Why We Need to Go to the Movies

For my fifth birthday, my mother took me to Indian Springs Mall. It was in 1989 and this Kansas City mall was well known for it's monthly shootings. That was Kansas City in the eighties and nineties. When you grow up in a ghetto, you don't really notice the dysfunction around you until you're old enough to remember and reflect from another location.

In my kindergarten class, a fellow classmate asked me, quite seriously: "Are you a blood or crip?" I didn't know what either was so I asked him to explain himself, while I pretended to make pancakes on a Fisher Price stove set. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I know my brother's a blood." When I went home that day, I asked my mother "what we were." I remember the troubled look she wore on her face. I never got a confirmation on my gang status.

But that's what we were working with. I lived in a city where you could get gunned down any minute and all I wanted for my fifth birthday was to see Batman, in one of the most dangerous malls in the city. Well, my mother took me to see the non-stop action film about good vs. evil. The obvious good guy was Batman/Bruce Wayne who was rich, had a sense of humor, and was still humble, if not vengeful, because the Joker made him an orphan at an early age.

Some would say that five is rather young to subject your child to such a violent film. (There was also a little sexiness in it too, if I remember. I know the Prince soundtrack was pretty sexy and I was allowed to listen to that cassette from start to finish.) My mother didn't have the best filter for adult films but I am thankful that she allowed me to experience this film, specifically.

I say this because of the ongoing violent turmoil that Kansas City was in. In a world where she and I had very little control of our surroundings, it was nice to escape in a film, based loosely on Any-Urban-City, USA, where the crime was high and only a man in a bat costume could save the people. According to Gerard Jones, author of Killing Monsters: Why Children Need Fantasy, Superheroes and Make Believe Violence:

"Children can benefit from exposure to fictional violence because it makes feel powerful in a 'scary, uncontrollable world.' The child's fascination with mayhem has less to do with the fighting and more to do with how the action makes her feel. Children like to feel strong. Those committing violence are strong. By pretending to be these violent figures, children take on their strength and with it negotiate daily dangers."

Since that night in 1989, I've seen every single Batman film in theaters (even the George Clooney one). I've done it with the same amount of enthusiasm because Batman is a the kind of hero that cities need. He's not Superman, he wasn't born with magical powers, he's a "regular guy" who is obligated to secretly protect a city. Not everyone appreciates the work he does, but he does it anyway. Because it's his destiny.

Fast-forward to today. 2012, The Dark Knight Rises came to theaters at the time I really needed it: near my 28th birthday. I'm a lot older than the girl that came from Kansas City but with a whole new set of fears. I'm a college grad but working at a dead-end minimum wage job who worries about her future in an economically, politically unstable time.

And to top it off, a lunatic stormed a movie theater on the Dark Knight's opening night. With a small army's arsenal, he shot 70 something people, killing 12. It was Indian Springs all over again but on a much larger scale. It could have been enough to keep me from seeing summer's hugest blockbuster but I couldn't miss this. Right then, I needed Batman more than anything.

My husband and I sat in a theater two days after the Colorado movie theater massacre amongst others who were taking the same chance. We were relieved to see Bruce Wayne take control of his destiny and save Gotham City from herself.

And I was just as relieved as 5-year-old Charish. That Charish, who finally got to spending time with a single mother who worked so much, she barely saw her. They didn't have disposable income to go the movies often, but her mother made time that July night. They both, like the viewers today, needed a movie to tell them that they were in control of their lives.

I am Not You and I Can Prove it

            

Often, Facebook is touted as the social networking mega-tool that ultimately shows us how similar we all are as human beings. We all have friends. We all have things that happen to us. We all feel the desperate need to tell the universe that we exist; that the moments in our lives should be memorable not only to us, but to those we consider ourselves close to.

            

But the more time I spend on Facebook (admittedly trying to promote Y.N.F.P. in the Internet language-sphere), the more I realize that human beings (as they present themselves online) are almost nothing alike. Or, I should say, almost no one I am friends with on Facebook is anything like me.

            

This realization came two days ago while I was scouring Facebook in an attempt to distract myself from work. I saw on my newsfeed that an old friend from high school had posted photos from her wedding. I perused the photos, spotting old acquaintances here and there throughout the wedding party and congregated matrimonial onlookers. The wedding seemed to go smoothly and I was happy and hopeful for all involved. But in viewing photo after photo, I found myself asking, “How do these seemingly joyous people have any time to party with all the scholarly reading that need to get done? Isn’t this wedding getting in the way of hawking their creative work to unknown literary magazines? Does marital-status show up on CV’s, and if not, why bother with marriage in the first place? What is there to show for it professionally?”

            

These questions left me feeling cold. I clicked back to my married-old-high-school-friend’s main page and checked out what she is doing with her life. She is newly married, has a good full-time job, lives in a no-name (at least to me) town in the American Midwest, participates in the occasional arts and crafts project with her mother, and keeps in contact with old friends because she understands the communication up-keep to be a reflection of good character. In short, she is a happy, healthy young woman with excellent prospects for a successful future and likely no interest in contemporary American literature, let alone experimental poetry. Holy shit.

            

The title of this post could be “How a Facebook friend taught me that there is life outside academia/the arts/an artistic community/Word-Land” (it might actually have this title, as I have not yet titled the piece). In seeing my old friend living a nice, normal life (I guess “normal” meaning a type of life pursued by many college-educated, white, retirement-planning young people between the ages of 18 and 24ish) I completely understood how abnormal my language-dominated life is (not to mention the lives of my word-colleagues and word-friends!). To demonstrate this abnormality, I offer the reader the following account of my day thus far:

o   

       9 :00 a.m. — Wake up and drink tea while reading Time, Juxtapoz, National Geographic, and thinking about writing.

o   10:00 a.m. — Check various email accounts for updates about publishing opportunities.

o   10:15 a.m.  — Search Internet for journals to publish in. Read other writers’ blogs and writers’ blog responses to other writers’ blogs, etc.

o   11:00 a.m. — Read and highlight sections of essay entitled “Can Poetry Matter?” for future Y.N.F.P. post.

o   12:00 p.m. — Rest eyes by watching No Reservations on Netflix. Think about Anthony Bourdain’s style of writing. Think about how many different ways there are to make a living with writing.

o   1:00 p.m. — Head into town to write at a local coffee shop. Think about the writing I will have to do later in the afternoon to make money. Think about Ralph Waldo Emerson and how I would rather be reading his Essays than writing to make money.

And that is it. All of it. My whole day — from the moment I woke up to this very moment — has been completely dominated by language/writing/literature/communicated-ideas.

           

I recount today’s events not to prove my dedication to my field. I recount them to show what I, in some twisted way, think passes for normalcy in the life of a graduate student. It’s not sick that I insulate myself in the written word (even though it kind of is), it’s sick that I think my life-behaviors are somewhat normal; it’s sick that I assume everyone else my age is as hyper-literate as I am until I am shown otherwise on Facebook.

            

But beyond the sick feeling in my stomach at the understanding of my life’s path (and the nasty taste in the back of my mouth from too much tea), there is a certain sadness that comes with knowing that most, if not nearly all, of the people I “know” (as much as anyone can really know anyone else in a Facebook “relationship”) spend roughly 0% of their lives thinking about the things I spend roughly 80% of my life thinking about. And they are probably 100% fine with this.

            

Until two days ago I believed writing was the easy way out of life challenges. I studied education as an undergraduate in college. It was a lot of work that ultimately left me feeling tired and hopeless. I dropped out of the program. My parents said I had to graduate college; they told me to pick something I was “good” at and get a degree. “You’ve always been good at writing,” they said, “why not get an English degree?” So I did, and when graduation came and I had no idea what to do with myself (the working world seeming to me to be, like my previous major, a lot of work) a professor said, “Why not get a Masters degree in English?” So I did, and when graduation came and I had no idea what to do with myself (the working world seeming to me to be, like my undergraduate major, a lot of work) a professor said, “Why not get a Phd in English?” So I am, and it all seems like it came about without much thought on my part. In fact, it seems like the academic life was destined to be, since at every major transition point in my academic career someone said to me, “Well what else could you possibly do outside of writing/academia? You’re not good at anything else!” And, I suppose, that’s as good a reason as any to keep doing what you’re doing.

           

But in seeing my married-old-high-school-friend’s wedding photos, in seeing that she has a nice job in the rural or urban Midwest (both terms kind of blur into each other when describing Midwestern civilizations), I realized that when writers write, they are always drawing boundaries for their lives; they are always choosing writing instead of something else. I always assumed that I write because I can’t do anything else (I guess I similarly assumed that writers in general write because they are somehow unable to complete any other life[money-making]-activities with any degree of competence). But now I understand that I write because I can do other life-activities but, for some reason or another, don’t.

            

Words are a lot of work, even when they don’t feel like it. Writers are more than insurance salespeople that don’t sell insurance or farmers who don’t know how to grow or harvest crops. They/we are more than people who do stuff with words in a vacuum of all other career opportunities. Word-people take language seriously, probably knowing (maybe even “in spite of knowing”) that the majority of “normal” people don’t give a shit about what they say or think. I don’t know if writers’ consistent work in the face of an indifferent public is honorable or pathetic. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. But I suppose I am writing this, so that must mean something.

            

Thanks, Facebook.      

On Not Forgetting (Or, Remembering)

            I am, admittedly, on a Josef Pieper kick. In his essay “Remembrance: Mother of the Muses,” the author laments “There are, indeed, large areas of reality in danger of being…forgotten” (Only the Lover Sings 62). What are these alleged “large areas of reality” that are slipping through the collective memory/imagination of humankind? Well, for one thing, can anyone remember what happens when one stands in a meadow at dusk?

            Although a bit dramatic, Jason Schwartzman’s character in I Heart Huckabees, makes a strong point. The metaphorical “strip malls” of our high-tech, high-stress reality are making it almost impossible for human beings to remember the “meadows at dusk” of reality. In a similar vein as the thesis of Pieper’s previous essay, it is important to note that the human mind/imagination is not infinite; it is limited it the amount of data it can store. With so much external stimuli being thrown at human beings daily (and limited opportunities to duck/get out of the way) it is only natural that certain information gets accepted into our thought life while other information gets rejected/discarded.

            Since mental storage space is limited, it’s important for human beings to make it a discipline to hold on to the good stuff in reality (things that make them more compassionate, enlightened, and forward-thinking human beings) and reject the useless stuff (things that make them lazy, ignorant, and unproductive/destructive human beings). Deciphering what is good for one’s psyche, and is thus cleared for mental storage, from what is bad for one’s psyche, and should thus be rejected mental entrance, can be difficult. Since this deciphering is not the focus of this essay (and since it is a topic the author struggles with personally and doesn’t feel ready to fully comment on at length) suffice it to say: if external stimuli are difficult, make one question his/her preconceived notions, push one to be a more compassionate person, and/or stretch one to previously unknown ethical and intellectual limits, it is likely stuff that should be stored in the mind. If the stimuli make one feel cold, apathetic, bored, and slightly gassy, one would be wise to reserve one’s mental storage space for a more efficacious brand of data.

            What Pieper is most interested in in “Remembrance” is not how one should decide what to remember and what to forget (in terms of vital and expendable Knowledge), but how one can go about remembering vital Knowledge that was at one time forgotten or unknowingly replaced. To use the Huckabees example once more, Pieper would ask, “What should one do once one has forgotten what it feels like to stand in a meadow at dusk?” The obvious answer is: stand in a meadow at dusk and feel to one’s heart’s content. But there is a suburban-sprawl-sized roadblock to this solution: the meadow has been destroyed and replaced with a strip mall, remember?

            Now the would-be meadow stander/feeler is in deep existential shit. She desires to stand in a meadow and feel whatever the experience has to offer. If she recognizes that the strip mall has destroyed her chance to physically stand in the meadow, she at least desires to remember what it feels like to stand in the meadow. But the passage of time and the accruing of expendable knowledge has left the meadow-memory in the dust. She can’t experience the meadow directly; she can’t experience the meadow viscerally. What is she to do?

            Pieper says, “Enter the artist, the great rememberer/reminder!” For Pieper, the artist’s job is to remember life/reality as it can/should/will be and remind her audience of her own visions. The artist looks at reality (sees it in an intense and critical way) and then creates work that displays this vision. The resulting work is shown to an audience who can then not only remember reality as it was before expendable knowledge (sports statistics, stock exchange figures, world news headlines, 401(k) dividends, GPA points, etc.) took over their mental real estate, but also be encouraged to clear more creative landscapes for future vital Knowledge intake.

The artist must say, “Here is my work. Here is my vision of reality. Take a look at it, brother and/or sister. If it challenges you to be a better human being, make space for it in your mind. Perhaps this space can be found by clearing out the junk-data that makes you feel like shit. Maybe my vision will remind you of your own vision, even if you think your vision is long forgotten. Welcome your vision back. See reality again for the first time.”

             The artist must not be afraid to remember what it means to be human. In remembering, and creating from her memory, she can remind others. And this reminding can uplift and enliven the masses. 

On Seeing

In his “Learning How to See Again” from the collection of essays entitled Only the Lover Sings: Art and Contemplation, 20^th century Catholic philosopher Josef Pieper makes the ominous observation that “Man’s [sic] ability to see is in decline.” It is important to note that when Pieper talks about “seeing,” he does not refer to the physiological act of vision. Instead, he means “the spiritual capacity to perceive the visible reality as it truly is.” In the end, Pieper concludes, “the average person of our time loses the ability to see because there is too much to see,” this overabundance of stimuli totaling up to a phenomena the author calls “visual noise” (30).

When I consider Pieper’s idea of “visual noise,” I am reminded of a man interviewed in the graffiti documentary Bomb It. The interviewee, who I believe is/was a resident of Buenos Aires, comments on the plethora of high-tech visual stimuli (the majority of it corporate advertising) he is bombarded with on a daily basis. The man almost desperately relays to the audience his disgust at the words and images constantly forced into his line of sight, visuals he “didn’t ask to see.” In an interesting commentary on the effects of visual rhetoric, the man compares his unintentional prolonged sexual arousal at the sight of a female swimsuit model advertising perfume to a type of harassment or abuse. He is not in a relationship with this two-dimensional woman, and yet because she has forced her scantily clad self on him in the form of a 50-foot billboard, he cannot stop thinking about her for the rest of his afternoon. She has forced her way into his unconscious mind without his permission. He finds himself thinking about her body instead of his work. He has become deafened by an instance of too much “visual noise,” to the point that he can no longer hear himself think.

Pieper thinks “visual noise” has much greater political and psychological implications than unwanted erections caused by bikinied sirens hawking Chanel fragrances. He sees our global economy’s reliance on 24/7 hyper-marketing, and our global culture’s love jones for constant sensual stimulation, as the potential downfall of critical thinking at large and individuality in particular. He states “at stake here is this: How can man [sic] be saved from becoming a totally passive consumer of mass-produced goods and a subservient follower beholden to every slogan the managers may proclaim?” (33). In short, if human beings are constantly being told what to think and feel and do and buy (by external powers/institutions/conglomerates etc.), at what point will they give up the language and images produced in their own minds and simply go along with what they’re being told/given? Are we in danger of relinquishing our very wills to the Powers that Be, simply because an external voice convinces us that it is easier to be spoken for than to speak for ourselves?

I am not a doomsday believer. I cringe at the bumper stickers on the backs of pickup trucks in my hometown that warn viewers: “Don’t Believe the Liberal Media.” I don’t, for the most part, believe that human beings are being brainwashed into mindless automatons that open their wallets the moment a corporate commercial tells them to. All this being said, I would be lying if I said I’m not concerned for the critical-thinking faculties of members of my generation (including myself). In a technologically-stylized world that offers more and more opportunities for individuals (specifically young individuals) to gain access to information, it seems that it has become cooler and cooler for people to be uneducated and mis/un-informed (I direct the reader’s attention to current pop culture icons, and to these icons’ fascination with doing nothing and desiring nothing more than being who they are [which is often a person living blissfully within their own ignorance]).

            Pieper offers two solutions to global critical-thinking’s demise (thank goodness). The first, as one might stereotypically expect from a Catholic philosopher, comes in the form of abstinence. The world is cranking out hot air bent on robbing us of our individuality? We would do well to simply turn off our televisions, computers, radios (do people still listen to radio?), put down our unreliable newspapers and gossipy magazines, etc. If the world is drowning in “visual noise,” one way to float is to close our eyes.

            While limiting the intake of hyper-language/advertising is a great start to regaining one’s sense of self-language (see no evil, hear no evil, etc.), it is a negative solution to a positive problem (it tells us not to do something [consume] with hopes that what’s being done to us [forceful hyper-produced visuals/messages] will ultimately subside. It’s a passive solution that provides its practitioner with little ground to stand on (see no evil, hear no evil doesn’t make evil go away. In fact, it shows evil we will not do anything to retaliate when it attacks our minds/hearts/bodies. It shows evil who we hope not to be [consumers], rather than who we are/want to be.)

            I prefer Pieper’s second solution: “To be active oneself in artistic creation, producing shapes and forms for the eye to see” (35). If words are being forced on us and pushing us towards intellectual/emotional/spiritual complacency, it is not enough to close our eyes. We must combat the onslaught of language with language of our own. In a world focused on our consumption, we must create not only to show that we will not be mindless consumers, but also to regain our vision (in Pieper’s sense of the word) of what the world is and can be, of who we are and can be.

            Consumers see the world as it is given to them by external producers. They have no faculties to see it otherwise. They take what they are given and use it to make sense of their reality. This receptive-centric behavior can go well until the consumer decides she wants to be free, that is, until she decides her given reality is no longer working for her; then there is no hope for her because she has nothing to assist her in her liberation. She is forced to see the world as her captors tell her to see it. If she wants to “see” for herself again, she has to reclaim her own vision.

            But how does artistic creation lead to reclaimed vision? To answer this, it is necessary to quote Pieper at length:

“Before you can express anything in tangible form, you first need eyes to see. The mere attempt, therefore, to create an artistic form compels the artist to take a fresh look at the visible reality; it requires authentic and personal observation. Long before a creation is completed, the artist has gained for himself [sic] another and more intimate achievement: a deeper and more receptive vision, a more intense awareness, a sharper and more discerning understanding, a more patient openness for all things quiet and inconspicuous, an eye for things previously overlooked. In short: the artist will be able to perceive with new eyes the abundant wealth of all visible reality, and, thus challenged, additionally acquires the inner capacity to absorb into his mind such an exceedingly rich harvest. The capacity to see increases” (35).

           

If one wants to “see” reality (the world, her/his-self, etc.) one must not rely solely on the observations, and the subsequent recounting, of others. One must look for oneself. But it is difficult for one to focus on one’s own vision when other ways of seeing bombard her. In creating, the artist must look harder and truer at the things that are around her and inside her. In this harder and truer looking, the artist “sees” more clearly. And this new vision is not valuable in and of itself. It is only advantageous when it is used to help the artist navigate the treacherous landscapes of reality, where she will encounter (and hopefully help to heal) the poor-sighted brothers and sisters who live there.

From Confrontation to Retreat to Confrontation

            When I was seventeen-years-old I dated a headstrong (if not stubborn and melodramatic) young woman who would break your neck if you crossed her or any member of her tight-knit community of family and friends. I still talk to her on occasion and enjoy the fact that I am probably still a member of this community (tight-knit communities, in the minds and hearts of such women as the one I speak of, die hard). One weekend evening, during one of those crucial we-just-got-together-is-this-gonna-work-out high-school dating moments, my date and I were perusing the shelves of a local video rental store when I came across the film Life is Beautiful (I think it might’ve been the year’s Oscar-winner for Best Film, but don’t fact check me on that). I called my date over from the nearby stacks she was sifting through and offered my selection for her approval. She stopped cold, immediately began crying, and informed me that the actor who played the male lead in the film, and whose face was prominently displayed on the video’s front cover, closely resembled her uncle who had just passed away. We never, of course, watched the film and broke up soon after the incident (there is probably something of value in this anecdote about how the arts have influenced my relationships with others, but I’m choosing to overlook it in favor of a meditation on movie-titling, rap records, writing, and, in some sense, hope. Bear with me).

In recent years I have sometimes thought about Life is Beautiful (which I believe I at one time learned was titled to promote a sense of irony amongst its viewers), not so much as a film but as a declaration, almost a way of life. What does it mean when one says “life is beautiful”? What worldview or ideology would one have to subscribe to to make such an audacious claim? How could one have such a worldview or ideology in spite of all the ugliness that occurs daily?

For my metaphysical money, I prefer hip-hop artist Talib Kweli’s title-tracked, bold-voiced affirmation that “life is a beautiful struggle.” This notion pairs life’s potential elations with its unavoidable miseries, its natural health with its incurable illnesses, its sought-after victories with its crushing defeats. It is a notion tailor-made for artists and general-thinkers alike. I constantly and consciously write with it in the back and front of my mind. If I were the type of person that got tattoos across their belly (a la Tupac Shakur), it would be tattooed across my belly.

Writing is a perfect art form because it embraces, in a way that is tangible to its practitioners and consumers, both the beauty and struggle of human existence (and perhaps the existence of all living beings that come into contact with humans). It is easy for an average art-viewer to look at a painting and say to herself “that is beautiful” even if she on some level recognizes that the painter probably went through quite a struggle to create his/her piece. Visual arts often project only beauty or struggle to the average viewer who takes the act of seeing/viewing a piece as a natural (read: easy), rather than a critical (read: difficult), practice. Literature seems different.

Writing is work. Anyone who has seriously struggled over how to express a feeling or image or point of view with something as fragile as human language already knows this. Reading is work. Anyone who has read something and seriously struggled over how to make sense of it already knows this. (I would like to mention here that the creation and reception of visual arts are also work, very hard work indeed. Unfortunately, it seems many average contemporary viewers/witnesses of visual art experience it on a surface level that can easily be compared with entertainment rather than critical work. Such viewers, when approached by say, a painting they don’t understand immediately, often quickly move on to the next piece in hopes of finding the acquisition of beauty or struggle more easily. Paradoxically, in our visually-dominate American TV consumer-culture, it seems many people are more willing to put in emotional and intellectual work over a poem they don’t understand than an image they don’t understand. Perhaps because deciphering a poem traditionally offers more cultural capital than examining the intentions behind an image? (I guess by this I mean that one seems more cool/smart to one’s peers if he/she “gets” what a poet is trying to say than if he/she “gets” what McDonald’s is trying to rhetorically accomplish with their most recent Big Mac billboard advertisement)

Language’s inherent slipperiness make it the ideal medium to express and receive life’s illogically balanced truths. Even the words “beautiful” and “struggle” bring so many contrasting and conflicting notions and images to mind. I like that, while we’ve already discussed the work that writers and readers do, language itself seems to participate in a type of arduous meaning-making (or at least meaning-trying) work. Every participant in a written linguistic event (writer, reader, language) is working, struggling, to find something beautiful or tangible or meaningful/sustaining. Writing and reading use language to encourage their participants to hold on to something (anything) permanent in our world of impermanence; this is a beautiful struggle in itself, a lovely and complicated microcosm of the destruction/confusion-obsessed reality we nobly live in/through.

April 29th 1992

"Riot in LA. Where the fuck were you?"

Well, I'll tell you where I was, Ozomatli. Exactly 20 years ago, I was a seven-year-old, trapped in Omaha, NE, feeling depressed about squirrel poetry. But across the Rocky Mountain range, in a little place called Los Angeles, people were rioting in the streets over Rodney King (remember him? "Can't we all just get a long?"). In fact, there were other cities around the US that were up in arms against the "establishment."

As this song suggests (originally composed by ska-band Sublime), the riots of '92 may have started out about Rodney King, but like most riots they ended up about people being sick of authority. No one in government was especially interested in helping the little man, the middle class. Poor people were just poor and there was no helping the fact. Not after middle America grew fearful of Reagan's so-called "Welfare Queen." So no, no one was offering much in the way of "assistance." And in the end, people just had enough.

They literally toppled over "order". Taking to the streets, burning building and looting. You'd be surprised to know that a lot of stuff being looted were the necessities. Pampers and whatnot.

Does any of this sound familiar? I suppose the closest we've gotten to those '92 riots are the Occupy camp-outs. But it's all centered around the same thing, right? Government still doesn't seem particularly interested in the little man and how sick and tire he is of being sick and tired.

I bring this song to your attention because, for one thing, it's a damn good song. Its a bombastic cacophony of beats and brass. It's also an accurate archive of history. Songs can be like that, poetry as well. The creative written word can be just as useful as the Library of Congress.

Just think of Marvin Gaye's Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology Song). Like Rachel Carson, writer of Silent Spring, Gaye was a little ahead of curve in prophesying our nation's environmental demise. Even back then, the fish were stuffed to their gills with mercury and Gaye was writing about it. He sang about it and we can still sing about it today.

I can almost guarantee that Sublime's song will still be relevant a decade from now, just as Mercy Mercy Me has stood the test of time. What beautiful eloquent piece of history will you archive today? Will some kid in the future take your artifact, brush the metaphorical dust off of it and find it relevant to her life? I hope so.

A Certain Distrust For Squirrels

The first poem I ever wrote was forced out of me by my second grade teacher, Mrs. Reynolds. The class was assigned to write a poem that would be featured in the school's yearbook. I was stumped. This was a project that I wanted to take home and mull over with a slice of baloney (which I liked to roll up and smoke like a cigar). Mrs Reynolds wanted them finished by the end of the day.

I was a mess. I didn't know what to write about. All I knew was that it had to be succinct and describe the human condition (yes, even at age 7, I knew these things). I also knew that it had to wow the entire class. I had to be celebrated for the genius that I was. When Mrs. Reynolds saw that I was struggling, she summoned me to her desk so we could pow-wow about it.

"What's your favorite animal?" she asked me. And for the life of me, I told her, without missing a beat:
"Squirrels!"
She gave a perfunctory nod and set out to make me a poet. "I'll start you out. Give me three adjectives that describe squirrels. Remember, we just learned about adjectives. What are adjectives?"
"Describing words!"
"Good. Now, what are your adjectives?"
"They're furry. . . and brown. . . and kinda cute, I guess."
Mrs. Reynolds wrote my first line for me and asked that I rhyme words until I had a complete stanza. After 5 minutes, we ended up with this:

These are the squirrels,

cute furry and brown

These are the squirrels, 

that climb the trees down.

It shames me to have to say this but I "wrote" this poem under the strict supervision of a responsible adult. It came out in the yearbook that year and my mother noted that it was "a lovely little poem." I knew even then, I couldn't take credit for the four lines. It was lackluster and syntactically, it didn't even make sense. 

Ever since that incident, I've never been able to look at a squirrel without seeing that farce of a poem. It proved to me that I was no Mozart. I don't know who told me that I needed to be that special at age 7, but I was convinced that I was supposed to be a prodigy. I felt like a fake. 

You know what hurt the most? This kid in my class, named Christopher, a bit of a clown, wrote his own poem about his pants bursting at the seam and him stapling them shut. It was a riot! Our classmates couldn't believe the envelope that Chris pushed. It was bawdy, tawdry and it rhymed! Most of all, it was original. Chris thought it up all by himself. 

I looked on in jealousy. He made the class laugh with his genius. This altered the way I've written for the rest of my life. I only write funny poems. I took a page from Chris's book and held on for dear life. I only read poems that I know will make people laugh. 

When I get behind a podium and recite my original work, the only feedback I desire is a titter or guffaw from the audience. Without it, how will I know I've been accepted?

You could call this a "traumatic time" in my writing career. Perhaps I've let a relatively small incident in my past rule my creative life. I'm trying to write with more depth; touching on subjects that don't get laughs, because I'm not a goddamn stand-up comic, I'm a poet. 

One day, I might get up the courage to write a poem about a squirrel. Maybe I'll try to uncover it's inner turmoil of surviving day to day on acorns. There is a chance that this could turn out to be humorous though. So I don't know. 

I do know that my work, no matter how long it takes, is original. I've not asked anyone for help since Mrs. Reynolds. My art has been a solitary act of reflection, time and soul-searching. . . with a touch of laughter. Thank you, Christopher.

Reservations

When your passion becomes your profession, it’s easy to get caught up in the money-mix and forget why you’re working so hard doing the things you’re doing. Between the months of August and May I hang out with Language people, many of whom seem tongue-tied by their linguistically-dominated life’s path. I feel for them. When you love(d) language, I mean feel a deep-down connection with the spoken and written word, it can be difficult to be interested in anything else. This infatuation can be a beautiful thing. You start looking at letters on pages as much as humanly possible (check out the episode of Twilight Zone called “Bookworm,” before dude loses his noodle). 

You wake up excited to see a newspaper, just to glimpse a headline and know that no, while you were sleeping the world did not in fact crumble into illiteracy. You go to sleep with word-ideas in your head (in your more abstract moments you start thinking that maybe the word-ideas are your head); you wonder if any of the word-ideas you’d had during the day will ever take themselves, or you, anywhere (new, different, special?). Words, and their sounds and their meanings and not-meanings, their fullness and emptiness, become everything and nothing at the same time. Language becomes broken tools that you know are broken but that still work to make the most beautiful things you’ve ever experienced.

 And then you have to pay your rent, and buy groceries, and cop more books (for business and sometimes-pleasure), and buy DVR cable boxes, and you think to yourself, “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could do words all day and dream word-ideas and at the same time make money-stuff?” So you do what you have to do to keep dreaming. You take the copy writing job; you start stocking the shelves at the local bookstore; you take the teaching position; you mail off the submissions with their professional-looking cover letters; you show up on time clean-shaven for the internship. You go all-in on the idea that these words you make can feed you take-out and buy khaki pants and other necessities, at least for a while. And for a while you live the word life.

And then one day you don’t. You don’t open your front door first thing in the morning for fear that the newspaper will have come early. You tell yourself you’ll write the poem idea down later. You eat shitty food and watch the Bravo television network like it’s no big deal. You think maybe shitty food and the Bravo television network could be the next big thing (maybe even bigger than words!). Maybe you could do them all day and still buy khaki pants like old times. Printed words make your eyes hurt (maybe you’ve lost your distance vision from too much reading [maybe there is a metaphor in there somewhere]), colors in nature look like dry watercolor paint kits. You see the Language people you’ve always seen. Maybe they look a little more miserable than the last time you saw them. Maybe they tell you you look a little more miserable than the last time you saw them. You begin spending a significant amount of time on the Internet researching other people’s lives that aren’t as dry-watercolor as yours. You think, “I used to be King Henry VIII (pre-Boleyn), or [insert your favorite rabble-rouser]. Now I’m the local weatherman missing his cues and fucking up the greenscreen forecast over Wisconsin. What happened to me?”

In these trying times, it is important to remember why we as Language people do word-stuff. Like an old married woman who in her pre-batty stages thinks “When I was 18 I looked like Nancy Sinatra. Why did I settle for bald, old Harry with his hemorrhoids?” we need to fall in love with ourselves and the things we’ve created and espoused ourselves to. But how? How do we love again after Bravo television network has told us day after day that love is a sham reserved for drunk plastic surgeons who don’t eat shitty food like we do?

I’m pretty sure chef/traveler/asshole Anthony Bourdain has a better life than me. Even when he is being smug and self-deprecating (which is always), I think he feels things in a way people like me don’t (that is, I think people like me are so critical that we think about most things in a critical way but rarely feel them in a critical way. Liberal pundits push for “critical thinking” in American educational institutions, but where are the teachers of “critical feeling”? Can I take a course in such necessary skills as feeling, or am I doomed to more “practical” academic fare?). In the first essay of his book Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly, Bourdain admits that he is a self-described sensualist. He lives for the pleasurable sensations he receives from his body. He explains how this life of pleasure began when he was 9-years-old and ate a raw oyster for the first time. Something happened in his mouth, and mind, that the chef says changed his expectations of the world forever. Previous to oysters, and perhaps all critically-felt food, life did not mean much to Bourdain. Post-seafood, it was serious, full of potential, and all-business (urgent in a not-anxious way, but in a “Christmas-morning-what-did-Santa-bring-better-hurry-downstairs-and-check” way).

How many Language people would do well to let their (over)active minds travel back to their first word-oysters, to the language that made them realize their lives would be text-based from that word, or sentence, or paragraph forward. There’s no love like first love, and first-language love is often the sweetest for word people. I’ve been contemplating my word-oysters for some time, organizing them chronologically in my mind, each think-session trying to go farther back in my body/mind-history. I can remember two incidents that made me think, at the time, that words were all I ever wanted to do (or maybe could do).

Group-therapy style, I think it’s important for Language people to share the stories of their word-oysters with others; the practice renews the hope that these syllables we write aren’t for nothing, it reminds us that there is love somewhere curled within the ink we spill. Here are the moments that remind me of my love for language and help me make sense of the language-life I now find myself living.

(Enter Scooby-Doo swirly vertical patterns that indicate reverse time travel.)

Word-Oyster #1

My fourth-grade teacher hated my guts. I talked a lot in class (most of it out of turn and stupid-sounding). I thought I was a very smart child and that my voice needed to be heard by everyone. My fourth-grade teacher told me to shut up every day. I rarely listened to her. Sometimes I see her in my hometown and she pretends she doesn’t know who I am. It is very hurtful.

One day, probably in fall (for some reason this season comes to mind), my teacher announced to the class that we would be writing limericks. She read us famous limericks from days gone by. I felt the easy rhythm of the words in my toes and said to myself, “I can do this shit.” And I wrote a ton of limericks. And they were awesome. And they were so awesome my classmates told me to write their limericks for them. And they told me things they loved and I wrote limericks about the things (mainly frogs). I have no memory of what my teacher thought of the limericks (this is probably significant).

Word-Oyster #2

It was several months after the limericks. I was in the school cafeteria wearing a Starter winter coat (one of those that you would pull over your head, with the kangaroo pocket in the front and the big sports logo on the back). Several boys were seated ad a lunch table, talking about what they had done the night before. I recalled that I had seen a music video on television (on a station that I now know is BET). The gaudy men in the video (the men who I now know are the 1990’s R&B group BLACKstreet) were talking in ways that reminded me of limericks. I said to myself, while watching them move around and talk to rhythms, “I like what these men are doing. I would like to be them someday and say limerick-type stuff in front of people. Their limericks make me want to move my fat belly. I would like to say things to music that make people want to move their fat or thin bellies. That would make me feel cool (this feeling of “cool” is probably incredibly significant. People will do almost anything to feel cool [especially when their world makes them feel/tells them they are not cool]).”

The boys at my table had not seen the music video I had seen, nor did they want to talk about moving their bodies in dance-ways to sounds and limericks. They wanted to talk about something else. I felt embarrassed and left out for having seen the music video and for caring about it enough to talk about it in front of other people (these feelings are probably significant).

Language people should think about the words they used to love: the words that made them want to read or listen, the words that made them want to write words that other people would want to read or listen to, the words that made them embarrassed but at the same time feel cool, the words that they were proud of, or ashamed of (or both but didn’t want to admit). These words aren’t as buried in our cold-blooded job-minds as much as we think they are. They can be made to feel fresh again (like aquatic flesh and brine on Bourdain’s memory-tongue). They might be able to help us feel stuff about language that our paychecks (or deadlines, or students, or price tags) have beaten numb. If nothing else, they can remind us that first-word-love existed and can exist again and maybe exists right now inside our frustrated hands and cramped ambitions.

On Feeling Good

            The meat of my body, and perhaps my mind (if the human mind even exists and, if it exists, if it is in fact made of meat like the body), is fully marinated in the Christian work ethic and Western concept of fulfillment. I, like the chicken breast basted in teriyaki, had little to do with my own seasoning. I received my spiritual and philosophic flavorings from external agents (perhaps in anticipation of eating me alive?!?), who I hope had the best intentions in mind when they began their preparations, but who nonetheless have convinced me that nothing is truly as good as feeling truly bad about failing to be truly good. The culinary analogy has gone a step a step too far. I apologize (apologies are crucial to the Christian concept of [un]fulfillment, as you will soon see).

            In preparing for a fast last week (which did not prove as successful in practice as I had hoped it would be in planning), the words of the 1^st century Christian evangelist Paul of Tarsus came into my consciousness (thanks, mid-1990’s Sunday School!). I forget the exact passage, although I know it is one of the epistles, but basically Paul states that his Christian faith has taught him how to be both poor and rich, both elated and depressed, both full and hungry; he knows (and this I hear in the voice of my dear mother) how to abound and how to be abased. The act of fasting, at least in the Christian tradition, is meant to be a physical embodiment of the understanding that first-world humanity often abounds (we have things like high-definition television, advanced healthcare, and the Internet), but we are rarely abased. We spend most of our time profiting from our efforts to survive and flourish, even if we don’t realize it, and very little time taking a loss.

            After taking some time for reflection, I have come to an understanding of why my fast was so unsuccessful. It was unsuccessful because it felt normal. What I expected to serve as an act of monumental sacrifice was actually quite routine. I expected my head to be spinning with low blood sugar. I expected my guts to be screaming for nourishment and attention. I anticipated feeling my human desire to live bursting from inside me, longing for fulfillment.

What I actually felt was a dull emptiness in the pit of my stomach, not an altogether unknown feeling. It is the same feeling I get when I seriously consider the fate of humanity, the state of current global politics, the order of human economics, the status of art and education within our collective consciousness, the memories of past and current personal pains, the anticipation of future pains. And this feeling leads me to disagree with Paul’s assertion that humanity knows (or should know) how to be both rich and poor, both full and hungry, both satisfied and unsatisfied. It seems that as a whole (and by “a whole” I mean that my wellbeing as a human depends on the status and wellbeing of my brother and sister humans), we know lack, poverty (both external and internal), and suffering very well. It is true joy and completeness that is unfamiliar to us.

I am a mish-mash of Midwestern Anglo/Christo/Conservito values, the American Academy’s maniacal and paranoid skepticism, and a heart (a meat part?) that simply wants some understanding of peace (in the all-encompassing “shalom” sense of the word). I have been taught that when I am happy with my current state of being, it is only because I am selfishly not considering the sufferings of others. When I am content with my understanding of reality, it is only because I am not truly opening myself to the realities of those less privileged than myself. When I am at peace, it must be at the expense of other people’s peacefulness. In short, if things are going well or I have hopes of things going well in the future, I must be doing something wrong. The true saints/geniuses/artists of our time having nothing to feel good about or hope for because they see things as they really are.

I often wonder if there is any space for healing in the world, specifically for artists and intellectuals. Can one make things that show his/her anger for the world’s sufferings without letting oneself succumb to despair? Can one feel good about oneself while still understanding that goodness seems so far away from so many? My co-blogger will understand my fascination with drag queen extraordinaire RuPaul’s catchphrase, “If you don’t love yo’self, how the hell you gon’ love anybody else?”  — will the Powers that Be (the Institutions we work for, the States that govern us, the Audiences that so often control the fates of our creative efforts) allow us to love ourselves and each other in spite of how worn-out the activity of love seems to be in the modern world? Or are creators destined to hate ourselves and the things we make because of the mysteriously-cloaked privileges we must have in order to be and create?

There is nothing so sad as emptiness that feels like fullness. I read somewhere that the stomach bloats itself when it is starving to alleviate the feelings of emptiness caused by malnutrition. I often feel our human feasts (economic riches, advances in technology and civilization-building, extended periods of time without conflict, intellectual and theoretical breakthroughs) are starvation in disguise. If they really satisfied us, I wonder why there is still so much human suffering, longing, and hopelessness. Why do things still feel so bad? Why does it seem like they will always feel somewhat (it’s the “somewhat” that makes it hurt) bad?

I don’t know the way to a road that leads to healing, but an interesting start would be a common human understanding that one does not have to participate in suffering in order to care about alleviating suffering in others. Our Powers that Be (our teachers and leaders) could encourage us to love ourselves (although, after so much indoctrination, I’m not sure I know what self-love even looks [acts?] like anymore. Would I recognize it if someone showed it to me?). Maybe they could even aid in our educational journey towards self-love. Until then, I suppose our best hope is every human individual leading her/himself in a revolution against despair (What are the resources that aid in this revolution? Are they available to everyone? Are some resources better than others? How will we know what the right resources are? How will we know how to use them?). I don’t know where the resources that aid in these revolutions will come from. I haven’t found them in the American Academy, Church, Government, or private sector. I have even struggled to find them in the Arts (that often cynical place of no regret). In our efforts to feel good in the face of feeling bad, I don’t know who or what will help us. But when I encounter her/him/it/It/them I hope I can still feel the help. I hope my senses for good/help/hope haven’t been dulled by my mis-education, the Powers’ obsessive and never-ending curriculum of self-hatred.

Too Busy Surviving to Argue 'Bout Darwin, Darlin'

After winning last weekend’s Wimbledon Women’s Singles Tennis Championship, Serena Williams was interviewed and asked about what the Wimbledon title meant to her considering the personal and professional setbacks she has encountered in the past two years. Williams referenced her bouts with both minor injuries (a lacerated foot obtained from stepping on a piece of glass at a nightclub) and major health concerns (a pulmonary embolism), did the professional athlete’s duty of thanking all the right people (“without the support of my mom and dad I wouldn’t be where I am today, etc., etc.), and said all the expected niceties. But after wrapping up the usual post-match fluff (“my opponent fought hard out there today, etc., etc.,”) Ms. Williams did something completely unexpected: she actually said something genuine that led me to think about life and art.

The interviewer asked something along the lines of, “When you were injured and unable to compete, how much did you miss playing tennis?” It was a softball, a generic question that sports fans have come to expect from the commentary staff at major networks. What was Ms. Williams supposed to say in response? Of course she missed playing tennis; if she didn’t she wouldn’t be sitting in an interview after winning the Wimbledon final talking about tennis! But this wasn’t the direction of Ms. Williams’ reply. Instead she said (and I paraphrase) that during her time of injury she had little time to focus on getting back to the sport she loved because she was too busy focusing on surviving.

The interviewer looked semi-pissed/let down/bored at the response. I’m sure he wanted to hear something like “I thought about tennis each and every moment of my injury and rehabilitation. In fact, it was my love for the sport that got me back on me feet again, and I thank God for tennis because without it I don’t know if I would have had anything to look forward to after my recovery.” Instead, Ms. Williams said, “It was nice to know that tennis would be there when I got better, but during my struggles there were more important things to think about.”

It’s very Western, in the Rocky IV sense, to think about volume/intensity/duration of struggle as a deciding and qualifying factor in future success. People glorify the idea that when someone is down, the work they do (By themselves! With no one else’s help!) to get back up is more important than the fact that they actually get back up (or even desire to get back up). This idea is especially prevalent amongst the masses when the struggling person in question is an artist (or athlete or businessperson, but those occupations can’t be intelligently discussed here because of the author’s ignorance concerning them). People love the struggling artist who has to overcome his (the “struggling artist” in the collective unconscious is always coded male) “demons,” his “situation,” etc., to produce incredible work that will change the course of human history/psychology/philosophy/etc.  And the key is that he has to create his most “authentic” work during his time of struggle, in reaction to the struggle, not before he encounters his troubles or after they are overcome or resolved. Anyone can make great art when they feel good; only geniuses can make art in the face of complete destruction.

And this is why I like what Serena Williams said. When asked if she abided by the tried-and-true, “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” (even if, and maybe especially if, you’re a boot maker), “do it for the love of the game”-model of injury recovery, she balked. She said, in essence, “When you’re worried you’re going to die, at a certain point your thought life is dominated by efforts to plan ways to not die. After you not-die then you can think about things like tennis.”

I think artists think about dying a lot. Death is the ultimate stuggle. I think artists struggle with death and life and become struggling artists because there’s no way to get away from either reality. In many ways, I think artists use their work in an effort to not-die, or at least as a way to cope with the inevitability of death (see James Baldwin’s speech below). I’m totally fine with this notion; it is constructive rather than destructive, it tries to make something out of the concept and fear of an eventual Nothing. It is productive in the face of ultimate reduction. In short, I find it almost noble, a spitting in the eye of Death.

But I also want to create a dialogue about conceptions of struggling artists and the responsibilities these artists have to themselves and their audiences. Too often, audiences want to valorize the struggles of creative people and use said people’s creative productions as voyeuristic tools to get insight into some abstractly constructed idea of Pain (because, supposedly, artists know about pain better than non-artists). They say, “Don’t stop writing because of your pain. Write in spite of your pain. Write your pain. Write your pain because if you don’t, how will we understand our own pain?”

The artist’s first and foremost responsibility is to promote the wellbeing of herself (see how I dropped that feminist language on you to combat the patriarchal language used above? you liked that didn’t you?) and her people. If the artist feels like shit and doesn’t want to make art, she should feel no pressure to work out her problems through aesthetic means (although, if she finds her creative process and productions therapeutic to herself and her community, she should be supported in her efforts to make good stuff). Her art was with her before she recognized her struggle (notice how I say, “before she recognized her struggle,” since we are born into the struggle of death.), and it will be with her after she copes with her struggle; it does not necessarily need to be her only method of confronting the struggle. It does not have to define her struggle.

I’ve been trying to not-die since roughly winter of 2007. I’ve been working with language since roughly fall of 1996 (but I’ve only been getting paid for my work since 2010). When people ask about my 2007-present publishing record, my plans for future projects, my plans for future anything, I used to give NBC answers like, “writing has kept me sane through the tough times; writing has been there for me when I needed it the most; in the end, I’m thankful for my struggles because they generate ideas for new writing projects” and other bullshit like this. But the days of these answers have past. I write from time to time. I’m trying to not-die at the same time. Not-dying comes first, and will always come first. Helping other people not-die comes second (or, like, first-and-a-half). Art comes third. If art helps with the first two, solid. If not, the poetry will be there when I get over.

"This destiny which you must accept. . . "

If you've ever doubted your place in the world as an artist (and I do on a daily basis), you should probably listen to this 5 minute recording of James Baldwin explaining the responsibility of the "Poet."

I'll sum it up as quickly as I can, in my own words:
 
Essentially, The Artist's Struggle for Integrity is a metaphor for struggle all humans suffer just surviving on this Earth. These few people that create art, must do what they do because it's their duty. It's "not your fault or my fault that I write." It's just that "I must do it." Baldwin maintains that "Poets" are the only people that know the truth about humanity and that humanity truly ceases to be when we can't produce enough of these "Poets." People live in a darkness and those of us who create "are responsible for lightening" such darkness. And it doesn't matter what becomes of you. It's your JOB. This illumination act could be our only hope. Those few that create, are the only ones who can tell us what it's like to die, to fear, love and be glad. But here's the hook: This creating business, is a completely thankless job. That is, until you make the big leagues. This creating business, that which must be done, will come at a price. The price, Baldwin warns, is the "willingness to give up EVERYTHING." Nothing that you've worked hard for belongs to you. You can only have these "things" if you are able to let them go. Telling the story of humanity will come at a "total risk of everything; of you."

There, how do you feel about that? Do you think I believed my responsibility to humanity was my poem about the squirrel in my backyard? But I often doubt my ability and purpose. Why do I sit here and write these blog post, these poems? Apparently its because I must. This absolute brings me a certain solace that religion brings some people.

It's my JOB. My RESPONSIBILITY. I have risked many things in order to create. There are some days I sacrifice my comfort in order to write. There are other days when I let go of material possessions to write. I picked my profession knowing damn well it would limit my ability to live in a great big house, fly to Tahiti or visit the doctor for an illness.

I do this because I must uncover the human condition for you. Whether you know it or not, you must know what the world is like through the eyes of young black woman. I am here to supply you with that.

Sealion Woman

I roll over in bed and nuzzle my way to my husband. He grins and tweaks my nose.
"You have such a tiny nose," he says. "And such huge eyes."
"Are they rabbit eyes?"
He shakes his head and stares intently. "No, they're like seal eyes. Big, wet and brown. You're my seal woman."
"Orp, orp!" I bark.

Selkie- Seal woman mythology is from Ireland, Scotland and Iceland. She is a seal in the sea, frolicking and eating fish, whatever the hell seals do. "Orp, orp!" But if she wants to step fin on land, she must shed her skin and become a woman. Fishermen always fall for her. I imagine fishermen of these areas are lonely men without regular wives, who turn to all sorts of marine life (mermaids and whatnot). So these selkie and these fishermen fall in love and get married. But soon, the seal woman will want to return to sea. Her husband, who doesn't want her to leave, hides or burns her seal skin. So she's stuck. She decorates the house, she cooks elaborate fish dinners, she takes the kids to soccer practice. She gazes longingly at the sea. But there's always a chance she finds her seal skin. When she does, she slips it on and disappears into the ocean, leaving all land life behind. She usually never returns to her fisherman husband.

See Lyin' Woman- In Byhalia, Mississippi (William Faulkner has a heart attack and died here), two young girls were singing a folk song with unknown origins. This was recorded in 1939, by a folklore researcher named Herb Halpert.

Nina Simone sang "See Line Woman and in true "Simone Blusey-ness" the sealion woman in question is low-down. She's street smart with her money and time. She "dressed in green, wears silk stockings with golden seams." She's drifts in from the sea, as it were, finds a man. Man "loses his head." She "makes him love her" and then she just "flys away." Or swims away. . .

The evolution from mythology to folk song to blues song to my bedroom in the early morning hours.
"Orp, orp!"

Heavy is the Hand that Holds the Writing Thing

First things first. There is a lot of language that I have put out into the world and not all of it is honest and constructive/creative/life-giving. This is natural and to be expected. This is also a problem. While most human beings, and even many academics, see language as the great human equalizer (our [il]literacy puts us all on the same meaning-making/transferring playing field), I have recently begun to recognize the mammoth responsibility we as people inherit when we learn to speak and, as an extension, write. Okay so words are placeholders for images, objects, concepts, idea[l]s, and so forth. I’m totally fine with this. But when we use language irresponsibly (when we create word patterns that mislead or tear down our brother and sister humans) there are implications.

An immediate example comes to mind when I think of advertising. When people use language to build false meanings for consumer objects, something in the meaning-making part of our brains shifts and augments future language/experience/feelings. If I, as I often do as a copywriter, use the human feeling of passion to help advertise an automobile, both the concept of passion and the concept of automobiles change in the minds of myself and my readers (hopefully no one reads my copy). As a result, I fear readers might do one of the following things (or, eventually, all of them):

1.                    Actually start equating passion with automobiles (I’m not worried about car-enthusiasts here. If someone actually loves cars, my words will do nothing to change their beliefs. It’s the people who don’t love cars but start think they should because I say they should that I’m worried about. There is nothing about owning an automobile that will make a person more or less passionate about anything except fuel-consumption).

2.                    After recognizing that discounted automobiles should not raise passion-levels to heights of say, romantic love or patriotic duty (as I often imply they should in my advertisements), stop believing in passion at all (because when they did believe in passion, some irresponsible writer twisted their notions to try to sell them a 1998 Honda Civic).

3.                    After recognizing that deceptive language perverted their dearly held beliefs, stop trusting language and language makers in general and not truly read or feel anything (just in case someone is trying to pull a fast one on them).

Writers need to be honest with their language (or, if they’re going to lie, at least let the lies be of benefit to their readers, i.e., “everything is going to be okay,” etc.). To make a living I put words out into space that might not be the best things for people to read. I feel bad about this and hope readers are wise enough to see deceitful language for what it is (mainly hair grease, smoke and mirrors, and the best I can do to get by). For those that aren’t wise enough, I hope to make up for my irresponsible language with words that actually do something positive for the collective. It is with this hope that I offer the following apology:

Forgive me for the words

I drained of ocean

water and candle light.

They were the only ones

I could find on

sale this time of year. Also,

forgive me for buying

them with unearned coin

and even more for selling

them to the unsuspecting

thirsty and dark.

I thought this unspoken

business was the only way

to speak. I am rich because

of it and no less

mistaken. 

Poet or Regular Girl

I've wandered around the President's home for a few moments, taking care not to stray too far from Noah's side. The University President, Harry, has spent a lot money on white wine, no doubt his wife's drink. White wine of any kind, is a white woman's drink. But today, I'm just anxious enough to refill my pinot grigio five or six times before I can properly mingle with academia.

"You're Noah's wife, right? And what do you do?" asks a woman, whom I've never met. I smile and clutch my tiny plastic cup.

Does she want the "long of it" or the "short of it?" I'm too ashamed to say that I'm 27, toting a bachelors in English and working at a coffee shop with 19 year old's who tweet while steaming milk. So I say:

"I'm a poet." Fuck. Why have you gone and done that?

Her face lights up. "Lovely!"

Are you published?
Who are your influences?
How would describe your work?
Do you plan to write a book?
You know Toledo has a thriving poetry scene?
Do you preform?

Now, had I'd gone for the former identity, it would have made her terribly uncomfortable. As a tenured Biology professor, she's be shell-shocked by my plainness. What would she have said to such a commoner "Buck up, old girl, you'll find something worthy of your degree!"

Say this were improv class and we were partnered up to preform, oh, I don't know Sheriffs and Bank Robbers. I as "Sheriff," would have fucked the whole thing up if, within 3 seconds, I pulled a fake finger gun and shot her. That's the end of the exercise.

Needless to say, I'm quite drunk by now. I'm trying to keep my eye on her and listen to all the questions she volleys my direction.

Yes, I am published. In a few electronic journals.
I really appreciate the pre-Beat Generation.
I would say my work is the "Common Woman's William Carlos Williams."
I'm thinking about writing a book (friendly but slightly loud laugh inserted here), it's just a matter of getting those darn poems together!
Really, Toledo has poetry? Well, I might need to check that out.
Do I preform? (I pause a little too long before replying)
"All the time."