Radio Radio! (I wanted to name our dog radio, but he wouldn't let me)

I just had the pleasure of being on the radio with some of my favorite people. Nicole Callihan asked me to join a group of New York women writers for WBAI's celebration of International Working Women's Day. The writers were, Kristin Dombek, Sanjana Nair, Stephanie Hopkins and myself. In case you missed it or wanted to see a couple of the poems I read, here you go:


From Sharks in the Rivers:


Sharks in the Rivers (Poets.org)
Widening Road
The Same Thing
City of Skin (Page vs. Stage YouTube)


New Poems:


Downhearted (Here, in Guernica and audio version)
During the Impossible Age of Everyone (Forthcoming from Catch Up)


It was fun to read poems. It's always fun to read poems. I never get tired of it. Which is a good thing considering that this month launches an extensive tour. Gearing up for going on the road soon.  


Heeeereee weeeee goooooo!

March 14, 2012

Le Poisson Rouge, 7PM

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

158 Bleecker St.

New York City, NY

March 15, 2012

Unnameable Books

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

600 Vanderbilt Ave.

Brooklyn, NY

March 16, 2012

Pete’s Candy Store, 7:30PM

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

709 Lorimer St.

Brooklyn, NY

March 17, 2012

Ada Books

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

717 Westminster St. 

Providence, RI

March 18, 2012

Rendezvous

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

78 Third St.

Turner Falls, MA

March 19, 2012

Small Animal Project, 8PM

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

186 1/2 Hampshire St.

March 28, 2012 (My Birthday)

Danny’s Reading Series

1951 W Dickens St.

Chicago, IL

March 29, 2012

Common Sense Reading Series

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

Kansas City, MO

March 30, 2012

Northwest Missouri State University

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

800 University Dr. 

Maryville, MO

March 31, 2012

Clean Part Reading Series

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

Drift Station Gallery

1746 “N” St.

Lincoln, NE

April 1, 2012

Strange Machine #8, 7:30PM

With Michael Robins & Adam Clay

Gallery 72-2709 Leavenworth St.

Omaha, NE

April 22, 2012

World Series of Poetry 

With Melissa Stein, Robin Ekiss, Troy Jollimore, Dead Rader, and more!

Mill Valley Library

Mill Valley, CA

April 27, 2012

St. Helena High School

1401 Grayson Ave.

St. Helena, CA

July 30, 2012

Sarabande Reading Series

With James Allen Hall

21 C

Louisville, KY

The Space Which the Clouds At Last Uncover

Sometimes in the kitchen, when I’m procrastinating heavily by throwing myself full fledged into some new recipe and homemade muffins, I get severely frustrated that I can’t call Cynthia and ask her a cooking question or just brag about a successful new concoction.  Frustrated. That’s a strange word for the feeling of not being able to talk to someone who died two years ago this month. It seems inadequate, but also somehow correct. I’m frustrated. Not angry. Not depressed. Not even sad, really. She had suffered so much at the end that her leaving came as a relief to me in some ways, if only in that she wasn’t suffering any longer.

So, I stand in the kitchen and miss her. (This picture is one of my favorites. She loved the making, the tasting, the creating, and the pure unspoiled art of cooking.) The miss I have is a simple feeling, not convoluted as it was in the beginning after she had died—full of guilt, anger, confusion—but a very bare, clear, and stripped down missing of something that was essential to my growing up, to how I live in the world; her constant powerful presence.

Of course, I’ve written many poems about her, even some about her death, including, “Cower,” because that’s what you do if you’re a writer. We deal with our personal tragedies in the great open of the universe as if it will help. It does help. At least, it does help me. When you write about someone you miss, sometimes it feels like writing a letter, as if you’re really saying something to the person. It’s a very unique satisfaction. I suppose I’m doing that now: writing something for her sake.

So much of what I experienced around her death made me bolder, braver, and more willing to accept risk. How she would have liked to know that her painful leaving, made me seek a more joyful life. Oh death. It has to be good for something, doesn't it?

*

I didn’t write as many letters as I wanted this month. Though I sent eleven or so homemade Valentine’s Day cards. I think that counts for something. I wrote some little notes for poems and have almost, almost, started on my rewrite.

The running (I laugh that it’s not really running, it’s walking with a sweet steady hop) and hiking continues and my brain is doing just dandy.  I feel a sort of slow pull back into the writing world and perhaps more of a balance will come—of the physical and the intellectual—half “chair time,” half “out there” time. 

As March comes closer, I start a big reading tour with Adam Clay and Michael Robins. Look for dates here. And I also will turn one year older, one little inkling better.  And still, I clumsily work toward clarity and truth and realness and laughter and love.  What was it that Virginia Woolf said in, To the Lighthouse,

 “Something clear as the space which the clouds at last uncover—a little space of sky which sleeps beside the moon.”

Yes. Yes that. "Something clear as the space which the clouds at last uncover."

Where All the Ladders Start

Our return to the West Coast has proven to be much-needed and all the bay laurel and oaks are shaking our hands on the hillsides. I've been running up hills and making soup and writing a few things here and there. We're looking after our favorite dogs and every day is some sort of small return toward a glorious beastie nature. Being home for me is always filled with strong emotions: a sort of powerful homesickness that makes me want to move back here full-time immediately, and another feeling of an energizing vibrancy, a sort of plugging into an old rooted power source and seeing where it might send you next. 

The novel is starting to open again to me. My feedback is coming in and, with some encouraging words from friends and readers, I am BEGINNING to get excited about heading back in to that world. I want to make this a really good book. As long as that takes: months or years. So, soon I'll start the largest of all the rewrites. Soon. Maybe this week. Maybe even today. We shall see.

Meanwhile, on the mountain, the weather turned all drizzle and cool yesterday afternoon. On a walk with the dogs, I was inspired by all the green. 

Some sneaky wild flowers are already coming up. I tried to write a poem about it yesterday. It was awful. So I made a fire, and tea, and read other people's poems instead. The green of the day made me want to make a soup the same color as the earth. 

Today, I write letters and try to finish that failed poem from yesterday. Maybe some afternoon wine tasting? Doesn't that sound like a good vacation plan? My brother has started a new wine blog which is wonderful. Check it out over here: Solo Syrah . Also, my dear girl Trish Harnetiaux has started a new project with her man Jacob Ware, over here: Steel Drum in Space. Their film, "You Should Be a Better Friend," just one a silver at the Spokane Film Festival. Also, today, you can find me over here talking about my writing space: Aggaspletch.  Also, I have a new poem coming out in Zzyzyva soon, which I'm very thrilled about.  

Tomorrow, is one of my favorite days of the year. It's also my mother's birthday. I went to her painting studio downtown and made some cards. I have yet to send them. I'm so late with my correspondence, but my heart is not late. My heart is in the right space and time. And it is sending you so much love for the year, so much love for your life. 

Now, "I must lie down where all the ladders start/in the foul rag and bone shop of the heart." Today, I will try to follow Yeats's advice and be satisfied with the heart. 

Look, How February Comes

I like beginnings. I like the idea that we're starting again. New projects. New lists of things to accomplish. New. New. New. Month number two!


In my last post, I mentioned that I was doing nothing aside from cooking, cleaning, organizing, some writing, and lots of physical activity. After that post, someone on twitter was very amusing and said something to the tune of, "I wish I could do nothing #havebills." And I realized that it might seem to some that I was simply wasting my time away, while most Americans are working harder than ever to keep their jobs or find new jobs.


I do work. I freelance. So the work comes and goes. And yes, I have bills too. And student loans, and all sorts of things that can keep me up at night. There was a time that the very existence of my student loans (which I pay monthly and on time), would send me into a deep paralyzing fear that only too many drinks or too many tears could fix. For some time, I worked very hard at wonderfully intense jobs that I loved, but also stressed too much about, because I was terrified of being a starving artist. I also didn't value my time as an artist as much as I do now. 


If I spent all day writing, I could easily to say to someone at the office, "Oh it was a quiet weekend, I didn't really do much." But in reality, I was constantly honing a skill. Not a skill that will make me money, but a skill that will help me survive. That skill was learning to VALUE my own time. 


And I do. It's taken me 35 years to discover that my time spent writing, reading, researching, staring, walking, laughing with friends, cooking, all those things that bring me closer to life is very valuable time. What isn't valuable is the worrying, stressing, or complaining that I am so easily prone to, if given the right set of circumstances. 


Some of my favorite times working with magazines or ad agencies are always the times where everyone comes together and takes a moment to be at ease, and acknowledges the stress, and suddenly the energy gets very creative; creative and alive. Those moments make me love the work, make me miss the buzz of NYC, make me miss the office of great minds, oh so very much. My friend Katie and I liked to end meetings like that with "Tada!" 


Now, I have to make those moments myself. I fixed my website today. Updated my readings. Made a few changes on a draft of something. Sent some invoices. Ran the farthest I have so far. Sent a guest post to a fellow writer. And there's much more to do. But at the end of the day, I can only say, "Tada!" to myself. And so I do. TADA! 


As life slows down before our California trip next week, my friend mentioned that she was going to take on this challenge of writing letters. I think I might join her. When you're out in the boonies, sometimes you need to send papery, glittery flares up and out into the world. So, don't be surprised if you get one from me. I like the way we appreciate real mail, the time it takes, the joy of the handwritten scrawl. So, in February I will add a few more things to my list: continue to write more, value the time spent writing (even if it's only for the joy of it, even if it's only a letter), and say, "Tada!" as often as possible.


Tada!

The Real Housewife of Kentucky: Doing Nothing

Sometimes, without much warning, there comes a pause in the action. At first, when it came I was suspicious. It was heavy and empty and silent. I took myself for a walk. Then, when I came home I tried to create things. But I couldn't. Instead, I cleaned my closet. 

*

A few days later, I had cleaned more things. And scrubbed the floors. And the bathroom. And organized. I kept saying, "Clutter-Free 2012!" I put things in baskets and recycled boxes. 

*

Also, I started to cook more and more new things. One of my many (spoiled) Christmas presents was a pressure cooker. So, I made Coq Au Vin and all sorts of new inspired dishes. I baked. There were things in the crockpot, things in the kitchen aid, things in the slow cooker.

* 

I started jogging a little. I liked the way it made my brain feel. I like the way it makes my brain feel. I started jogging/hiking where Daniel Boone and his family used to live. When the sun is out, it looks likes this. This was today.

*

I started a new project, it's currently called, "The Woods." I like it. It moves a long and has a nice rhythm to it. And magic things happen. It's mostly about the woods.

* 

I wrote a new poem. It's about lightning and love. 

*

I wrote my friend to say, "I haven't been working on the novel. It's in forced purgatory. I'm waiting. I'm waiting for more comments and then I will dig in and make some significant changes. In the meantime, I cook, and workout, and clean." She called me, "The Real Housewife of Kentucky."

* 

I twittered that I had done nothing all day. Though in truth I had hiked, and cleaned, and read many many poems, and made a good dinner. And a stranger twittered back this:

 It takes a lot of time being a genius, you have to sit around so much, doing nothing. 

                                       --Gertrude Stein 

I'm not a genius. But I'm a genius at doing nothing.

*
After, I finished reading Poetry magazine, I made a sign out of the subscription card, we call them "blow-ins" in the biz, and put it on my desk. Next to a jar of beach glass with a bird on top.

*

I took some time to write to my friends. Good long letters when they were needed. To one, I wrote something like this, "I still get the blues a lot. But I have a lot more tools to deal with it now. I've read a lot of books about self-improvement. You can sum them all up in one word: BREATHE (or CHILL)." (That's true.)

*

We made a beer with our friends. I want to name it something awesome. 

* 

It's been cold recently. And gray. But not too bad. And not too gray. (I just learned how to spell GRAY. I say, "With an 'A' for AMERICA.) 

*

One of those books I was talking about earlier says that we have to be careful about roles. How sometimes you get caught up in being something you're supposed to be: mother, leader, artist. And I was in the bathtub (that was very clean) and I realized that I was working on trying to BE a writer and an artist, when, really sometimes, I just need some time to breathe. You probably do, too.

*

The dog is snoring. I should go clean something. And make a healthy turkey meatloaf. And watch a movie. And do nothing. 

Friday the 13th with 3rd Graders!

Today, I spoke to a group of 78 third graders at Maxwell Elementary School in Lexington, KY. I was a bit nervous as it has been years since I've been in front of a classroom. Not since the days of working with the wonderful Community Word Project and teaching in the Bronx, had I spent so much time with an audience of young ones. And we had a blast. My dear friend who invited me wanted me to read some of my own work, but because much of my work is geared towards adults, I decided to write a poem specifically for these students. It's a children's poem exploring what it's like to become a poet. It's been a long time since I wrote anything for children, but I found great joy in the process. Here it is below. Thank you to the 3rd Graders of Maxwell and their wonderful teachers for an inspirational day of words and warm place to escape the snow. 

The Invitation

For Maxwell 3^rd Graders

When I was a big-mouthed kid

with so much of my life left to go,

there were so many things I wanted

to feel, to see, to know.

I wondered about the birds I saw

crisscrossing the endless sky.

I wondered how it would feel someday

to open my feather-less self and fly.

I thought about the bully bee

with its painful, throbbing sting.

I wondered if I could ever make

such a small and powerful thing.

I thought about the darkness

and the giant moon in the trees,

how sweet that light would feel

glistening on my own leaves.

I wanted to be incredible,

create rhythm (and sometimes rhymes).

I wondered what my dreams

would look like, broken into lines.

What I wanted was to say something,

but I didn’t know where to start,

so I walked out in to an empty field

and tried to quiet my too-loud heart.

And when I listened long enough,

there came a rumbling of distant words.

They were coming out of nowhere,

like a booming flock of wayward birds.

Oh how I was thunderstruck!

Oh how I welcomed the unknown!

I knew then, that all I wanted

was to make my life a poem.

Beginning Againing

After the rush and buzz of the holidays (an eleven day road trip with puppy in tow), I came back to Kentucky with a new sense of my weird self. Not the sense of self that says, “I’ve got this figured out,” but rather the one that says, “Oh, right, I have no idea what I’m doing.” I learned a lot about how I want to live my life, what I want out of it, who I want to spend it with, what my next journeys will entail, and so forth. In the fall of 2010, I quit my job, and despite having fallen in love with someone, moved home to the Valley of the Moon where I tried desperately to write a novel. Now, it’s 2012. I live in Kentucky with my man. I have finished the fifth draft of my first of a novel. We have a dog, and we go for walks, and write, and drink bourbon, and wine, and tea. I freelance copywrite from my home office, which keeps me in touch with New York and the advertising world, and all in all, I am, (say it, or as Elizabeth Bishop said…(Write it!), happy.

And yet still there are days when I am not. When I am full of fear and self-loathing. Full of envy, greed, or hurt. The days where the beast inside of you rails against your softer water-sack on the soul and screams that you are doing it all wrong, making a mess of things, carpooling one too many bad ideas to and from the office of regrets. It’s fascinating to me.  Still, as I enter 2012 with a still-not-done-probably-80% there-book-I-never-thought-I-would-write, and a life I never thought I would have, despite my occasional blues and mean streaks, I am pressing onward with some absurd belief that everything’s going to be alright. In the meantime, these are my resolutions that I will make here to keep me sane and grounded. (Some of these, I already do, and this simply serves as a way of recommitting to them.)

1. Walk in the “great outdoors,” every day, even in the snow, (even with the blues).
2. Meditate every day for at least 10 minutes.
3. Write every day. No matter what it is. And emails (unless they are long love letters, or epic personal stories, or writings on the craft) don’t count.
4. Practice yoga, Pilates (it still bugs me that I have to capitalize that), or at the very least, some stretching every day. (I sit at my desk and write all, people who do that also need to work out a lot.)
5. Connect with my friends more (call or video chat more). Make phone dates and stick to them. These people are my lifelines. They have always been my lifelines. Don’t forget it.
6. See my family more often. Travel, video chat, call, write, send gifts, to the people that made me and the people that helped me be a better person all along the way.
7. Be as honest with myself as possible, while still dreaming extraordinarily big. (Fly? I can do that. Watch me.)
8. Stop beating myself up so terribly when I make a mistake. (I hate failure, I keep forgetting that it makes me better. I hate you when you tell me I fail. But trust me, I hate myself more. This cycle must end.)
9. Save more money. (I don’t need everything I see. Except for that, right there, just this once.)
10. Use my time more wisely. (TV is not wise. Unless it is. Then it’s awesome.)
11. Answer the phone when it rings, unless I am already with someone. (I’m never going to do this, but I’m putting it here to make my phone feel better.)
12.  Read more. (This includes the lovely stack of New Yorkers that have piled up like intellectual bills in our living room.)
13. Listen more closely to people, hear what they need. Be a better friend because I’ve listened, not because I’ve said something.
14. Tell him all the time how happy he makes me. Make sure he knows how impossible this good love can seem sometimes, and how grateful I am that he is my incomparable partner in crime.
15. Play guitar. Learn some new songs.
16. Write a new story (whatever this means).
17. Finish book of poems number four. (It’s on its way.)
18. Explore, appreciate, and connect to the town where I am living like I’m a happy tourist. Whatever town that is.
19. See more live music. Nothing compares to the elation of my ears.
20. Practice gratitude, and acceptance, and joy. (Ah, you know…easy.)
21. Take care of myself like I would a friend: Eat well, drink well, comfort and calm myself.
22. Teach our dog some new tricks. And by new, I mean, some. (I know Mr. Cesar Millan. It’s me, not the dog.)
23. Give more. Volunteer more. Do things for others.
24. Never underestimate the power of the art we do.
25. Begin again. And again. And again.