s another reason why I haven’t been writing and why I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s an exciting thing,” I say to my parents.
“Did you miss your period?” Dad says.
I laugh, more to myself than at his words. “Um, not quite, actually. Far from it. I’m uh, I’ve been falling in love lately. I mean, for like the past four months and I’m very happy.” I say this but still, I won’t look them in the eye.
“Falling in love. Ooh!” Mom is happy already. Dad is too, I look up long enough to see them smiling, then I look away again.
“And it’s with a woman so no Dad, I’m not pregnant.”
They don’t flinch. They are all ears all happy all the time and wanting to know who and for how long and Honey Don’t Ever Worry About That With Us and We’re Happy You’re Happy and I still can’t look up from my ice cream bowl but now I’m smiling too, but I’m still worried and I have to say more:
“So you’re not scared that I won’t make babies or grandchildren for you and you’re not worried about my life or that I won’t make you happy and you’re not going to be stressed out just when you’re trying to get your lives straight and stress-free again and…” and I keep going and going until they interrupt with gentle laughter, saying No, No, No we are not worried, never would be. Don’t worry about us worrying and finally, I can look up from my ice cream bowl and into their faces and maybe, just maybe get back home in time to
sit
down
and
write.
But first I have to tell them more. That Cass is a poet and smart and funny and affectionate and that she’s already been to visit me for a week and that we met in grad school and that she’s coming back for another week in May and oh, she’s going to take me to the reading in Eugene for the essay contest I just won and also I’ll be staying with her for two weeks this summer. I have to tell them that I am not gay but I’m not not gay and I don’t know what I am and I even need to know right now and I just read Angela’s Ashes so I keep talking in run-on sentences and in fact, even just tonight I had a lovely dinner and hour long walk with a drop dead gorgeous blacksmith from Florida who’s been flirting with me all week over single shots of espresso and he is kind and gentle and wants to trade hats and he showed me his sketches for a commissioned sculpture and he looks me in the eyes when we talk and so “Dad, you might just get grandkids yet” which is another way of saying I’m still nervous so we all laugh and they try to comfort me more and finally, after almost two hours I am ready to go home, ready to sleep, ready to start again tomorrow only this time, with the biggest loose end ever tied up neatly, flat and tidy and almost seamless enough to write on.
Monday, March 26, 2007
What a Day!
Hello world!
I won 3rd place in the Oregon Quarterly contest for my essay titled “Meditation on Activism.”
Molly Gloss picked the winning essay and has invited the writers to a workshop!
I’m also invited to read the essay on the University of Oregon campus in June!
The essay will be published along with other winners in a chapbook!
I’m going to get a check in the mail!
I won 3rd place in the Oregon Quarterly contest for my essay titled “Meditation on Activism.”
Molly Gloss picked the winning essay and has invited the writers to a workshop!
I’m also invited to read the essay on the University of Oregon campus in June!
The essay will be published along with other winners in a chapbook!
I’m going to get a check in the mail!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The New Volvo!
I bought the car.
It is a 1989 Volvo 740 station wagon with 156,000 miles on it and a fading paint job but perfect body. It has heated seats and a leather interior, a sunroof, a working radio and cassette player, flip down backseats to make for an overnight vehicle or perfect for moving. It shifts smooth as butter, runs quietly, has Pirelli tires in fine shape, and better clearance than my Chrysler. Oil changes and brakes were maintained obsessively by the previous owners. The car comes with a trailer hitch (removable) and chains, a spare brand new cable clutch to replace the current one if it goes, and an extra set of high beam lights.
They asked $1,600 initially and didn’t get a bite. They lowered it to $1,000 and had a few bites but no takers. I offered $850, signed the check, and walked away happy.
Clearly, this car will get my further than my Chrysler will (even though my Chrysler is six years newer and has 40,000 less miles on it). Furthermore, the blue book value of my Chrysler is $2,170 and it’s a fine car for a high school graduate or someone who spends a little less time on gravel roads than I do. I’m going to ask $1,800 for it but am willing to go down. If I’m patient, I might be able to make a little money on it and set that aside for maintenance on the Volvo.
The downsides: The fabric roof lining is stained and crusty, but manageable. It is the first thing I will replace once I sell my Chrysler. There is no air conditioning, but the sunroof is a pretty sweet trade off. The car is rear wheel drive, which they say isn’t as great in snow, but it is much heavier than my Chrysler so that might even out in the end.
Now, it’ll take a week or so to get the title notarized, switch the insurance and the tags, and get it all settled. But the title is in my hands and the check is in theirs and I feel good. And although it makes me nervous, I’ve promised myself I won’t obsess about selling the Chrysler until after I meet my 4/2 deadline and until after I’ve filled at least a few boxes to prepare for the move up Fork Mountain.
The earth is tossing and turning, growing and bursting and inviting change. I’m moving into a house that’s on the market but that I'm invited to live in for free until it sells. I bought I car I don’t yet have in my possession and wasn’t planning on buying. I own a car I don’t need anymore and don’t yet have time to organize to sell. And guess what? It’s ok! Life is good!
It is a 1989 Volvo 740 station wagon with 156,000 miles on it and a fading paint job but perfect body. It has heated seats and a leather interior, a sunroof, a working radio and cassette player, flip down backseats to make for an overnight vehicle or perfect for moving. It shifts smooth as butter, runs quietly, has Pirelli tires in fine shape, and better clearance than my Chrysler. Oil changes and brakes were maintained obsessively by the previous owners. The car comes with a trailer hitch (removable) and chains, a spare brand new cable clutch to replace the current one if it goes, and an extra set of high beam lights.
They asked $1,600 initially and didn’t get a bite. They lowered it to $1,000 and had a few bites but no takers. I offered $850, signed the check, and walked away happy.
Clearly, this car will get my further than my Chrysler will (even though my Chrysler is six years newer and has 40,000 less miles on it). Furthermore, the blue book value of my Chrysler is $2,170 and it’s a fine car for a high school graduate or someone who spends a little less time on gravel roads than I do. I’m going to ask $1,800 for it but am willing to go down. If I’m patient, I might be able to make a little money on it and set that aside for maintenance on the Volvo.
The downsides: The fabric roof lining is stained and crusty, but manageable. It is the first thing I will replace once I sell my Chrysler. There is no air conditioning, but the sunroof is a pretty sweet trade off. The car is rear wheel drive, which they say isn’t as great in snow, but it is much heavier than my Chrysler so that might even out in the end.
Now, it’ll take a week or so to get the title notarized, switch the insurance and the tags, and get it all settled. But the title is in my hands and the check is in theirs and I feel good. And although it makes me nervous, I’ve promised myself I won’t obsess about selling the Chrysler until after I meet my 4/2 deadline and until after I’ve filled at least a few boxes to prepare for the move up Fork Mountain.
The earth is tossing and turning, growing and bursting and inviting change. I’m moving into a house that’s on the market but that I'm invited to live in for free until it sells. I bought I car I don’t yet have in my possession and wasn’t planning on buying. I own a car I don’t need anymore and don’t yet have time to organize to sell. And guess what? It’s ok! Life is good!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Here We Go Again
The word “infected” has to go. More like “infused.” And all the clichés have to go: yesterday’s news, water off a duck’s back, and the beacon reference. After the step out to the universal, the blending of pain and tension needs to be resolved more thoroughly. The Camel Light filter is a singular noun and needs to be resolved with the reference to the gills (plural). The diamond stud/fish eyes reference is a crucial image to lay the foundation of the metaphor and needs to be referenced in some form in the concluding stanza.
In other words…I am back. I revised today. I straightened out my brain and my heart and began to see the light at the end of Deadline Tunnel – at least with respect to the MFA work for my upcoming April deadline. Tomorrow will be more revising, a bit more reading, and if I’m ambitious, a reading commentary on The Glass Castle, which I finished two weeks ago.
And so, and so, and so, I had almost forgotten this feeling of flow. I am more and more becoming a binge writer. Oh, the ways we change. I am uprooting from this cabin and therefore uprooting my style, my foundation, my approach to the desk. Things will be turbulent for a while. Example: Tomorrow I might buy a car. Additional example: I haven’t meditated in two months and might not for a while. Obviously, neither of these patterns has happened in years. Future example: I’ll be trading in a porch pee bucket for a driveway I can’t even drive up. Combined example: I might be able to get up the driveway if I buy a car tomorrow.
In other words…I am back. I revised today. I straightened out my brain and my heart and began to see the light at the end of Deadline Tunnel – at least with respect to the MFA work for my upcoming April deadline. Tomorrow will be more revising, a bit more reading, and if I’m ambitious, a reading commentary on The Glass Castle, which I finished two weeks ago.
And so, and so, and so, I had almost forgotten this feeling of flow. I am more and more becoming a binge writer. Oh, the ways we change. I am uprooting from this cabin and therefore uprooting my style, my foundation, my approach to the desk. Things will be turbulent for a while. Example: Tomorrow I might buy a car. Additional example: I haven’t meditated in two months and might not for a while. Obviously, neither of these patterns has happened in years. Future example: I’ll be trading in a porch pee bucket for a driveway I can’t even drive up. Combined example: I might be able to get up the driveway if I buy a car tomorrow.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Website Updates and Another Poem
Check out the new website updates! Recent publications downloadable from the sidebar and a few new obsessions...
Tonight’s poem, which I read at Eve’s Night Out. A work in progress, but still copyrighted. J
A Drug Dealer Hits on a Poet Outside the Super 8
He propositions her with a one-dollar bill,
smiles through gold rimmed teeth, faux diamond studs
lining each lobe like a school of fish eyes.
"I like girls like you," he says
thinking surely she will be his catch.
But all she can do
is suck smoke through the gills of her Camel light
unhook the dollar from her fingertips
shoving it at him like yesterday’s news
and try to fend off that PTSD
drowning the night
the others took her without asking
her egg hijacked by the millions swimming
in a pool of blood that would become her baby.
"Funny that you think I’m your type,”
she wanted to say, “See, cuz I like girls,
and I'm not for sale,
and you can take your..."
Or, "Funny how you’re so weak
you have to tread water by night
on the streets of Hotlanta
where soon the city will
pirate you for all you’ve got,
your spirit washed up and wasted
on the shores of some distant demon’s beach
his waves washing over you now
pummeling your molting face into the grit,
sand choking the air from your throat,
plugging you up like you thought you
could do to me.”
She wanted to say,
“I know what was given me,
the way a woman’s breasts
float in bathwater
or how the orchid imitates.
I know the way breath moves between lovers
like moonlight across a pasture
its wild blue light infecting every blade of grass,
every hair, every outlying hope.”
“I know,” she wanted to say,
“and I want to shake you
until we are the same, your fists
parading down like raindrops
each speck a light kiss on my face,
until we are drowning in the muck of it all
the city the stench the beauty the grace
your proposition
like water off a duck’s back
our pain the same
like a beacon across the darkened city sea.”
Tonight’s poem, which I read at Eve’s Night Out. A work in progress, but still copyrighted. J
A Drug Dealer Hits on a Poet Outside the Super 8
He propositions her with a one-dollar bill,
smiles through gold rimmed teeth, faux diamond studs
lining each lobe like a school of fish eyes.
"I like girls like you," he says
thinking surely she will be his catch.
But all she can do
is suck smoke through the gills of her Camel light
unhook the dollar from her fingertips
shoving it at him like yesterday’s news
and try to fend off that PTSD
drowning the night
the others took her without asking
her egg hijacked by the millions swimming
in a pool of blood that would become her baby.
"Funny that you think I’m your type,”
she wanted to say, “See, cuz I like girls,
and I'm not for sale,
and you can take your..."
Or, "Funny how you’re so weak
you have to tread water by night
on the streets of Hotlanta
where soon the city will
pirate you for all you’ve got,
your spirit washed up and wasted
on the shores of some distant demon’s beach
his waves washing over you now
pummeling your molting face into the grit,
sand choking the air from your throat,
plugging you up like you thought you
could do to me.”
She wanted to say,
“I know what was given me,
the way a woman’s breasts
float in bathwater
or how the orchid imitates.
I know the way breath moves between lovers
like moonlight across a pasture
its wild blue light infecting every blade of grass,
every hair, every outlying hope.”
“I know,” she wanted to say,
“and I want to shake you
until we are the same, your fists
parading down like raindrops
each speck a light kiss on my face,
until we are drowning in the muck of it all
the city the stench the beauty the grace
your proposition
like water off a duck’s back
our pain the same
like a beacon across the darkened city sea.”
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Team Schultz
My parents and I leave early to drive to Tinytown and see the place I will be moving into. I ask dad to drive so that I can study the way the land moves and where the river crossings are. It’s nice, every once in a while, to be the passenger in your own vehicle. As we head out the door, I remind my parents we might have to park at the bottom of the driveway and hike up. The one time I visited this property before I knew my old Chrysler wouldn’t make it even if it had a pair of angel’s wings. Dad has his work boots on and mom changes into sneakers, then we hit the road.
We summit Pumpkin Mountain near the slopes of Roan and cross a river, then cut hard to the right driving very steeply up a paved road for about a mile. Where the pavement ends, a gravel road begins and dad ploughs past the safe parking spot and up the old logging road.
“It’s a Chrysler dad,” I say, holding onto the edge of my seat. The car scrapes along the bottom of the road as we dodge rocks and pounce over a few neglected water bars.
Mom grips the door handle for support. “Bill, just park it. Let’s get out and walk.”
“Oh, we’ll be fine!” He says, gunning the engine. We spin and press on, passing a driveway backwards and to our left along the way.
“Uh oh. Dad?” I say. “I think that might have been it. Though it could be straight ahead. Gosh, I don’t remember now.”
He keeps driving straight up the steep cut into Fork Mountain. A wide creek barrels down to our right and a abrupt bank from the road moves uphill to our left. There is no place to turn around and the road is so steep that if we stop they’ll be no starting again.
“Dad, let’s just park it here and walk. No one else will come up this road and we can back it down when we’re ready.” It’s ten minutes after ten and already we are late. The car lurches, catches in a soft patch of mud and loose scree, and touches bottom. The tires spin and Mom and I make eye contact in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, we’re fine,” Dad says again. He puts it in reverse and we inch back down the mountain a few feet. He parks the car in the middle of the road and Mom and I get out to walk. “I’ll stay here and turn her around the right direction, then catch up with you. Don’t worry.” Mom and I roll our eyes and start hiking up the road.
After about 200 yards, we come across an abandoned shack and an old logging road gate that is locked. “We missed it mom,” I say. “It must be that first driveway. They knew we were coming in by car and they would have left this gate unlocked if this was the right way.” We sigh and turn back down the mountain, hopping back in the car with dad, who has the car halfway turned around so that it sits perpendicular to the logging road, the creek and cliff at it’s back, the steep uphill slope at it’s nose.
“Hop in!” Dad says, and we are off again, only this time we don’t get far at all. The nose of my Chrysler dives straight into the ditch, bouncing on a large granite boulder that holds the frame of the vehicle slightly off the road. I crane my neck out the window and see the swollen edges of my plastic bumper bent and curving, about to snap, at which point all Schultz’s immediately start cursing and abandon the vehicle. If we’re on our feet, we’re safe – right?
Or not. Dad gets back in the car and hits the gas but it is too late because we are tires spinning, wheels grinding, bumper bending, mud flying, s-t-u-c-k stuck. Team Schultz gets to work right away pushing and shoving, heaving and hollering. Then we collect rocks from the creek bed and the side of the road. We pound and push and gather and pass. We jack the car up and by now dad is up to his knees in mud, still huffing, “We’ll be fine, it’ll work out.”
I am the lightest so I have to get behind the wheel and watch my late-fifty-something parents squeeze themselves between the bumper and the uphill slope of the road, where they then hunch down and heave with all their might into the front end of the car. I slowly press the gas pedal, the car eases off the granite boulder, the bumper snaps back into place as if untouched, and we are back in business - only now we’re mud stained, sweaty, and six curses closer to hell.
By 10:45 we make it up the correct driveway, though not without hoots and hollers from mom and I as dad barrels up the 45 degree angled drive and heaves the car over water bars, scraping bottom once again. “Dad….dad….dad….Can we just…dad….Um…Christ on a crutch!” Nothing I say seems to work, though if I pulled this maneuver in his vehicle he’d have a stroke. Stuart and Sandra come out, their giant dog all barks and fluff, and before saying hello they take one look at us and apologize.
“Oh god, it was the logging road, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry.” We laugh, we drink water, we discuss the absurdity of it all. On the side I ask mom if dad pulled stunts like that before she said she’d marry him over thirty years ago. She smiles and rolls her eyes, “Oh honey.” She winks. “You don’t even know!”
We summit Pumpkin Mountain near the slopes of Roan and cross a river, then cut hard to the right driving very steeply up a paved road for about a mile. Where the pavement ends, a gravel road begins and dad ploughs past the safe parking spot and up the old logging road.
“It’s a Chrysler dad,” I say, holding onto the edge of my seat. The car scrapes along the bottom of the road as we dodge rocks and pounce over a few neglected water bars.
Mom grips the door handle for support. “Bill, just park it. Let’s get out and walk.”
“Oh, we’ll be fine!” He says, gunning the engine. We spin and press on, passing a driveway backwards and to our left along the way.
“Uh oh. Dad?” I say. “I think that might have been it. Though it could be straight ahead. Gosh, I don’t remember now.”
He keeps driving straight up the steep cut into Fork Mountain. A wide creek barrels down to our right and a abrupt bank from the road moves uphill to our left. There is no place to turn around and the road is so steep that if we stop they’ll be no starting again.
“Dad, let’s just park it here and walk. No one else will come up this road and we can back it down when we’re ready.” It’s ten minutes after ten and already we are late. The car lurches, catches in a soft patch of mud and loose scree, and touches bottom. The tires spin and Mom and I make eye contact in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, we’re fine,” Dad says again. He puts it in reverse and we inch back down the mountain a few feet. He parks the car in the middle of the road and Mom and I get out to walk. “I’ll stay here and turn her around the right direction, then catch up with you. Don’t worry.” Mom and I roll our eyes and start hiking up the road.
After about 200 yards, we come across an abandoned shack and an old logging road gate that is locked. “We missed it mom,” I say. “It must be that first driveway. They knew we were coming in by car and they would have left this gate unlocked if this was the right way.” We sigh and turn back down the mountain, hopping back in the car with dad, who has the car halfway turned around so that it sits perpendicular to the logging road, the creek and cliff at it’s back, the steep uphill slope at it’s nose.
“Hop in!” Dad says, and we are off again, only this time we don’t get far at all. The nose of my Chrysler dives straight into the ditch, bouncing on a large granite boulder that holds the frame of the vehicle slightly off the road. I crane my neck out the window and see the swollen edges of my plastic bumper bent and curving, about to snap, at which point all Schultz’s immediately start cursing and abandon the vehicle. If we’re on our feet, we’re safe – right?
Or not. Dad gets back in the car and hits the gas but it is too late because we are tires spinning, wheels grinding, bumper bending, mud flying, s-t-u-c-k stuck. Team Schultz gets to work right away pushing and shoving, heaving and hollering. Then we collect rocks from the creek bed and the side of the road. We pound and push and gather and pass. We jack the car up and by now dad is up to his knees in mud, still huffing, “We’ll be fine, it’ll work out.”
I am the lightest so I have to get behind the wheel and watch my late-fifty-something parents squeeze themselves between the bumper and the uphill slope of the road, where they then hunch down and heave with all their might into the front end of the car. I slowly press the gas pedal, the car eases off the granite boulder, the bumper snaps back into place as if untouched, and we are back in business - only now we’re mud stained, sweaty, and six curses closer to hell.
By 10:45 we make it up the correct driveway, though not without hoots and hollers from mom and I as dad barrels up the 45 degree angled drive and heaves the car over water bars, scraping bottom once again. “Dad….dad….dad….Can we just…dad….Um…Christ on a crutch!” Nothing I say seems to work, though if I pulled this maneuver in his vehicle he’d have a stroke. Stuart and Sandra come out, their giant dog all barks and fluff, and before saying hello they take one look at us and apologize.
“Oh god, it was the logging road, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry.” We laugh, we drink water, we discuss the absurdity of it all. On the side I ask mom if dad pulled stunts like that before she said she’d marry him over thirty years ago. She smiles and rolls her eyes, “Oh honey.” She winks. “You don’t even know!”
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Reality Check (Warning!)
I have been avoiding the blog because I am utterly overwhelmed, but tonight a friend asked me: “Are you laying off the blog for a while?”
I had to take pause. Really, I had no intentions of doing so, but I can see now how I’ve been stumbling for weeks. The poems I enjoy, and often lead to bigger, more exciting ideas. But they also only take about three to five minutes and I can get lost in them, rather than creating a structure to some inspiring event and bringing it back to life with full sentences in prose.
And so, dear readers, I will vent through listing only for a brief moment, then return to my homework and hopefully tomorrow will bring renewed vigor to the blog.
I used my weekend to complete a 2,000 word freelance assignment. As a reward, I went to a gallery opening where I saw an artist who wanted to know what such-and-such magazine thought about the essay I wrote about him. I had to tell him I hadn’t written the essay yet (though I didn’t bother to explain why – the chief reason being that such-and-such magazine has a six month back up on copy right now which makes competition stiff and therefore coverage of his hard efforts and my hard words even harder to get!). I’ve been writing a poem every other day for 42 days and I’m tired because I’m a perfectionist and want everything to be good. I have 400 pages to read in the next week and a half, twenty pages to write, two essays to write, and a craft letter to compose. I have a jeweler knocking on my door for a review and a magazine that needs it, yet I still can’t get it together enough to email the editor. I have submissions out to seven publications, six of which seem dead and dull to me but I have yet to remind them or replace them on my magic list for “getting stuff out there.” One of them looks promising, and it’s my top choice to hope, hope, hope!
More? I have a signing performance in three weeks, which we just booked yesterday. I have eight emails from MFA friends I have neglected for over two weeks. I have articles to coordinate for a local festival. I have to move in three weeks. I have wood to haul and a house to clean before the neighbors return in two nine days. I have friends that live spitting distance from my cabin that I haven’t seen in months (Vic!).
There. I hate that purging feeling when it seems like I’m dumping it on the world. This blog has been going almost every single day since July 2005 but I am not the same person and I am not the same writer and I do not have the same demands on my time that I did back then. Change is normal. It happens every day. Expressing it daily through a medium means that the slow and steady of work of change of magnified, and can lead to impatience in the worst of ways and at other times, elation in the best of ways. Lately, I’m just hoping for enough clarity at the end of my day to articulate myself clearly. Give me time. I’ll get there.
I had to take pause. Really, I had no intentions of doing so, but I can see now how I’ve been stumbling for weeks. The poems I enjoy, and often lead to bigger, more exciting ideas. But they also only take about three to five minutes and I can get lost in them, rather than creating a structure to some inspiring event and bringing it back to life with full sentences in prose.
And so, dear readers, I will vent through listing only for a brief moment, then return to my homework and hopefully tomorrow will bring renewed vigor to the blog.
I used my weekend to complete a 2,000 word freelance assignment. As a reward, I went to a gallery opening where I saw an artist who wanted to know what such-and-such magazine thought about the essay I wrote about him. I had to tell him I hadn’t written the essay yet (though I didn’t bother to explain why – the chief reason being that such-and-such magazine has a six month back up on copy right now which makes competition stiff and therefore coverage of his hard efforts and my hard words even harder to get!). I’ve been writing a poem every other day for 42 days and I’m tired because I’m a perfectionist and want everything to be good. I have 400 pages to read in the next week and a half, twenty pages to write, two essays to write, and a craft letter to compose. I have a jeweler knocking on my door for a review and a magazine that needs it, yet I still can’t get it together enough to email the editor. I have submissions out to seven publications, six of which seem dead and dull to me but I have yet to remind them or replace them on my magic list for “getting stuff out there.” One of them looks promising, and it’s my top choice to hope, hope, hope!
More? I have a signing performance in three weeks, which we just booked yesterday. I have eight emails from MFA friends I have neglected for over two weeks. I have articles to coordinate for a local festival. I have to move in three weeks. I have wood to haul and a house to clean before the neighbors return in two nine days. I have friends that live spitting distance from my cabin that I haven’t seen in months (Vic!).
There. I hate that purging feeling when it seems like I’m dumping it on the world. This blog has been going almost every single day since July 2005 but I am not the same person and I am not the same writer and I do not have the same demands on my time that I did back then. Change is normal. It happens every day. Expressing it daily through a medium means that the slow and steady of work of change of magnified, and can lead to impatience in the worst of ways and at other times, elation in the best of ways. Lately, I’m just hoping for enough clarity at the end of my day to articulate myself clearly. Give me time. I’ll get there.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Here Comes Spring
Spring never ceases to amaze me. But it’s not the first blooming crocus. Not the daffodil hanging heavy after a cold snap. Not even the return of the blue bird, two of which chirped and chased up Shuford Creek just last week. No, it’s not the tell-tale physical signs of spring that get me.
It’s the creeping, subtle workings of the underground and underlife beneath the forest canopy, through the river rock and past the stretching roots, into the cold, dark, damp of soil. It is the subconscious movings of the earth that tickle me. So easily, we think the mind is not connected to the body; that our heart-decisions are made by thinking harder and that our success is measured by our own pushing and persistence.
Instead, I like to believe we’re ruled by a parallel process as witnessed in spring. Things begin to hatch. Old ideas blossom anew. Ancient wounds burn for a while as the body remembers. Seeds break through the hull, pressing ever-upward driven by what-knows, how-knows, who-knows into the fresh air, tips towards the sun. Some of our dreams become reality as possibilities awaken in day-to-day life. Things start to take hold and stretch a little, trusting the elements and putting faith in the way of things. And so it is I feel similarly called during the dawn of this season. There are new things waiting for me one county over, where I’ll move next month. Maybe I’ve come full circle here in the South Toe Valley and the stem of my body keeps leaning ever-more towards a new sacred space, an even quieter place, where new challenges await, coercing me to grow and crack and breathe and bend like the ways of Spring herself.
It’s the creeping, subtle workings of the underground and underlife beneath the forest canopy, through the river rock and past the stretching roots, into the cold, dark, damp of soil. It is the subconscious movings of the earth that tickle me. So easily, we think the mind is not connected to the body; that our heart-decisions are made by thinking harder and that our success is measured by our own pushing and persistence.
Instead, I like to believe we’re ruled by a parallel process as witnessed in spring. Things begin to hatch. Old ideas blossom anew. Ancient wounds burn for a while as the body remembers. Seeds break through the hull, pressing ever-upward driven by what-knows, how-knows, who-knows into the fresh air, tips towards the sun. Some of our dreams become reality as possibilities awaken in day-to-day life. Things start to take hold and stretch a little, trusting the elements and putting faith in the way of things. And so it is I feel similarly called during the dawn of this season. There are new things waiting for me one county over, where I’ll move next month. Maybe I’ve come full circle here in the South Toe Valley and the stem of my body keeps leaning ever-more towards a new sacred space, an even quieter place, where new challenges await, coercing me to grow and crack and breathe and bend like the ways of Spring herself.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Another Experiment...
(Imagery borrowed heavily from Dana Levin’s In the Surgical Theater)
I read your surgical theater
your bloody edge beneath the scalpel
your angels hovering with wing beats like the heart
your dying to live.
I found the crack in the tile floor
the one you sailed through and
got lost in for a while
came out reeling with broken toes
swollen scars
throbbing kidneys.
I thought about the way you hurt
poking the fire with blades sanitized by
rubbing alcohol
the kind that evaporates in an instant
wafting towards the heavens like your pain
when you break open
all the salt tears from your journey
pounding down like the heart
you’ve dared to wake.
I read your surgical theater
your bloody edge beneath the scalpel
your angels hovering with wing beats like the heart
your dying to live.
I found the crack in the tile floor
the one you sailed through and
got lost in for a while
came out reeling with broken toes
swollen scars
throbbing kidneys.
I thought about the way you hurt
poking the fire with blades sanitized by
rubbing alcohol
the kind that evaporates in an instant
wafting towards the heavens like your pain
when you break open
all the salt tears from your journey
pounding down like the heart
you’ve dared to wake.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
I Know It's Not A Poem, But...
Please, Would You Come Stay
I miss every part of you
but especially the way you
gently bite my lower lip
while we we're kissing
and it's not re-living that I'm after,
so much as
a long series of swollen moments
to spend with you
the kind where
coming and going are forgotten
and only the taste
of the present moment
stays on your lips.
Marvin Bell fathoms losing his wife
and confesses
"the quiet wouldn't be yours"
and I think you might be teaching me
a little about what he means.
I can't get the wind to
stop bearing down on me
in the Real World
which of course means
the fastest way to mix things up
is to turn the other way
and when I do
you've been waiting all along
in Chapter 9 of Plato's Republic
where to miss someone is a
fleeting falsity
thin as the pages we publish
yet in the moment
so utterly convincing
we can almost taste it.
I miss every part of you
but especially the way you
gently bite my lower lip
while we we're kissing
and it's not re-living that I'm after,
so much as
a long series of swollen moments
to spend with you
the kind where
coming and going are forgotten
and only the taste
of the present moment
stays on your lips.
Marvin Bell fathoms losing his wife
and confesses
"the quiet wouldn't be yours"
and I think you might be teaching me
a little about what he means.
I can't get the wind to
stop bearing down on me
in the Real World
which of course means
the fastest way to mix things up
is to turn the other way
and when I do
you've been waiting all along
in Chapter 9 of Plato's Republic
where to miss someone is a
fleeting falsity
thin as the pages we publish
yet in the moment
so utterly convincing
we can almost taste it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Poem Experiment
Anniversaries
What was it you said about
patience, justice, faith, love
that was lost on me somewhere between
your cancers and your chemos
your Navajo healing soil
your raiki and
your chocolate peanut butter M&M’s?
How, upon waking did you know
to dance naked on the porch
praise sunrise and sunset
beachfront and mountain slope?
Tell me again
how it was you knew death’s knock
in the chamber of your heart that day
how you held its cold hand
as if holding a child’s
saying “Come on, I’ll lead the way”
not a flinch of fear on your face.
Speak up now
through the backlash of your blood-stained lungs
your hidden tumors and secret multipliers
your morphine drip and last requests
dare me to remember
the wisdom in your breath
the insight in your eyes
the warmth of your life.
What was it you said about
patience, justice, faith, love
that was lost on me somewhere between
your cancers and your chemos
your Navajo healing soil
your raiki and
your chocolate peanut butter M&M’s?
How, upon waking did you know
to dance naked on the porch
praise sunrise and sunset
beachfront and mountain slope?
Tell me again
how it was you knew death’s knock
in the chamber of your heart that day
how you held its cold hand
as if holding a child’s
saying “Come on, I’ll lead the way”
not a flinch of fear on your face.
Speak up now
through the backlash of your blood-stained lungs
your hidden tumors and secret multipliers
your morphine drip and last requests
dare me to remember
the wisdom in your breath
the insight in your eyes
the warmth of your life.
Monday, March 12, 2007
The Beginning of the End of the Beginning
Today: chickadees, tufted titmouse, white-breasted nuthatch, robins, mourning doves, and more. Buds burst from the branches and the valley cooks with the anticipation of spring. Voles dart across the blacktop. Hares grow braver by the minute as they sun in the pastures atop Conley Ridge risking death for the feeling of sun, sun, sun. At dusk, six doe in the pines behind Ridgeway. By nightfall, the heat worn off and the cool-zip of nighttime in the mountains reassures that winter still has her hand in the valley yet. I drive to the top of Seven Mile Ridge to peer at the South Toe River Valley from above, crusing to 4,000 feet and earning an end-to-end view of the Black Mountains. High above, Orion shines his bright belt and the top of his sword twinkles. The mountains are as black as the sea, the deep green of hemlock muted to slate with the loss of daylight. An Azure sky silhouettes each peak with the accuracy of a ballpoint pen and think my God, how I will miss this valley. It has been four and a half years and now I have to move on.
I have found a place to live in Tinyville, NC up the slopes of Roan Mountain, that beast on the horizon that holds the NC/TN state line and over which the Appalachian Trail cuts. It seems fitting that I will go there next, as I’ve always held Roan on an equal or higher pedestal as the Black Mountains in my heart, and although it will keep my forty-five minutes from the river dips I love in the South Toe, it is not that far as the crow flies.
Turn north and parallel the river and the Blacks for eight miles, heading out of the valley. Head east for eight more miles towards the North Toe River and downtown LittleTown, NC. Then cut north again for ten miles and you’ll be in downtown Tinyville where there is one stop sign and one restaurant and one gallery and a fudge shop and three antique stores and a doctor’s clinic, a coffee shop, and a few artist’s studios. Stop at the stop sign, then press on for ten more minutes over Pumpkin Mountains and towards the cut slopes of Roan Mountain, deep into the Blue Ridge. A few more turns, then up to the end of the paved road. The driveway of the house I’ll be staying in starts where the road ends, and requires four wheel drive (which I do not have). Half a mile up, the road turns sharply, takes another switchback around, and puts you smack on the front steps of my new home on 34 acres that borders National Forest. Fully equipped with hot water (yes!) and a normal kitchen and – get ready for this – a real bathroom.
Tonight, standing on top of Seven Mile Ridge, if I do an about face and turn away from the past four and half years, I can see the tip of Roan Mountain on the farthest row of mountains in my view. I decide that this is the spot I must return to in one month when the move is final – this place where with one swoop of my arms and back I can hold and bow to the Black Mountains that have shaped my words and spirit for, well, longer than my college education took. Then I can swivel on my toes and turn, give way to the uncertainty, and rise up with open arms to greet the valley I’ll be moving to. Who knows what wonders it will hold, but in my heart I can feel already that it will hold the peace I need for writing, the quiet I need for growth, and the threads I need for community. It doesn’t feel like any of this will be easy, but that’s probably the best part.
I have found a place to live in Tinyville, NC up the slopes of Roan Mountain, that beast on the horizon that holds the NC/TN state line and over which the Appalachian Trail cuts. It seems fitting that I will go there next, as I’ve always held Roan on an equal or higher pedestal as the Black Mountains in my heart, and although it will keep my forty-five minutes from the river dips I love in the South Toe, it is not that far as the crow flies.
Turn north and parallel the river and the Blacks for eight miles, heading out of the valley. Head east for eight more miles towards the North Toe River and downtown LittleTown, NC. Then cut north again for ten miles and you’ll be in downtown Tinyville where there is one stop sign and one restaurant and one gallery and a fudge shop and three antique stores and a doctor’s clinic, a coffee shop, and a few artist’s studios. Stop at the stop sign, then press on for ten more minutes over Pumpkin Mountains and towards the cut slopes of Roan Mountain, deep into the Blue Ridge. A few more turns, then up to the end of the paved road. The driveway of the house I’ll be staying in starts where the road ends, and requires four wheel drive (which I do not have). Half a mile up, the road turns sharply, takes another switchback around, and puts you smack on the front steps of my new home on 34 acres that borders National Forest. Fully equipped with hot water (yes!) and a normal kitchen and – get ready for this – a real bathroom.
Tonight, standing on top of Seven Mile Ridge, if I do an about face and turn away from the past four and half years, I can see the tip of Roan Mountain on the farthest row of mountains in my view. I decide that this is the spot I must return to in one month when the move is final – this place where with one swoop of my arms and back I can hold and bow to the Black Mountains that have shaped my words and spirit for, well, longer than my college education took. Then I can swivel on my toes and turn, give way to the uncertainty, and rise up with open arms to greet the valley I’ll be moving to. Who knows what wonders it will hold, but in my heart I can feel already that it will hold the peace I need for writing, the quiet I need for growth, and the threads I need for community. It doesn’t feel like any of this will be easy, but that’s probably the best part.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Grant Me the Strength...
On the eve of a regular schedule, I find my mind in high-goal-gear and by evening I have exhausted myself by simply considering the possibilities.
I know this much from last season: In order to stay on top of homework and bills I need to wake up at 6:30 each morning. That leaves five hours to bathe, meditate, exercise, eat, write, and read. (Of course, any weekday errands that must happen before 5pm have to occur during this slot as well…which means driving to town). Work is from 12noon to 6pm, then dinner on campus at 6:30, home by 7:30pm. Volunteer to sing every Wednesday morning at the Montessori school. Evenings are discretionary, depending on how close I am to a freelance or MFA deadline or if I completed all my morning tasks. Women’s singing once a week and probably a visit with the parents once a week, as well. Blog and poetry every night before bed.
It is the exercise and eating the concerns me the most. When I work a tight schedule, I de-stress with food – which is a sedentary activity. More food, less movement, means a feeling in my body that I don’t prefer. What will it be, then? Pushups? Long walks each morning? Eating smaller portions? Using a scale? Crunches, too? Four sets of sun salutation every morning and night?
It never ceases to amaze me how we can have everything we need in the world and yet want to manipulate our own bodies. I have no pressing health concerns. I am relatively fit, though nothing compared to the strength I had four years ago. There is no one in my life telling me to change the way I am – no one but me, that is.
So hello again old ghost, and welcome. This time I will name you and know you and not let you decide anything for me. When I exercise, I will hold an intention of my own – not the intention of any ghosts from my past or from society that say I have to look different than I do. I will work for my own benefit, for a more comfortable fit, for more agility, for a longer life, for a bounce in my step. And there will be no such thing as failure, just amendments to the plan and rational flexibility.
I know this much from last season: In order to stay on top of homework and bills I need to wake up at 6:30 each morning. That leaves five hours to bathe, meditate, exercise, eat, write, and read. (Of course, any weekday errands that must happen before 5pm have to occur during this slot as well…which means driving to town). Work is from 12noon to 6pm, then dinner on campus at 6:30, home by 7:30pm. Volunteer to sing every Wednesday morning at the Montessori school. Evenings are discretionary, depending on how close I am to a freelance or MFA deadline or if I completed all my morning tasks. Women’s singing once a week and probably a visit with the parents once a week, as well. Blog and poetry every night before bed.
It is the exercise and eating the concerns me the most. When I work a tight schedule, I de-stress with food – which is a sedentary activity. More food, less movement, means a feeling in my body that I don’t prefer. What will it be, then? Pushups? Long walks each morning? Eating smaller portions? Using a scale? Crunches, too? Four sets of sun salutation every morning and night?
It never ceases to amaze me how we can have everything we need in the world and yet want to manipulate our own bodies. I have no pressing health concerns. I am relatively fit, though nothing compared to the strength I had four years ago. There is no one in my life telling me to change the way I am – no one but me, that is.
So hello again old ghost, and welcome. This time I will name you and know you and not let you decide anything for me. When I exercise, I will hold an intention of my own – not the intention of any ghosts from my past or from society that say I have to look different than I do. I will work for my own benefit, for a more comfortable fit, for more agility, for a longer life, for a bounce in my step. And there will be no such thing as failure, just amendments to the plan and rational flexibility.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Opening Day at the Coffeehouse
Today is opening day at the coffeehouse and although Saturdays are not my shift, the manager and I work in order to set the systems straight and plan for the upcoming season. I take heavy doses of forsythia all day and make it through the shift without a hitch.
“This is quite possibly the best latte I’ve ever had in my life,” a tourist from Charlotte says, nose over the rim of a handmade ceramic mug.
I raise my arms in the air like a champ and we smile at each other. I haven’t pulled shots of espresso or foamed milk for four months, so her praise means the world to me. I pat the side of Flo, our Italian espresso machine and say, “Yup, she’s the best, isn’t she?”
Closing up, there are six or seven students in the reading room – the back room of the coffeehouse – and they are fresh from the Real World, still plugged in and hooked up and used to hi-fi-wi-fi easy access life. Among staff at the craft school, we like to joke, “Welcome to the Craft School, it’s time to unplug.” There is no TV here. There is limited Internet access and nowhere to print and some cell phones don’t work. There are two payphones and meals are served three times daily (no snacks, dessert about once a week). There are walking trails and limited parking and we live in a dry county. Things run on mountain time, so to speak, and that means work hard, play hard, and eat well.
So it feels good when the students linger past 5pm, then past 5:15pm, and into the second half of the hour as I sing overloud to bluegrass gospel radio and mop the floor. Just before I turn out the lights I herd the remaining customers out the door and they are laughing caffeine happy people, introducing themselves and their media (“I’m Steve, Iron” or “I’m Becky, I blow” – that means she works in hot glass, or “I’m an instructor” – which means he wants his coffeehouse discount).
The drive home is long – 17 miles one way – and winding as the river it follows. I’ve missed this drive, actually, from the peak of Conley ridge and down into the valley, then ‘round the north end of Seven Mile Ridge and a hard turn southbound into the South Toe river valley against the wall of the Black Mountains. Sun sets about the time I begin cutting along the river and suddenly the light is right, the music still solid and true from the radio, and I smile, legs sore and coffee bean stains on my arms. A good day, no, a fine day – and what a way to start the season!
“This is quite possibly the best latte I’ve ever had in my life,” a tourist from Charlotte says, nose over the rim of a handmade ceramic mug.
I raise my arms in the air like a champ and we smile at each other. I haven’t pulled shots of espresso or foamed milk for four months, so her praise means the world to me. I pat the side of Flo, our Italian espresso machine and say, “Yup, she’s the best, isn’t she?”
Closing up, there are six or seven students in the reading room – the back room of the coffeehouse – and they are fresh from the Real World, still plugged in and hooked up and used to hi-fi-wi-fi easy access life. Among staff at the craft school, we like to joke, “Welcome to the Craft School, it’s time to unplug.” There is no TV here. There is limited Internet access and nowhere to print and some cell phones don’t work. There are two payphones and meals are served three times daily (no snacks, dessert about once a week). There are walking trails and limited parking and we live in a dry county. Things run on mountain time, so to speak, and that means work hard, play hard, and eat well.
So it feels good when the students linger past 5pm, then past 5:15pm, and into the second half of the hour as I sing overloud to bluegrass gospel radio and mop the floor. Just before I turn out the lights I herd the remaining customers out the door and they are laughing caffeine happy people, introducing themselves and their media (“I’m Steve, Iron” or “I’m Becky, I blow” – that means she works in hot glass, or “I’m an instructor” – which means he wants his coffeehouse discount).
The drive home is long – 17 miles one way – and winding as the river it follows. I’ve missed this drive, actually, from the peak of Conley ridge and down into the valley, then ‘round the north end of Seven Mile Ridge and a hard turn southbound into the South Toe river valley against the wall of the Black Mountains. Sun sets about the time I begin cutting along the river and suddenly the light is right, the music still solid and true from the radio, and I smile, legs sore and coffee bean stains on my arms. A good day, no, a fine day – and what a way to start the season!
Friday, March 09, 2007
Verdict Is In...
I will fight the evil STREP forces with Forsythia tea from Joe, my Chinese Medicine life saver. Wish me luck, this may be my first ever attempt with Chinese medicine to cure a bacteria hoo-haw (rather than going the traditional anti-biotics route)...
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Be Like a Turtle
A sense of placelessness pervades me. A while ago, I got word that I will need to move out of the beloved cabin I’ve lived in for almost two years. I have until May 1st to find somewhere else to live. Delivered by email, the news at first felt like a fist in the gut; like something slowly twisting and turning around on its axis. Of course, it didn’t take long for me to realize that it me who was spinning, me who is so tied to place I’m hijacked by it.
But this news came on the heels of the trip to Atlanta and Cass’ visit, not to mention reuniting with a handful of Pacific faculty and friends at the AWP conference. The placelessness planted itself there, in my gut, and filled me with worry so that I began to skip meals and ignore how scary the thought of moving felt. I went to AWP, exhausted myself, learned even more, and in six short days have driven over 1,000 miles.
Tomorrow, my second packet for the MFA semester is due and so it is that I find myself suspending disbelief once again, my awareness of the knot in my stomach ever growing and time moving ever-forward and yet…I cannot bring myself to face what this may mean.
Solitude. Piece of mind. Quiet. Privacy. In short, what Woolf so aptly dubbed “a room of one’s own.” If I lose this, who I am? Where I am? What will happen to my writing?
A lot is left unanswered. I confided my fears in a friend and she paused in her work at the etching stand and pointed her aged, wise finger at me: “You are the writer, Katey. Wherever you are, you are always with yourself. Your home is like the turtle’s, on your back, in your bones.”
But this news came on the heels of the trip to Atlanta and Cass’ visit, not to mention reuniting with a handful of Pacific faculty and friends at the AWP conference. The placelessness planted itself there, in my gut, and filled me with worry so that I began to skip meals and ignore how scary the thought of moving felt. I went to AWP, exhausted myself, learned even more, and in six short days have driven over 1,000 miles.
Tomorrow, my second packet for the MFA semester is due and so it is that I find myself suspending disbelief once again, my awareness of the knot in my stomach ever growing and time moving ever-forward and yet…I cannot bring myself to face what this may mean.
Solitude. Piece of mind. Quiet. Privacy. In short, what Woolf so aptly dubbed “a room of one’s own.” If I lose this, who I am? Where I am? What will happen to my writing?
A lot is left unanswered. I confided my fears in a friend and she paused in her work at the etching stand and pointed her aged, wise finger at me: “You are the writer, Katey. Wherever you are, you are always with yourself. Your home is like the turtle’s, on your back, in your bones.”
Saturday, March 03, 2007
AWP Day 3
(sorry again that this is one day late...)
I sleep. I remember to relax. I attend readings and panels and find my stride again. And perhaps best of all, I grow brave enough to raise my hand and ask a question. I can almost taste blood in my throat and certainly, my heart drums in my ears. I do not consider myself she but I do consider myself vulnerable. Asking questions almost always involves explicitly or subconsciously stating a belief at the same time. The panel is on “Joy: The Last Taboo in Creative Nonfiction?” and I feel myself rambling when the panel’s moderator calls on me though I continue.
“I’m curious if the panel members have anything to say about our duty as writers to move beyond grief to consolation (which is inherently linked with joy) using our chosen medium so that we’re contributing something to the world that has literary staying power? Or, our duty as readers to expect more and the duty of publishers to demand more? There is nothing more discouraging as a writer than looking at the list of best selling nonfiction and seeing how much of it is limited to humor (be it dark or otherwise) for the sake of entertainment…[Am I still talking?]…Humor is not the same as joy and I’ll be brave here and say that Augusten Burroughs’ book pokes fun and entertains but it fails to make meaning…[Don’t blush, be firm.]…Yet it’s a bestseller and is going to be made into a movie. But where will his book be in five years? Ten years? I don’t think it’d made any lasting contribution. What kind of morality is involved with the quality of our writing?”
I have to stop and catch m y breath, then I look at the panel and indicate that I am done. It feels as though I’ve leapt off an Olympic diving board, but someone forgot to tell the world I didn’t quality, got cut in the heat of it all. But alas, the panel respond. I’ve struck something, somewhere, at least.
And later, there is a side conversation with a panel member. His nametag reveals the publication he works for but I miss the cue (which is best, anyway) and just be myself…I analyze his speech, comment on his contributions, and say something like: “Now if you look at the moment of trepidation you took us, too, that’s what I think you’ve got going for you. I’d follow that narrator for the rest of the chapter because I’ve looked away from great joy before, too. And your readers are going to wonder the same things you hint at – is joy just too bright to look at? Too scary?”
I am just being myself and we are going, talking, comfortable for five minutes amidst the chaos of the overwhelming numbers of people and panels and words and questions and connections. The point of the conversation is to find a deeper truth, plain and simple, and I love it. I rambled to him yet again, but the panelist interrupts and says:
“Are you a graduate student?”
I explain the Pacific MFA program, yes, I say, Yes.
“What are you working on?”
I explain my book, the vignettes, my fascination with growing up girl in America. I tell him how long my pieces are, what they tap into, what I’m attempting.
He nods, says he wants to see my work, tells me about his publication (one of the top narrative nonfiction journals in the country, which explains the nametag I somehow missed during the entire course of the panel and conversation) and it’s just what I need to hear, just the type of publication I want to be in, and then we are shaking hands and swapping business cards and I promise, promise to send my work to him.
Hello world! I am me again! God, this skin feels good, this heart my own, the one that knows best how to be itself, the one that breathes easy, it’s faith in the way of things just as it should be.
Nighttime is an entirely different matter. Cass and the crew and I go to Djangos to hear our friend Jeannine Hall Gailey (J9, as we call her) read from her book Becoming the Villainess, alongside 20 other poets. The bar is ashot and smoky as a prescribed burn, my lungs on fire from the inside out, my eyes like weeping cotton balls, my throat a stinging pain. J9 reads through the haze (though herself allergic to cigarette smoke) and I am reminded again, how inventive and clever her work is.
Later, sheer hunger and plummeting blood sugar levels drive me to the restaurant above the reading, the air clean as day but the live DJ mix pounding like a hammer on nails into my brain. Warning: System Overload. I try to make reservations for eight with the bouncer, who frisks men and women alike, armpit to kneecap, his hands like felt mallets tapping their way over fitted and baggy clothing, firm breasts and hipslung pants.
Alas, eight is too many and I give up, preferring the sidewalk to the small cacophony of after party praise. It has been a good day – an invite from an editor and more importantly, real and intelligent dialogue. Also, at J9’s reading, by way of bar side chat and Cass’ mad networking skills, she meets one of my anonymous blog readers. A fan!
“Katey Schultz!” She smiles through the smoke, perfect teeth and all writerly love about her. “Katey Schultz! I know who you are!”
I smile. Finally, I know who I am again, too.
I sleep. I remember to relax. I attend readings and panels and find my stride again. And perhaps best of all, I grow brave enough to raise my hand and ask a question. I can almost taste blood in my throat and certainly, my heart drums in my ears. I do not consider myself she but I do consider myself vulnerable. Asking questions almost always involves explicitly or subconsciously stating a belief at the same time. The panel is on “Joy: The Last Taboo in Creative Nonfiction?” and I feel myself rambling when the panel’s moderator calls on me though I continue.
“I’m curious if the panel members have anything to say about our duty as writers to move beyond grief to consolation (which is inherently linked with joy) using our chosen medium so that we’re contributing something to the world that has literary staying power? Or, our duty as readers to expect more and the duty of publishers to demand more? There is nothing more discouraging as a writer than looking at the list of best selling nonfiction and seeing how much of it is limited to humor (be it dark or otherwise) for the sake of entertainment…[Am I still talking?]…Humor is not the same as joy and I’ll be brave here and say that Augusten Burroughs’ book pokes fun and entertains but it fails to make meaning…[Don’t blush, be firm.]…Yet it’s a bestseller and is going to be made into a movie. But where will his book be in five years? Ten years? I don’t think it’d made any lasting contribution. What kind of morality is involved with the quality of our writing?”
I have to stop and catch m y breath, then I look at the panel and indicate that I am done. It feels as though I’ve leapt off an Olympic diving board, but someone forgot to tell the world I didn’t quality, got cut in the heat of it all. But alas, the panel respond. I’ve struck something, somewhere, at least.
And later, there is a side conversation with a panel member. His nametag reveals the publication he works for but I miss the cue (which is best, anyway) and just be myself…I analyze his speech, comment on his contributions, and say something like: “Now if you look at the moment of trepidation you took us, too, that’s what I think you’ve got going for you. I’d follow that narrator for the rest of the chapter because I’ve looked away from great joy before, too. And your readers are going to wonder the same things you hint at – is joy just too bright to look at? Too scary?”
I am just being myself and we are going, talking, comfortable for five minutes amidst the chaos of the overwhelming numbers of people and panels and words and questions and connections. The point of the conversation is to find a deeper truth, plain and simple, and I love it. I rambled to him yet again, but the panelist interrupts and says:
“Are you a graduate student?”
I explain the Pacific MFA program, yes, I say, Yes.
“What are you working on?”
I explain my book, the vignettes, my fascination with growing up girl in America. I tell him how long my pieces are, what they tap into, what I’m attempting.
He nods, says he wants to see my work, tells me about his publication (one of the top narrative nonfiction journals in the country, which explains the nametag I somehow missed during the entire course of the panel and conversation) and it’s just what I need to hear, just the type of publication I want to be in, and then we are shaking hands and swapping business cards and I promise, promise to send my work to him.
Hello world! I am me again! God, this skin feels good, this heart my own, the one that knows best how to be itself, the one that breathes easy, it’s faith in the way of things just as it should be.
Nighttime is an entirely different matter. Cass and the crew and I go to Djangos to hear our friend Jeannine Hall Gailey (J9, as we call her) read from her book Becoming the Villainess, alongside 20 other poets. The bar is ashot and smoky as a prescribed burn, my lungs on fire from the inside out, my eyes like weeping cotton balls, my throat a stinging pain. J9 reads through the haze (though herself allergic to cigarette smoke) and I am reminded again, how inventive and clever her work is.
Later, sheer hunger and plummeting blood sugar levels drive me to the restaurant above the reading, the air clean as day but the live DJ mix pounding like a hammer on nails into my brain. Warning: System Overload. I try to make reservations for eight with the bouncer, who frisks men and women alike, armpit to kneecap, his hands like felt mallets tapping their way over fitted and baggy clothing, firm breasts and hipslung pants.
Alas, eight is too many and I give up, preferring the sidewalk to the small cacophony of after party praise. It has been a good day – an invite from an editor and more importantly, real and intelligent dialogue. Also, at J9’s reading, by way of bar side chat and Cass’ mad networking skills, she meets one of my anonymous blog readers. A fan!
“Katey Schultz!” She smiles through the smoke, perfect teeth and all writerly love about her. “Katey Schultz! I know who you are!”
I smile. Finally, I know who I am again, too.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
AWP Day 2
Britt finds me amidst the crowd and she is all smiles and awake. In other words, she has slept.
“Oh my God, are you ok?” This is the first thing she says to me that registers in my brain. I explain, or stutter, about the lack of sleep. The anxiousness. The travel.
“So tell me about the workshops you’ve been too, the panels, whatever. Did you go to the one on self-promoting and networking?” I ask.
“Oh, I didn’t go to that one. Me? I don’t have anything to market yet. Once I have a manuscript, once I have something complete and whole, then I’ll work on that stuff. For now I’m just trying to get out there, introduce myself to as many people as possible, and feed the generative part of my process.”
Britt’s always been like this. She can tell it like it is and summarize perfectly without even knowing it. Her monologue hits me right where it hurts – in other words, right where I needed it. For two weeks now I’ve been fretting over this conference, and no wonder, with all the pressure I put on myself. I don’t have a manuscript either. I have works in progress, the shifting of sentences and verb tenses, the arrangement of chapters. I am here, like everyone else, more than half of whom probably also want to publish memoirs and who also have perfect little dreams that they’d bet their lives on. I am here. So what.
I have to enter the calm. I have to be patient. The freelancer in me wants NOW and wants CONNECTIONS and thinks that the way to go about this bookwork is to search, search, search until the right connections are made. But later, Cass reminds me: “It’s about finding someone you trust. And you have time to do that. Just get to know people, see who you like, who you respect. That way when you’re ready, and you actually do have a manuscript, you know whose hands you want to put it in.”
She makes it sound so easy.
Enough is enough. Sleep is a priority this afternoon. Then relaxing, also known as letting go. Letting go of all the dreams because, really, I’m already living and practicing them. They’re simply unresolved right now and that’s what’s killing me. But no writer wants to give away the surprise ending. Why would I want to put that on myself?
I resolve to stop worrying. I resolve to be in the present, wherever I am on my path with the memoir work. I resolve to get some sleep, somehow. I resolve, I resolve, I resolve.
[There have been, of course, several choice moments. For example, poet Madeline Defrees asking my advice about her Starbucks card and where to use it – she’s 87 years old, I think – and concluding her speech with, “I’m a fan…and a shareholder.” Also, a choice quote from a lovely publisher, “I had three scotches last night, woke up at six this morning and worked out, then drank a protein shake. Just like home!” And of course, when Cass and I went to the panel on Journalist who crossover to creative writing, and the esteemed Valerie Miner steps up to the podium for her panel speech and says over the microphone, “Can everyone out there hear me? Katey, would you mind, just give me a signal if my voice drops to low, ok?” The entire room spun around to see me, in the back row, the named person whom Valerie was talking to. I felt halfway famous for a millisecond, and that was, well, FUN.]
“Oh my God, are you ok?” This is the first thing she says to me that registers in my brain. I explain, or stutter, about the lack of sleep. The anxiousness. The travel.
“So tell me about the workshops you’ve been too, the panels, whatever. Did you go to the one on self-promoting and networking?” I ask.
“Oh, I didn’t go to that one. Me? I don’t have anything to market yet. Once I have a manuscript, once I have something complete and whole, then I’ll work on that stuff. For now I’m just trying to get out there, introduce myself to as many people as possible, and feed the generative part of my process.”
Britt’s always been like this. She can tell it like it is and summarize perfectly without even knowing it. Her monologue hits me right where it hurts – in other words, right where I needed it. For two weeks now I’ve been fretting over this conference, and no wonder, with all the pressure I put on myself. I don’t have a manuscript either. I have works in progress, the shifting of sentences and verb tenses, the arrangement of chapters. I am here, like everyone else, more than half of whom probably also want to publish memoirs and who also have perfect little dreams that they’d bet their lives on. I am here. So what.
I have to enter the calm. I have to be patient. The freelancer in me wants NOW and wants CONNECTIONS and thinks that the way to go about this bookwork is to search, search, search until the right connections are made. But later, Cass reminds me: “It’s about finding someone you trust. And you have time to do that. Just get to know people, see who you like, who you respect. That way when you’re ready, and you actually do have a manuscript, you know whose hands you want to put it in.”
She makes it sound so easy.
Enough is enough. Sleep is a priority this afternoon. Then relaxing, also known as letting go. Letting go of all the dreams because, really, I’m already living and practicing them. They’re simply unresolved right now and that’s what’s killing me. But no writer wants to give away the surprise ending. Why would I want to put that on myself?
I resolve to stop worrying. I resolve to be in the present, wherever I am on my path with the memoir work. I resolve to get some sleep, somehow. I resolve, I resolve, I resolve.
[There have been, of course, several choice moments. For example, poet Madeline Defrees asking my advice about her Starbucks card and where to use it – she’s 87 years old, I think – and concluding her speech with, “I’m a fan…and a shareholder.” Also, a choice quote from a lovely publisher, “I had three scotches last night, woke up at six this morning and worked out, then drank a protein shake. Just like home!” And of course, when Cass and I went to the panel on Journalist who crossover to creative writing, and the esteemed Valerie Miner steps up to the podium for her panel speech and says over the microphone, “Can everyone out there hear me? Katey, would you mind, just give me a signal if my voice drops to low, ok?” The entire room spun around to see me, in the back row, the named person whom Valerie was talking to. I felt halfway famous for a millisecond, and that was, well, FUN.]
For Wednesday - Day 1 AWP
Cass flew in from Portland and we hit the ground running. Five hours to Atlanta for AWP and as we pull up to the Super 8 her publisher calls on the cell saying yes, yes, come to the CMLP party and we are quick-snap checked into the room, then off on foot to the Hilton for schmooze, free booze, and the lot.
There are suits and heels, couples and hair – and how clichés is it that I’m the writer writing about it all from the corner of the room?
“You need to relax.” Cass says it like a maxim and I know she’s right. “You escape by working and it’s productive so people commend you for it.”
Bullseye.
I smile, down the remainder of my complimentary merlot and say, “You know me. So call me on it. Help me with this one Cass.”
Amidst the crowd and chatter, small talk of who-its and whats-its, she promises.
On the way back to the Super 8, tipsy but more tired than anything else, the skyscrapers loom like phosphorescent bats and we must walk past ten cops in five city blocks. I have not slept through the night since Sunday, the darkness grating on me like an unfinished thought. It’s easy to taper the edge of sanity when every walking, breathing, standing person at the conference appears to me like a distinct bundle of energy. Everything is moving in circles.
AWP has 26,000 members. You’ve got to yield part of your existence over to neurosis if you are in this writing gig for the long haul. So be it. The trick is not letting the sacrificial part get the best of what’s left of you.
I’ve just seen more people than I saw all winter back home. The city is elastic to me, stretching beyond the limits of reason alone and into the land of I-Don’t-Want-It and Save-It-For-The-Masses and Good-God-Get-Me-A-Solid-Night’s-Sleep or some respite from the social doo-rag, persnickety, ambling, rambling, talkative mess.
“You need to relax,” Cass interrupts my daydream.
Deja vous.
There are suits and heels, couples and hair – and how clichés is it that I’m the writer writing about it all from the corner of the room?
“You need to relax.” Cass says it like a maxim and I know she’s right. “You escape by working and it’s productive so people commend you for it.”
Bullseye.
I smile, down the remainder of my complimentary merlot and say, “You know me. So call me on it. Help me with this one Cass.”
Amidst the crowd and chatter, small talk of who-its and whats-its, she promises.
On the way back to the Super 8, tipsy but more tired than anything else, the skyscrapers loom like phosphorescent bats and we must walk past ten cops in five city blocks. I have not slept through the night since Sunday, the darkness grating on me like an unfinished thought. It’s easy to taper the edge of sanity when every walking, breathing, standing person at the conference appears to me like a distinct bundle of energy. Everything is moving in circles.
AWP has 26,000 members. You’ve got to yield part of your existence over to neurosis if you are in this writing gig for the long haul. So be it. The trick is not letting the sacrificial part get the best of what’s left of you.
I’ve just seen more people than I saw all winter back home. The city is elastic to me, stretching beyond the limits of reason alone and into the land of I-Don’t-Want-It and Save-It-For-The-Masses and Good-God-Get-Me-A-Solid-Night’s-Sleep or some respite from the social doo-rag, persnickety, ambling, rambling, talkative mess.
“You need to relax,” Cass interrupts my daydream.
Deja vous.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
