Mar

1

Saturday

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I’ve finally quit smoking for reals (again), and while much of my body is celebrating (Lungs: Yaaaay!), my brain is cranky. My sleeping patterns are all jacked up, some nights being fitful or sleepless, others I sleep like the dead. My emotions are all over the place. I explained to Kate what was going on for me mood-wise, and she said it sounded a lot like PMS. I have a totally new appreciation for women now, cause this is not the funnest of roller coasters.

More significantly, I’m still not terribly jazzed about school or writing these days. Being single, being sick, quitting smoking, getting older (and creakier), dad getting rid of HBO (right in the fucking middle of season 5 of the Wire…BASTARD)…these are all things I can handle and take in stride. The attitude towards writing worries me, though. I know I can’t always expect to be on a high about writing, but for the first time in a long time something feels really important to me. I mean I did so much in my life to date just cause it was there, but this is something that matters to me.

My classes aren’t helping either. They are totally heady and academic, and I need hearty and practical, but I’ve kinda got to stick to them for now. I’m just grinning and bearing it, though. There are even times when I kinda think about giving it all up and just monkeying on web sites for gobs of cash. *sigh* This is complicated and messy and hard.

Feb

18

I got my ass kicked by a poet

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I like poetry. I like things written in verse in general. I have come to realize in the last week or so, however, that I am not destined to be a poet. With most prose, even if I’m not totally getting everything, I do have an intuitive sense of which way is up. I completely lack this sense with poetry the more abstract it gets.
I’m currently trying to figure out a way into the poetry of what I guess you’d call a language poet, but it’s fucking hard. I just don’t have a sense of what’s going on most of the time, and the words feel flat and the poems feel meaningless. They’re not, and from time to time I get a little hit of meaning or emotion, but most of the time it’s struggle. She’s a renowned poet. People get her. People write nice things about what she’s trying to do (and accomplishing), and I barely understand what they’re saying about her poetry, let alone the poetry itself. I’ll sit down for a couple of hours and struggle with it, read it, write about it, try to mimic it…and nothing…I just end up feeling like a complete idiot.

I think, in general, my grad school honeymoon days are over. All the days of skipping through the fields with rainbows, unicorns and beautiful prose flowing out of my ass like sweet smelling flowers are gone. I’ve run into the wall of struggle! Bristling with huge spikes of insecurity! And coated in a briny film of despair!

At least I’m not these people:

glumbert - Spoiled Pageant Queen?

Jan

26

It’s Saturday. It’s 7am. And I’m awake

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And I’m listening to DEVO.  Mongoloid, to be specific.  It’s pretty awesome.

I got up to take a friend to the airport at 5am this morning, and I ran into three complete strangers who said “good morning” like the meant it.  What the fuck?  Who is that cordial at 5am?  It must be a secret club and that is their special handshake.  So I could be writing right now, but I’m much more interested in wasting time blogging until the coffee wears off and I pass out in my chair.

The payoff for me getting up this early, however, is that my friend is going to let me use her car for the next six months.  It’s a newish fancy Volvo.  How hilarious is that?  Last night I was braving torrential rainstorms and furious winds on the bridge on my bad ass motorcycle, and this morning I’m getting up early and driving a Volvo.  What madness is next?  Next I’ll be quoting Dr. Phil and saying things like “darn it!”, calling gated stucco communities “cute”, and having a well balanced diet.  Somebody kill me before the transformation is complete

I’ve been thinking about writing a lot, and having a little of the “wtf am I doing?” conversation.  Not bad, but a little.  Thanks to Lauren for “own that shit”…I’m going to remember that.  Anyway…back to writing.  I recently finished “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Wolfe, and even though I wouldn’t say I liked it (I know I know I know…baaad Spencer, but c’mon…it was work), but it has transformed how I think about writing.  I’ve been trying to articulate this transformation, but I just sound like a retarded grad student (hence, Mongoloid).  What she accomplished is fucking amazing.

Let me try to work it out here.  She captured the internal world of people in such a genuine and compelling way, and turned the ordinary into poetry (ok, her amazing sentences helped with that too).  But really…look at how she followed Mrs. Ramsey’s train of thought as she’s knitting the stocking for whoever in the Lighthouse.  She focuses on it, then on her son, then on her husband, then on Lilly, focusing on how people interrelate, the nature of her husband’s need vs. her own, etc.  That’s how brains work, I think.  We worry about the random and the existential and the personal and the thing right in front of us as our hands work, and our eyes move around a room.  And then she immediately shifts into another, completely distinct train of thought from someone completely different and weaves it together with Mrs. Ramsey’s.  I do that and it sounds like nails on a chalkboard or white noise.  She does it and it sounds like a symphony.

I see the same scene and describe in excruciating detail the physical world, sprinkle some dialog, keep the action going, maybe include a sentence or two about the internal world, but then move on.  She dives right in, stays in that moment FOREVER,  going deep…very deep, and does it in a way that even though I don’t want to finish the damn book, I can’t put it down.  I care about Mr. and Mrs. Ramesy’s strange and nice compatability and Lilly’s struggle as an artist and even the opium soaked poet.  How do I infuse that inspiration and depth into my own writing?  I mean, I’m not looking to be any Virgina Wolfe, but I want to give some aspect of my stories that level of depth in some way.  Ugh.  I know, I know, just keep going and own that shit.

Ha!  Music has now moved to WOXY.com, where I just heard the best lyric EVER: “Is there a doctor in the house?  In the house of pancakes?”  Luna/IHOP

I’ll stop now before this post completely careens into the psychotic.

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