Ruminations

[THURSDAY, OCTOBER 16] seven am sunlight seeps through eyelids closed to tint pink flesh inward. strangers sleep together for the first time, folded Tribunes in lap. shadows cast from vacancies in the landscape like dancing latticed light shows on pavement. art form: dodging heybabystares. #60 opens doors students crowd jamming each other to board in hordes of threes. "The nights can get so lonely, someone to hold, if only." (Who is Amelia, anyway?) picked up a power bar and a gold machine. at that moment turning to the scent that is yours, discord. cursing the stranger under my breath, I missed you. rotating doors spin me outward. weaving through labyrinth of drones who can't walk: stopping-turning-pausing-texting-bending-tripping people. I hate crowds. "Hair," I say. (precisely the answer he anticipated.) thank you for catching my glasses that began to fall off of our table. I admired the unspoken dialogue we had today. blue hat constricts thoughts building into migraines, need to leave, cannot breathe. shelley's west winds blow the summer way. summer is overrated anyway: a four month joie de vivre that starts too slowly and ends too soon, at least I have my scarf.

The Namesake

A year ago I read Jhumpa Lahiri's collection of short stories, The Interpreter of Maladies. These nine stories revolved around Indian-American families whose lives changed upon emigrating from India and settling into America. Lahiri's first novel, The Namesake, was adapted into a film of the same name. I have not read the book version but have recently watched the movie starring Kal Penn, Tabu, Irfan Khan and Jacinda Barrett.

Before finally watching this movie on Monday, I had heard so many rave reviews from friends, mostly generic "It's just such a good movie," type-comments. Since I had already read and enjoyed Lahiri 's writing, I knew it was worthwhile. So I figured maybe I'd watch the movie before I read the book (I like to read the book first) simply because there is just no time for me to read it now.

About ten minutes into the movie, Ashima recites William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud," to Ashoke and his family at a rather informal arranged marriage meeting. And I think it was the way she recited it, the hesitating yet certain way the words came out of her mouth just moved me. You believe in her sentiment, she does not recite the poem to impress the family, you know that she too was moved the first time she read it and that comes off quite clearly in the way she shares the poem. Fast-forward: they get married and move to America and have two children, Gogol (Kal Penn), and Sonia (Sahira Nair).

I could write you an essay on Wordsworth, but I won't. "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud," is in short, a poem that praises the power of memory whose significance still carries affective power in the present day.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars
that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The first three stanzas set up the experience Wordsworth had while walking with his sister, Dorothy, as they came upon a long row of daffodils at the edge of a lake. (Although, if you want to be technical, Wordsworth added the second stanza eight years after it was originally published.) But in the fourth and final stanza of the poem, we learn that Wordsworth is still stuck in the original moment of the first experience. And it doesn't hold him back, "And then my heart with pleasure fills, / And dances with the daffodils" (23-24), it instead gives him solace. Wordsworth constantly invokes these "spots of time" throughout his poetry, and they can especially be found in one of his most famous poems, "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey."

What I love about The Namesake, the movie version at least, is that you don't know whose story is being told. The movie is composed of sections that focus on different members of the Ganguli family. We feel the alienation, resentment, and the misunderstanding between all of them. Like Wordsworth, Gogol's parents, Ashoke and Ashima adjust to America but still remember and yearn for their life in India. Their own reflective spots of time help them through the difficulty of leaving behind family and old traditions to forge an entirely new kind of life for their children. The movie constantly flashes back to various segments of their lives back home. And it's through this method of superimposing their memories to their present day lives that ultimately provides them with their own sense of solace.

The very last scene of the movie almost killed me. It's another flashback of Ashima, Ashoke and young Gogol at the waters edge. The scene was shown earlier in the movie but only from Ashima's perspective.

Ashoke and Gogol walk to the edge of the rocks, surrounded by splashing waves. Ashoke is holding on to Gogol's hand as they come to the end of the path. He mentions to Gogol that they had come all this way only to forget to bring the camera and take a picture. He asks Gogol if he'll remember this moment, remember that they came to a place where they could no longer go on, and Gogol naively replies, "How long do I have to remember it for?" Oh my, there's just so much at work in this scene! It's beautiful and I think if the filmmaker can capture and invoke Wordsworth as Lahiri has so stunningly well, then I may need to pick up that book sooner than I had realized.

This movie possesses an abundance of themes and I cannot touch on all of them, but I do honestly recommend you watch it. And I want someone to talk about it with, so do yourself and myself a favor!

Pattern Recognition

I woke in the middle of the night to a phone call from a good friend. I forgot to turn off my phone before going to bed, but I'm glad I kept it on. She's going through some harsh realizations concerning the people closest to her, friends she has noticed are not really friends at all. "I'm not going to lose you," she said with conviction, "I need you." And I told her I needed her as well, which got me to thinking about friendships. Lately, it seems like all around me conflicts have been arising--with my friends and their friends and even myself and mine. These conflicts are the result of a continued lack of good judgment, miscommunication and perhaps even the stubbornness of not wanting to break out of a pattern. So at what point do we realize that we're better off without them?

Sitting with my legs tucked in on the floor of my bedroom, I grabbed a pen and my Moleskine. I wrote down my thoughts and confessions to try and create my own aphorisms regarding this issue. I looked up at my bookshelf and reached for Monica De La Torre's collection of poems, "Talk Shows." Its bright orange cover had caught my eye as it sat nestled between other books of black and gray bindings. I flipped open to a random page and read Pattern Recognition. All throughout the poem are single lines among full stanzas. The stanzas reveal (to me) a bitter disconnection of remembered images and the distraction of the lessons learned whereas the single lines insert declarative statements of her own perceived facts regarding relationships of any kind. One of these lines, on the page I had opened to (the poem is three pages long) read:

Some souvenirs pierce the space where daily thoughts fit organized. (45)

I'm not going to share my interpretation of that line but it really stopped me. With ten perfectly placed words De La Torre captures an honest truth that I think apply differently to each person who reads it. Everything about our daily lives is cyclical, from the routine executed in the morning, our jobs, our chores, and even the season's changing marked by dying leaves. Also in the mix of this cycle are the people we keep near, who color and perpetuate the cycle. Do we continue on and again convince ourselves that next time will be different or do we sever the ties that bind and choose a different color?

Miss Collins, can I go to the bathroom?

Yesterday, I had coffee with Miss Collins. No need to be formal, she's still just my close friend, Jackie, from high school. Only now my beloved Jackie is a teacher. That's right, watch out world, she's molding the minds of our youth on a daily basis!

Jackie is one of the most reliable people in my life. And I don't depend on too many people. We've always had an easy friendship, balanced and effortless. We've been friends for roughly seven years now and nothing major has changed between us. Well, things have changed obviously, she has since graduated college and is now teaching third graders. And I can't even begin to explain how proud I am of her.

She sat across from me, balled into an over-sized, purple, velvet couch, venti latte in hand, pouring over her latest classroom news. I sat there, listening but somewhat distracted, in awe. She was talking about the arrangement of her classroom, the study lessons she has planned, and even some third grade gossip if you can believe it, and I watched her. I watched her mouth move and her hands gesture dramatically as she told me about her students. The Jackie I knew from high school had grown into a refined, responsible, and respectable Miss Collins. This is not to say that she was none of these things seven years ago, it's just in an entirely different sense.

I told her what was going on in my life and assured it was not as exciting as hers, even though she'd argue with me about this. Although I do not have a classroom full of kids to inspire, I do have my writing and who knows where that will take me.

But for right now, it's come to this dear reader, I will no longer post any new poetry on my blog. I'm still reworking my old poems and I might post those or maybe even a line or a stanza of my new work, but most likely not any completed and new poems. The reason? I've thought this through for quite some time and didn't really vocalize my intentions until last night to my dear Miss Collins, but I've decided to finally compile my poems and make a chapbook. There are different options as far as getting it published is concerned, but right now I'm just finalizing on a theme, which for the most part, is already selected. Titles, dedications, author bio...OH MY! I'm scared, excited, eager and overwhelmed but I wouldn't have it any other way.

For Laurence

...poetry doesn't have to rhyme. I've been influenced a lot by W.C.W. lately and want to share this with you. A classic, but one of my all-time favorites.

This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

You say that you have trouble grasping poetry, but it's not all that different from prose. And poetry is not something that you "grasp." Instead, let it grasp you. Surrender the control and see what happens. That's the vulnerability with poetry, you have to tap into your mind's inner workings to confront memories and realities that you've tried so hard to shut away. I'm not sure if you're at all familiar with Anaïs Nin, but she said, "The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say."

P.S. Thank you for that text message, it means a lot to me.

Intimations

Your red Triple Five
Soul hoodie, amusement at
its fit falling
just above my knees.

Space that used to be mine
upper left nook that I molded in
to without effort. I fell in love with a
space.

A drive. you took my hand
in yours like you needed to be
near me. I fell
asleep against you. Three hours later
you had
not yet let go.

Admiration in your gaze
watching me.
I sat across from you
eating semi-raw,
undercooked ramen--the
only way you knew I ate them.

Halloween. Hours of preparation secured
my tiara. "Bobby pin" significance.
Urgency. you pulled me
in to you. Ripping--no tearing, it off. Freeing
long, black curls against naked skin.

Friday nights balled under blankets
on your couch. You always let me
have the outside. Your favorite way
to hold me.

Racing you out of the driveway
in the morning.
Side mirror "I love you's."

Two clotted blots of black on
your white button down. Vulnerability
in the craning of your neck--straining
to hear me over fireworks.

Firmness. You carried
me, cradled. You carried me
everywhere, careful. I'd remind you
I wasn't
so fragile.

Nursing home shifts. Messed hair,
chapstick, white scrubs. The way
you said, "You're beautiful," newly. Like
it was the first time every time.

Camels and Acqua di Gio--
violent inhalations.

Letter to myself

Dear Natasha, (age 17)

Please remember not to judge people at face value. Looks aren't everything and yours will fade. Know that the unrelenting pain you feel when you think of him will end. It will take three years, but you will stop loving him. He, however, will not stop loving you and he will do everything in his power to remind you of this. Be strong. You will throw away every picture. You will also throw away his basketball shirt, his lacrosse shirt and his football shirt. Find something else to sleep in. Don't makeout with complete strangers, you're not that kind of girl. Stop selling yourself short, give yourself only to those who inspire you. Let people in. Don't be so cynical about life and love. Quit going to bed with your makeup on. Try not to be so impulsive...with your spending, with your choice in men, with your lifestyle in general. It's not healthy. You will be the other woman. Don't let it happen again. You'll give one too many eulogies, prepare yourself for the worst kind of heartache ever imaginable, you'll piece it back together eventually. Family is forever. That is unconditional. They will always love you, when you forget this (and you will), all you need to do is ask because sometimes you just need to hear that someone loves you. Turn your cell phone off at night. When you go to bed, so does your phone. No one important will text you in the middle of the night, and the ones that do only do so because you leave it on. No, you didn't love Eric, but let him down easy. Consider his feelings as if they were your own. You and Justin are incompatible for the long term. It doesn't matter how much your mom liked him or how much he will compromise to make you happy. In college you'll find your soulmate. Her name is Francesca. Smile more, strangers think you look like a bitch. They're right. Slow down, once you get going you tend not to stop. Your body is tired, let it rest. Go to more poetry readings. Save your Kenneth Koch anthology in a safe place. Put your great-grandmother's diamond in your safety deposit box. Damnit, stop procrastinating. Surround yourself with people who truly know you, who want to get to know you, and who accept you for you. Ask questions. Curiosity is knowledge, don't ever forget that. You'll never stop learning, appreciate this. Stop collecting half-filled glasses of water in your bedroom. When it matters most, be sure to say how you really feel. You won't, but still promise to try. You'll stop writing for a little over a year for several reasons. These are not reasons. They are excuses. Know that you will snap out of this and begin writing again. Lastly, wait for someone worthy. Someone who will be the best part of your day. Someone who will make your dreams his dreams and vice versa.

Love,
Natasha (age 22)

Daffy Duck in Hollywood

Donald Hall once said, “There is nothing like hearing the poet’s voice. The entryway to poetry is the beauty of its sound. Sound persuades us of its authenticity and prepares us to receive the subtlety and power of its emotion."

Hearing a poem and reading a poem are two entirely different experiences. In my final workshop class last fall, my professor insisted that we read our poem aloud first and then someone else in the class would read it after. I'm not sure I liked his approach, how would someone else know how to read my poem, know the proper pauses at which to linger, or know which words needed to be emphasized? Needless to say, I didn't enjoy listening to my own words read aloud, back to me-- it was as if someone was inside my head, retelling myself of my thoughts already thought. It's not until you hear your own thoughts read back to you that begin to hear yourself, sometimes even for the first time. Every writer has a voice, a style, a rhythm--and I began to hear my own.

I was talking to my friend, Griffin, who has a tendency to insert asides into our instant messaging conversations. Every now and then he'd narrate himself, his actions or even his thoughts. I find myself entertained by his random insertions of these asides and told him that I've always wanted to write a poem based solely on asides. Although when I think of an aside I immediately think of a soliloquy and just would not know where to begin writing. So I began to research writing in the style of the dramatic monologue, which focuses on just the writer's thoughts and perspective with no influence of any outside voice, so there is no dialogue. The writer's speech or commentary is written with the idea of an "implied" audience.

I looked for an example of such a poem and read several, although I enjoyed John Ashbery's "Daffy Duck in Hollywood," the most. It's long and at first seems like just a constant barrage of images and thoughts that are scattered and unorganized. But there is something in the chaos of his speech that is inexplicably captivating and relatable. My favorite lines (54-57) of this poem make me feel like I could have written them myself, Ashbery's universality here is so appealing:

I have
Only my intermittent life in your thoughts to live
Which is like thinking in another language. Everything
Depends on whether somebody reminds you of me.

I admit that I'm not yet prepared to write a poem of that caliber, with such an honest voice as Ashbery's. But writing a dramatic monologue is certainly on my to-do list. The idea of voices in poetry reminded me of a collaboration poem I wrote last year with my best friend, fellow poet, Francesca Pestano. Originally an assignment in class, we decided to write this collaboration poem as prose, something we both struggled with. In this poem I hear my voice, I hear her voice and in certain instances--because our words in English didn't suffice, I hear the lines of tagalog. We felt that writing in our native language worked for this poem, on levels that we couldn't make English work. Many of our peers, (writers and friends) jokingly say that we're the same person, with few but important differences. When we read this poem in class together, we divided the lines intentionally and it sounded like a well rehearsed spoken word segment. After we read the poem the first comment we received was that our voices were indistinguishable. Our classmates, who had been reading our poetry for three months, could not tell who had written which lines--and we were speechless with disbelief. This is a poem we've been meaning to edit for quite some time now, but I'll share it with you as it is. It's a melding of our own experiences, of both happy and painful memories from past relationships. I took a picture of the draft that I wrote by hand and xerox copied for class, we felt that hand-writing it made it more personal, almost like a journal or diary entry.


I know some of you can't honestly read that, so I'll type it out for you. Your thoughts are always welcome.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Okay. Here I go. Your last kiss, not as innocent as the first. Like ours, was it? Sticky-sweet-lingering-kisses [inhale] and-kiss-again-kisses? Sabihin mo sa akin, because I've been waiting to hear the words. Momentary lapses of weakness. Relapse. Rewind. To take you back. To those memories. Don't say I never gave you anything. The lake. Salty breeze embraces your skin. Icy waters rush against the dock. [pause] Rewind. Our camping trip to Wisconsin. The self-made fire. Flames falsify shadows that weren't there. It wasn't even what you said. It was how you said it. Facing me. Breathing me in. Like love didn't exist until that moment. I wish I could tell you how you made me feel, but anything cliche will take away. Mahal kita, at walang iba. We don't know what euphoria is until we fall from it. But I didn't fall. Out of nowhere, you just let go. I thought I was holding on. But I guess not hard enough. I didn't even feel it slipping. Right through my fingertips. You let me go. Those sticky-sweet-kisses? Two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction. That's all. Tapos na ako dito.

Untitled

People often ask me what the hardest part of writing a poem is. My poems almost always stem from a memory. An image, a sound, a fleeting thought even, provokes a sort of inspiration that ties past to present. A sensation familiar to something else, of someone else also inspires me. I then try to make sense of the blurred boundary of what was and what is. I manipulate my memories to rework it into something else, wondering what really happened. This attempt at manipulation allows me to compose the memory I wish I'd had, although that is sometimes simply unattainable. The hardest part of writing, for me, is the conception of a title. I know some writers that start poems with their title, unable to continue with the actual poem unless a title is chosen. I know others that write out the poem first and then choose a title. I also know some writers who write out the entire poem first and always select a significant line in the poem as their title. The title is the first impression made upon the reader. It sets the tone, alludes to its context, and begins the story about to be told. A title must be chosen carefully, so as not to discredit the poem. My titles are usually synonymous with the meaning of the poem in my eyes. It is rare that I write a poem and leave it untitled. In today's instance however, several titles came to mind when writing this poem, but nothing proved sufficient. I wrote this poem on the train today, heading home from class. I began writing as the train pulled out of Union Station and finished just before my Lake Forest stop, about 55 minutes altogether. It's also very rare that I share the very first draft of any poem, especially only hours after it's written. I know that a train ride might seem like a short amount of time to write a poem, but on occasions like these--when my need to write is urgent and spontaneous, I can produce work almost immediately. I'm leaving this poem untitled for the reasons already stated above. I suppose I'll leave it up to the readers to take it upon themselves to title it as they see fit, to take the poem as their own, to make sense of their own blurred boundaries.

Untitled
I woke a remembered montage
of days disrupted and recollected.
Disruptive more than
recollected.

My memories enjamb
my present. Paus-
ing intentionally on
my mind's scratched
surface, the needle plays--

1.
[sun stricken water
fights watched by
curious eyes through
green sheathed curtains.]

2.
[your footfalls in
the hall, you crawl
into bed beside me; seventeen
missed calls.]

the superimposition of
marred befores invade
my unhappened afters
uninvited.

the once soothing strokes
of the piano slow post
climax. the lyrics go
unheard. the omission of velvet
notes strain.

chapped lips purse
subversively, hushing the
rivulets of sweat
and sound.

the crescendo falls.
the needle searches.
the record spins. silent static.

Photography and Paramnesiac Lover

I really wish I had time to pursue my interest in photography--to take classes, take photos, etc. I have mirrors on the wall my bed is up against and I love looking at them. Not necessarily "at them" like I'm looking at myself, but at them because I admire their circular shape for reasons unbeknownst to me. As soon as I sit up in the morning, I see my reflection in these mirrors placed across my wall. I love mirrors and the way in which you take a photo, the flash bounces off of them--giving you a distorted image of yourself through a simple manipulation of light.

And so, I took these pictures. I laugh as my basic HTML skills come surfacing back to me as I post these.








Moreover, as the apparent shortening of daylight only increases, I'm suddenly plagued with lists. Lists of books I want to read, (but probably won't get around to until after graduation) which include Federico Fellini's Book of Dreams, Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception, and Wyndham Lewis' reprinted editions of Blast I and II, to name my top three, or rather, four.

There is also the list of things I should do, those of which include editing my cover letter and resume, filing my change of address so I can vote again, and lastly--one task that stems solely from procrastination--ordering more contacts online. I only have colored contacts now and I don't enjoy wearing them everyday. I've actually been wearing my purple glasses for quite some time now because I don't want to wear the colored lenses, and I can't find my dark rimmed glasses. The colored lenses are thicker than your usual clear contacts so they're uncomfortable after hours of wear, and also, on a more superficial note, I don't like looking like "that" Asian girl. You know which one, the Asian girl with stick straight locks whose hair color shimmers in the sunlight--a color, mind you, that is not found in nature. That Asian girl with the highlights and bright blue contacts. My colored contacts are gray and look natural--or so I'm told.

I think I should add trying to stay focused in my blogs to my list. Which I'm finding nearly impossible to do, and I apologize. For years I've noticed several eccentricities in my writing--namely that I tend to write in stream of consciousness. And so I can't imagine as a reader what this must be like trying to read my blog, but I cannot censor or edit the way I write, if I do then it is not my own, not my words, not my ideas, not the way my jumbled thoughts roll around in my head and onto this blog.

Back to my rant about lists--there is the list of what I call the I Wish's...(here are a few)

• I wish I didn't buy my tC last January. She's beautiful and I love her but I'm realizing the purchase is hindering my current plans to move out. I'd prefer not to have to pay rent AND a car payment, but it's too late now. The only thing I can do is increase my payments in the hopes of paying it off within the next year.
• I wish I took one more poetry workshop class. At UIC you're only required to take 210, 490 and 490 to declare it as your concentration (490 must be taken twice, preferably by two different instructors). I really feel like there's still so much to learn, especially in contemporary poetry. I also feel like I have new perspective in my own poetry and would love a room full of fellow writers to give me feedback.
  
• I wish simply to have more time. Lately I've been getting a lot of flack for not being able to hang out or spend time with the people in my life. Lunch dates, dinner dates, birthday festivities, you name it...it's not that I don't have the time, it's usually just the day it falls on or the time--that I'm already obligated to be somewhere else. Yesterday I was asked to have lunch downtown and when I explained that I wasn't going to be downtown because I had work to do, I got a text that read: "I've been hearing that a lot lately." I know he didn't mean for it to come off rudely, but I did feel a little guilty. This semester has been a lot of work, the most work, actually--especially since I'm trying to graduate with at least a 3.0. Just give me three months is all I can say.
  

Lastly, I finished a poem today...a new poem! It took about a week for this first draft to get where it is, but I know it's not completely done. It's done for now though which is why I'm posting it, I'll come back to it after I give it room to breathe, give myself room to breathe. Anyhow, I'm a nerd and am absolutely excited. I know what I was trying achieve with this poem, but let me know what you think. Oh and, another aspect about my writing, as well as my poetry is concerned, is that I am downright personal. I believe that good writers write what they know. I enjoy and admire the no-bullshit-type of writing, it's the best there is. Of course, I try but struggle a lot with this.

Paramnesiac Lover

Open windows welcome
Fall through our
filtered screens sectioned.

Eye-liner stained pillow cases
crease--in a spun gown
of sheets I lay.

A few more moments, have I
been here before?

I extend an arm lovingly
to embrace insensate
pillows beside me.

Inhaling to when
your skin against mine boldly splattered
onto my taupe hued mornings.

You kiss me--kissed me, your secrets as
I promised not to tell. Cross my heart
and--

Your thumb pauses, possessive--
over my throat, fingers then
tangling themselves in black strands.

Hours were lost in our jigsaw
mornings. Taut skin sensitized under

thin cotton layers.

800 thread count.

You loved the way my foot
still arched in flats. I loathed the
taste of your cigarettes in my mouth.

Frame of Reference

I wrote this poem last September in my English 490 (Advanced Writing of Poetry) class. I've been trying to rework it but I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I woke up this morning and wanted to edit this specific poem because a year ago it meant something entirely different to me. And I wanted to change it, not completely, but enough to tell a different story than originally intended. Let me know what you think. If you want to see the original, just ask.

Frame of Reference

Air conditioned
air attacks my
exposed neckline as

slideshow images of
the city morph in
to more rural shots.

WATCH YOUR STEP.

In one particular
scene I
catch a glimpse of towering,
splintered wood whose bolts and
wiring coax me back
to a sunset on a hill.

BARRINGTON HILLS
POP. 3700

Subtle desperation. In the way
you held me
up against you.

Forceful, aggressive. Your
wanton lips inhale mine, inquisitive.
Searching perhaps for an answer
that I--

Rows of posts extend, impose--hovering. The hard
ground beneath us is
judgmental. But still your
thrusts saturate me, not like
they used to--

If you see something,
say something.

Buzzing, humming lines of electricity live.

I stare directly at them.

At you, at them.

Inside,
you feel foreign.

It was the realization of knowing
the difference between
fucking and making
love.

I know what it was for
you.

It was. It went.
It was
the first time we fucked.
It was
the first time I knew
I no longer had

your answer.

...because I'm out of excuses not to write

First things first, I can't remember the last time I wrote anything that wasn't school related, wedding speech related, or even remotely significant. And as a writer, that's a devastating reality.

I was having a conversation with my brother a few weeks ago about my inability to write. "Fear and laziness," he began, "are the reasons why people don't do what they love, what they're passionate about." Immediately, I began to ask myself what I was scared of but could not think of any one thing in particular. Was I lazy? Absolutely, but not so much lazy in the sense that I lounge around everyday with no drive to write, no. I let his explanation linger for days and found myself growing increasingly upset, anxious and simply uninterested with writing altogether.

Once the fall semester began three weeks ago, I immersed myself in classes, making the resolution to give this final semester everything I had. Eighteen credit hours is a lot to take on while working part-time, especially with the increasing senioritis gnawing at me day to day.

This past Tuesday I was sitting in my British Literature and Culture class and the guy sitting next to me caught my eye. No, not that way. Our professor was talking about symmetry in Blake's The Chimney Sweeper, from The Songs of Innocence and Experience. I wasn't taking notes, I had read Blake so many times that I was already familiar with his use of symmetry, I found myself bored. I looked around the classroom at the students who were eagerly writing every word...with anticipatory pens.

The guy next to me reached into his backpack and pulled out a small, bounded, black book. As he sifted through the pages I admired how they looked, yellowed, tattered, aged. He scribbled a few lines, none of which I could make out without staring like a stalker, and he closed the book and put it away. I was distracted. What was that book? A mini-journal? A glossary of words he'd appreciated? I kept to myself and went on with my day. A few hours later I realized he was also in my Comparative Black Literature class, my last class of the day. I wondered why I hadn't noticed him before. Class began and I took my seat directly behind him. My friend Jacky struggled to stay awake by my side as my professor began to explain the concept of "double consciousness" by W.E.B. DuBois. He readjusted in front of me, leaning down to reach for his backpack. Again, he pulled out the black book, wrote something down and put it away. Suddenly jealousy came over me. Whatever this book was, a journal, a collection of words, literary facts,--it was important to him. I wish I had kept a book that contained newly learned thoughts, I love looking back on things I had written to evaluate what they mean to me now. I was regretful for the fact that I never thought of writing side notes in my own personal journal.

I got home that night and began reading poetry I had written a couple years ago. I couldn't help but think how elementary I sounded, in my words, thoughts and themes. I read the comments on my poems, the good, the bad, the mediocre. And there it was.

Fellow (poetry) writers can relate with me on this when I say:

1. You are your worst critic. And even when it seems like nothing will ever be good enough, the truth of the matter is that your poetry is never finished. And many may argue with me about that, but it's the truth. That's the difficulty with writing poetry, we always want it to be something more, to say something else. I can write something today and love it for what it is today and just as easily hate it tomorrow morning. I have to learn to accept that maybe some poems just need to be put away and not looked at for a while so the growth process can happen and I can look at the poem with fresh eyes.
   
2. Workshop classes can seriously fuck with your ego. As an English major with one concentration in Creative Writing of Poetry, I've taken every poetry-related class offered, including three poetry workshop classes. One day you're being praised as insightful and fresh and the next you're simply an imitation poet. It's hard work to write something new about something old. But you have to take the criticism and keep writing.
   
3. It's so easy to stop writing poetry, so easy to feel uninspired. School. Work. Relationship issues. Excuse 1. Excuse 2. And excuse 3. Poetry is so easy to push aside and save for later. I was always so set in my ways, thinking that I had to be inspired to write. And of course, one has to certainly be inspired to write, but choosing not to be inspired is what made me lazy. I stopped noticing. I simply failed to see.

Part of me wants to thank that guy in my class, or err...classes. I've missed feeling that way about literature and poetry. I'm not sure that I'll start writing new poetry again, but I do know that there's a stack of my old poems waiting to be edited. I think I was scared that I couldn't find anything to write about, when so much was all around me. Which brings me to the reason I've taken up blogging (again). I used to keep a xanga account and blogged everyday. Completely and utterly pointless if you ask me, that was deleted years ago. And then I started to blog last May and struggled to find a way to say what I wanted to say in a way in which I was satisfied in saying it. Do you see my struggle now? Ha, but I digress. Any kind of writing is an exercise as well as an outlet. And knowing that I'm graduating in three months, I'm promising myself now that I'll never stop writing and blogging is the first step.