New Blog

Unfortunately, this blog is closed, but the good news is I’ve opened another. You can view new posts here. See you there :)

Meditations on Love

Soaked.  Okay, not quite, but significantly wet.  Most things in my purse, that is–and there happened to be a lot of important things in there that day (or at least things important to me in some way): two signed chapbooks of poetry (one rather hard to come by), my Mini Connolly tarot deck (also rare-ish) and my little black writing book.  Everything’s still usable, but all of these things are now somewhat soiled and warped: the chapbooks a little bit bent, bits of paper rubbing off the covers; the black book soaked through the bottom (which is thicker than the top now), the ink bleeding; and the tarot cards scattered on the carpet from drying, the deck no longer uniform.

Basically, my boyfriend took a drink from my water bottle before our Ben Folds concert and accidentally twisted the lid on crooked before putting it back in my bag, where it got water on all of these things, and my legs, before I noticed.  It wasn’t until the next day that I realized how much damage it actually did (though everything’s still usable).  When it happened, I believe I mentioned it once, he apologized, I said, “It’s okay.”

I’ve been examining the damaged items all week–picking them up by the corners to squint at them, squeezing water out from between the black book’s pages, curiously poking my sad, warped tarot cards.  But I haven’t said anything to him about it.  It’s funny, but the whole thing simply doesn’t bother me.

We got lost on the way to the orchestra on Saturday, and were twenty minutes late, and it was fine.  In fact, it was great.  We also got lost on the way to the concert on Monday, were ten minutes late, and didn’t see more than a sliver of Ben Folds’s backside all night because the place was so crowded.  The thing I’ll remember most about that concert is sitting on the floor against a wall for over an hour, the two of us cuddling and making faces at one another.  The sound was pretty good.  But I had fun without it.

I figure that’s proof of love–not that I needed it.  But it was a nice way to reflect on the weekend, on missing AWP for Valentine’s Day (of all things), on the ways I am glad for it.  We ate good food and watched lots of Toradora.  I was given great, sweet love poems (one involving wolves) and all sorts of my favorite candies.  When he left I just wanted to send a piece of myself with him, so I packed some of the cookies I made (that he loved) in a plastic bag for his flight.  I can’t even explain the weight of my sadness when I realized he’d forgotten them on the bed, and couldn’t eat them.

That’s life for you.  Looking forward to more.

Why I’m a Recluse

Understandably, my friends get confused as to why I keep shunning them.  They invite me out, I decline 75% of the time, they stop inviting me out, I get confused and lonely–the cycle repeats.  Okay.  Here’s the breakdown:

First off, I’m an introvert.  Textbook-style:  I’m withdrawn, fairly reserved, and avoid socializing most of the time.  I get my energy from myself, rather than other people, and I don’t have much of it.  Even the thought of socializing makes me tired.  Spending more than a couple hours with other people usually makes me want to retreat.  I’m not a big talker, either, unless I’m really in the mood or feel strongly about the topic.  Basically, I’m psychologically designed to be alone.  This has been professionally confirmed.

Now, I stumbled upon a good (albeit slightly biased) article in The Atlantic that I urge you to read, called Caring For Your Introvert.  And yes, it’s all true.  And yes, it is often extremely difficult for an extrovert to understand all this (hence my urging you to read it).

That’s the bulk of it.  Now.  Take that – add clinical depression, low physical energy, insomnia, nocturnal mania, irritability, a busy schedule and a high level of ambition and you have a confusing melange of things that, when put in a blender and set in the freezer, create something that looks a lot like me.

So, it sounds like I’m making excuses.  I am – and they’re valid.  A lot of people would say, so what?  Make more of an effort to get out, get psychological help, try changing your habits, get over it.  A) I do, or have done, or have tried all of those things. B) People who think there are simple solutions to any of these problems do not have a clue what they’re dealing with.

So.  I apologize to my friends, acquaintances, co-workers.  I am sorry I’m so difficult to socialize with.  But this is important: it is not personal.  It is simply who I am.  Sometimes I can’t, because I feel tired, depressed, or distracted by my personal projects.  Other times?  I simply don’t want to socialize.  I like you.  I just don’t feel like it.

This doesn’t make me an ideal acquaintance.  But I have my moments.  I can be fun, I’m interesting, and I have a lot of good traits.  I’m reliable in most other areas of life (when I have deadlines, appointments, et cetera).  But I can not be counted on to attend social functions very often, regardless of how much I appreciate the invitations.

Advice:

I’m worth getting to know.  Learn to accept my behaviors, don’t take them personally, and keep trying if you feel it’s worth it.

I am more likely to socialize with others if:

• I am lonely;

• It involves low-key activities (like going to someone’s home, rather than going to a bar or partying with a large group);

• I have a ride there and a ride back and the transit time is short (lack of vehicle, lack of tolerance for the bus system unless necessary);

• and/or if it involves activities that I planned or recommended (I enjoy going to movies, eating out, and hosting the occasional low-key get-together at my apartment–movies, games, food, chats, et cetera).

I enjoy forging valuable relationships with people.  If you are looking for an interesting person to slowly acquaint yourself with, I’m an excellent choice.  But if you’re looking for someone who is naturally sociable and reliable in this manner, look elsewhere – I am not that friend.

Not so sleepy…

So, while it has come to my attention that in part I desire a more normal sleep schedule, I don’t need one.  This is troublesome in a way, but it’s also kind of liberating.  But tonight, right now, I know I could sleep.  And I’m not.  There’s too much to do, too much to think about.  It’s strange to think it, but when it comes to sleep – as my psychologist said – I just don’t want to.  And there’s not really a cure for that.  Hence I am writing at 4am.

I will probably sleep away the afternoon tomorrow, even though I want to go food shopping – we’ll see.  As usual I’m up all night shopping online, though not buying anything.  It consumes me sometimes – the browsing.  I have done more writing than usual, though, and been mostly productive these past few weeks.  In the meantime I’ve been waiting for my week off from classes (thank you, AWP, which I’m not attending), Valentine’s Day, a certain someone, a Ben Folds concert and some nice spring puddles.  I might be getting a little ahead of myself on that last one.

I found something of mine online tonight, old and forgotten, and I felt nostalgic for a moment – I’ve changed a lot since the time when it mattered.  I’m still just as dreamy as ever, though.

Maybe that’s why I won’t go to bed.

And so the earth keeps turning…

So – I’m back from winter break.  I wish I could stay it was great – parts of it were, and parts were more aggravating than anything.  On the whole I’ll compromise by saying it was interesting.  Some of the best things were lazing about with the boyfriend (watching movies and anime and King of the Hill, mostly), forming a long list of potential literary journals (also with the boyfriend) and getting him to submit, giving gifts to his entire family, eating gummy candy, rock candy and various minty ice creams, running around shouting in an empty parking lot to ring in the New Year, eating out, seeing Slumdog Millionaire and playing Citadels on a regular basis (much to my surprise).

And now I’m back in Pittsburgh – sad but excited at the same time to be writing again, et cetera.   I started yet another blog (just what I need, right?) for writing and related things, as a requirement for my nonfiction workshop.  I’m kind of glad – I think it will be fun.  Here it is, for anyone who’s interested: Paper.Fetish

And so I’m off. Back to daydreams of the world I want to create for myself – if only there came a day I had the time to accomplish all the things I wanted. That day, the sky would rain rock candy – oh the pain, the glory.

Daydreams

I’ve been overwhelmed lately. My workload seems to have let up, slightly, for the first time in weeks. I can’t wait for the semester to finish.

***

I’m daydreaming today. I used to do this all the time. When I do, my thoughts often bear a resemblance to this photo – whimsical and peaceful. Today, my dreams are of living my life the way I want, earning a living from my labour of love and being better for it. I hope I can. I have plans.

***

I’m getting a laptop before the holidays start. A nice, sleek little one I can love and take with me anywhere. I plan to write while I’m at the cabin for Christmas. And design a new website – self-promotion. Here’s hoping.

***

This song fits my mood today: ♫ Eisley – Invasion

***

It was nice to have the weekend back. For a little while, anyway.

Back to the shrink…

So apparently I’m a menace to myself and others (as per my own assessment), and as such am signing up for counseling again.  You know it’s gotta be good when you’re exhibiting 3/4 of the symptoms for depression AND bipolar disorder, including symptoms that contradict one another.  So perhaps it’s about time to assess what’s really going on, hmm?

That aside, I’m feeling optimistic.  Maybe that’s the euphoria talking, but I won’t pretend I don’t like it.  My tarot readings website is almost ready to go up, I’m ready for Halloween, I’m joining a writer’s group and I just got some new black pumps and two pairs of cigarette pants that I love: one shiny, black and leathery, one red plaid/tartan.  On the plus side, I’m keeping my splurging to a minimum (or trying).  And I do have a ton of work/homework, but I’m hoping my hobbies will keep it in balance.

I like this song, and it won’t leave me be. Listen.
♫ The National – Apartment Story

I’m still not writing as often as I should (granted it’s been a rough week in terms of workload).  I’d like to devote at least an hour a day, or maybe I’d do better with a couple hours three times a week.  I have so many things to write about, and just don’t commit.

I like this photo.  It reminds me of home, somehow.  Good old northern British Columbia, where the sky is always off-colour and fastened to the rooftops.  These balloons are dark like the kind I’d find in the living room on New Year’s Eve, with jovial slogans in silver lettering, or at one of my teenage birthday parties after I’d outgrown vibrancy.  Helium was always a rare thing, though.  There were no means for it, no room for the inconvenience, no need or desire for something so free.  Our balloons were always illusory, attached to the light fixtures or deer horns or curtain rods.  High as could be.  Tethered.

Interesting, that.

So much ambition…so little time?

Not really.  And I know I’ve said it before.  But I am going to be posting more often, for one.  There’s more.  I’m tired of being tired.  I’m making lists.  I’m setting goals.  I’m making decisions.  I’m monitoring my productivity.  I’m attempting a regular sleep schedule, writing schedule, blogging schedule, work schedule, play schedule, homework schedule, tarot schedule, blogging schedule, et cetera.  There’s more.  I am cataloging my activities.  I’m devoting a certain number of hours to each, I’m slotting free time, and chinchilla time, and career time, and everything else.  I’m drafting my future.  My life.  I’m charting my way to happiness.  There’s more.

On Thursday afternoon I was sitting on a bench at Chatham, just out of the sun.  It was surprisingly warm, and fresh, and I looked good, but something was off: I felt good, too.  I felt different.  Awake.  That feeling you get when you’re in a new place you want to belong, but haven’t attempted, and the air feels lighter and you feel lighter and ten years younger, but wiser – but brighter.  There’s more.  The leaves on a tree in front of me are turning red, but the air is still summer-warm.  There are pumpkins in the windows of the building above, light in the courtyard to the left, more benches, and a statue of a cherub of sorts with a cistern of water that is really stone, or cement, or whatever he’s made of.  A large brown squirrel sneaks up behind me, digs in a bed of wood chips and sod with his paws, carrying a large brown nut in his teeth.  He sees me watching him, pauses, scurries away to find a new place, a secret.  There’s more.  I walk past the duck pond on my way to work at the journal, and some students are lounging with the mallards.  The grass is wide open.  I smile, a real smile.  There’s more.  Two girls in a doorway are holding hands, and they don’t care who sees.

More poorly executed people, or why I hated high school…

It has come to my attention that there are grave concerns that fashion sense is detrimental to one’s ability as a writer. High heels, particularly, are a big no-no if you want to be seen as a successful, valuable member of a community, and a pretty face won’t win you any friends in an MFA program.

Horse. Shit.

I have not been a direct victim of such close-minded drivel (I can’t say for sure what people are thinking about me, and I know there’s a lot of it – that fact makes me smile), but I’m ashamed for all of us to say I’ve been hearing horror stories about teen-like drama among Chatham MFA students, particularly in the writing program. Given that I’m not partial to this kind of frivolity, I refuse to name names and will simply say that discrimination based on looks should be well past us as a society (though I am well aware that it’s not) and that passing instant judgement may be unavoidable for some people (don’t lie, we’ve all done it), but that a person should KEEP IT TO THEMSELVES and give others a chance to be accepted. I don’t base my assessment of a person solely on whether they’re black or white or straight or lesbian or whether they dress like a hobo or a movie star. Those of us in the writing program have one thing in common: writing. The rest is not fraught with rules or standards and should have no bearing on our acceptance among our peers or social status within this program.

I wear high heels. I dress with flair 24 hours a day, whether I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a super-hot dress, pyjamas or the weirdest fucking boots you’ve ever seen. Whether everyone likes what I’m wearing (they never will) is completely beside the point–I dress according to my mood, and it keeps me happy. Fashion is WHO I AM.

What’s worse? I read tarot cards (this is my blog, I’m allowed to advertise myself). I’m a fortune-telling amateur psychologist who has obsessed over this fifteenth-century card game for seven years and collected over 50 decks. And I will read your situation inside-out for a nominal fee, and give you insight into yourself, and I love it, and I would do it for a living. I really would. I also draw still-life and portraits (quite well), am fascinated with art history, the solar system, literature and genetics, and am known to collect dolls and enjoy soap and cemeteries.  And there’s more–my god, there’s so much more. Maybe now’s the time to mention I don’t believe in god.

So what does everyone think? Well, naturally, some of you think that’s a little bit weird. You think dolls are for kids and cemeteries are creepy, that tarot is best left to county fairs (not psychology) and that fashion has no place in the world of literati. That’s your opinion I suppose, but read this:

I’m still a writer. And I’m good at it. I got into this program fair and square, and manage your literary journal (The Fourth River). I applied to 9 MFA programs during my last year of undergrad, and was wait-listed at Sarah Lawrence (a reputable women’s college complete with one of my favourite writers, Jo Ann Beard) and accepted at Emerson (home of Ploughshares and one of the top MFA programs in the country), The New School (New York’s home to many distinguished writers over the years, such as Robert Frost and Stanley Kunitz), U of New Hampshire (Charles Simic and New England, anyone?) and U of Idaho (where I completed my undergrad alongside the likes of Robert Wrigley, Kim Barnes and Mary Clearman Blue). Clearly, the way I dress has no negative effect on my personality or level of success.

And yet despite it all, I’m at Chatham. I chose to turn them all down (and it was tough, because Emerson and The New School both offered me a lot of money) and spend my graduate years among young women in Pittsburgh, to explore myself in an up-and-coming program that supported my passion for environmental writing, and to accept a fellowship for The Fourth River – which, although it’s no Ploughshares, guaranteed me a position with experience I’d been seeking, and is a job I am happily undertaking. I don’t regret my decision one bit.

So there it is. Take me as I am. I can impress you with my credentials, but I shouldn’t need to. After all, need I remind you that I still collect dolls and incorrectly spell things like judgment (judgement), pajamas (pyjamas) and favorite (favourite) – well, actually, I’m Canadian and they’re widely-accepted Canadian/British spellings. I used to feel like I had to change them to conform to the American dictionary, but you know what? I quit. I don’t conform in any other ways, so I’m going to keep my jewellery and high heels, and I refuse to engage in your dialogue about the colour of one’s hair or the way they dress. I will take licence with my words (a right every writer has earned), and you’ll see that my enrolment in this program is just as valid as anyone else’s. Read that again and get a dictionary if you must. I digress.

So why do some of us still insist on acting like children? Because we were a minority at another time in our lives and were treated poorly by people who may or may not have been like me? Because now that we’re in a place where we fit in, we can take out our aggression on the people who remind us of those who once bothered us? Don’t. That’s not it? Still, and more emphatically, don’t. I may be in a minority at this point, but that doesn’t mean I deserve the wrath of those who have felt alienated by people who (you’ll find) aren’t me. The fact is, I was not popular in high school, and I can state quite plainly that there was no rhyme or reason to it. The people who took the time to get to know me (and anyone who has since) will support that statement whole-heartedly. And I believe everyone deserves that chance.

Our only responsibility as writers is to show the world something in a way it has not seen before. But as human beings we also have a responsibility to treat one another with respect. We all know the controversy surrounding Mark Twain and his writings. Maybe he was racist, maybe he wasn’t – but personally, if I’m ever going to be scrutinized for discrimination, I (also) want it to be because of my writing, not because of my actions. Thankfully, that is not something I have to worry about.

I’m not really the victim here, but regardless, I’m going to put on my high heels and write some of the best damn creative nonfiction you may ever read. Honour thy neighbour (or something to that effect). I may not be religious and you may not be British, but for christ’s sake, show some human decency.

What Do Women Want?

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

- Kim Addonizio

Couture

1.

Peony silks,
in wax-light:
that petal-sheen,

gold or apricot or rose
candled into-
what to call it,

lumina, aurora, aureole?
About gowns,
the Old Masters,

were they ever wrong?
This penitent Magdalen’s
wrapped in a yellow

so voluptuous
she seems to wear
all she’s renounced;

this boy angel
isn’t touching the ground,
but his billow

of yardage refers
not to heaven
but to pleasure’s

textures, the tactile
sheers and voiles
and tulles

which weren’t made
to adorn the soul.
Eternity’s plainly nude;

the naked here and now
longs for a little
dressing up. And though

they seem to prefer
the invisible, every saint
in the gallery

flaunts an improbable
tumble of drapery,
a nearly audible liquidity

(bright brass embroidery,
satin’s violin-sheen)
raveled around the body’s

plain prose; exquisite
(dis?)guises; poetry,
music, clothes.

2.

Nothing needs to be this lavish.
Even the words I’d choose
for these leaves;

intricate, stippled, foxed,
tortoise, mottled, splotched
-jeweled adjectives

for a forest by Fabergé,
all cloisonné and enamel,
a yellow grove golden

in its gleaming couture,
brass buttons
tumbling to the floor.

Who’s it for?
Who’s the audience
for this bravura?

Maybe the world’s
just trompe l’oeil,
appearances laid out

to dazzle the eye;
who could see through this
to any world beyond forms?

Maybe the costume’s
the whole show,
all of revelation

we’ll be offered.
So? Show me what’s not
a world of appearances.

Autumn’s a grand old drag
in torched and tumbled chiffon
striking her weary pose.

Talk about your mellow
fruitfulness! Smoky alto,
thou hast thy music,

too; unforgettable,
those October damasks,
the dazzling kimono

worn, dishabille,
uncountable curtain calls
in these footlights’

dusky, flattering rose.
The world’s made fabulous
by fabulous clothes.

- Mark Doty

Additional Reading: Poems for the Clothesline

Poorly executed people, and the importance of distinction…

And so now, weeks later, we arrive. What inspired my original idea for this post was an incident on Air Canada that sparked some small and sensitive fury in me, but the idea has now expanded much further.

Originally, that spark ignited when one or more flight attendants on a particular flight traveling from Vancouver to Seattle decided that productivity stemmed from belligerence, whilst others on the flight decided kindness was a virtue best left to those lacking busy schedules (therefore, anyone not flying that day). I’d rather not get into detail, but what ensued was a complete lack of respect for individuals and a rather juvenile approach to the task at hand – getting people on a plane and off the ground and to their destination with some level of efficiency – which, I must say, sacrificed all trust and only weakened my respect for authority and confidence in the human race in general. The plane departed earlier than expected, and left behind something of greater importance.

One or two people were good to me that day. People who, despite their busy schedules and obligations and furrowed brows, managed to remember themselves. These are the kind of people who, since then, have garnered much interest from me. Those who were willing to be more than simply human, to reach out, to exist comfortably, to seek value and community in their peers and surroundings. I haven’t had the time to look for them, and so they have come right to me. They are all around me.

I am talking about Chatham University. Pittsburgh is still quite foreign to me. I have been here less than a week and yet, already, I feel at home. The streets are so full of gorgeous Colonial-inspired architecture and bright colours that when I walk the streets, I feel like I’m walking the grid of a giant quilt. I live in on-campus housing in Shadyside, one of the more upscale neighbourhoods, but it seems to look like this everywhere.

My apartment is in a red brick house with three floors and six apartments, all of which are very nice, spacious and newly renovated. Chatham is (literally) across the street. The campus is gorgeous – surrounded and encompassed by an arboretum, traditional buildings, an abandoned chapel. There are already floating leaves on every square of sidewalk, but the summer warmth remains. Young women are everywhere – 8 or 9 for every guy, and in classes, there are usually no more than one or two men in a class of 10-12 students. It is very rarely larger than that, and every teacher I have is dedicated, passionate, and knowledgeable. The classes are engaged and intimate in a way I’ve never experienced before – not because of the size, but because of the environment and dynamic – and would not feel nearly the same were there more men (not that I have anything against them). The students are inquisitive, intelligent and fun, and the instructors have a similar niche. The Fourth River journal is my new project, and I am excited to be there (the Staff page needs updating – likely one of my many new tasks). I am reading and writing for every genre, and will work as an ambassador for the Bridges to Other Worlds international literary festival in October (for which I encourage all young writers in the area to register). This place is becoming my home in ways with which I am unfamiliar, and I am hesitating, waiting for it all to envelop me.

Though, of course, a home is made with those you love. There is one I will not forget, who thinks of me from time to time in New England, and hopefully reads my blog. No matter where I settle, there is room for him, and no matter where I go, I will return to annoy him with my silly little stories and at times uncalled-for antics. There are also two others deserving mention here – new members, but important ones nonetheless:

I missed Sascha so much I had to get another, and another, for something I wished I’d have given her (a companion). These are my new chinchillas, Luxe and Luna.

I think that’s enough for now. I got a little carried away. My internet is down for the next few days so until then, I will be at the campus library, typing my little wonders and worries in the silence, in the shade.