What kind of person am I?
I am the kind of person who will sleep on the futon in the office with the cat box rather than waste the first night of sleeping on just-washed sheets by not being freshly showered.
I am the kind of person who while picking a documentary from Netflix will seriously ponder the question Do I or do I not know how the universe works? for several minutes before deciding that I indeed know quite enough about how the universe works, then pass up Stephen Hawking for Elmo.
I am the kind of person who will happily eat buttered pasta for four days in a row.
I am the kind of person who discusses Dostoevsky with her cats and ridicule their opinions.
I am the kind of person who has absolutely no business attempting to paint her own nails.
I am the kind of person who builds a semi-mannequin of herself then gets creeped out having it in the house.
I am the kind of person who spends an egregious amount of time arranging a growing collection of toy dinosaurs in front of a display of poetry.
I am the kind of person who stays up just a few minutes too late writing silly blog posts on one of her last school nights.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
you have stripped me down to my tongue root (in a good way)
Oh man.
The release of Volume 54 of delta journal was nothing sort of gorgeous. The journal is beautiful. The party was beautiful. (The girls are beautiful! Even the orchestra...is beautiful!) So many people were involved in putting everything together on all fronts that there are not enough thank-yous in the word to get out, but I'm going to throw at least one out into the universe anyway: Thank You! to anyone and everyone who helped support me and/or any and all rest of the staff &c. while we were scrambling to make this journal (and it's killer debut into the world) possible. So pretty. I feel bad because for the last week I've been so exhausted and kind of disengaged; seriously, it's amazing the amount of crap I didn't give. So really I should have done more to help out with last night, but turns out it wasn't necessary. Because, as stated above, everything was/is awesome.
[Let me pause here for a moment to interject: I am up way earlier than I have any right to be (8 AM) given how hard I celebrated volume 54. Instead of falling back asleep [double interjection: then I did], I have found that I unexpectedly have bacon in the fridge. YES. Made myself the most beautiful plate of bacon eggs and toast. I love my life.]
Some stunningly creativetalented people went all out to make cross-media installations from pieces in the journal, and everything came together (as you may have guess from my above raving) positively beautifully. There was just so much texture going on everywhere. I would say I wanted to roll around in everything, but really not so much literally, as various projects had things like viciously pointed screws or a lot of dirt. A lot of the stuff was interactive, though, and I really have to admire those artists for it. I don't trust people with my work near enough to let them mess with it. But that's half the point, I guess. My installation turned out great for a project I whipped up mostly by saying, "Eh, this should work." (Pictures below. Getting wrapped up in duct tape turned out to be the easy part; the hard part was haling a 40 lb. bag of pool salt (weight to use in the stand) through Wal-Mart and parking lot. My arms are complaining quite loudly today.)
We had a short section of readings by the Matt Clark prize winners (poetry and fiction) and next year's co-editors--the crowd was well pleased. I kind of forgot I was doing one and almost didn't print off my poems; then I got to the gallery and pretty much forgot again practically until they called me up to the mic. Seth and Rachel's readings were a hoot and got several laughs, which is good because apparently my readings are borderline creepily intense. My friend Jeri in the front row told me she was praying that when I looked up from the podium I didn't look at her--apparently I had some super-piercing eyeball action going on. I was unaware. Seemed to be really well-received though. My new rule: two glasses of wine, no more, no less, before I get up to read any of my stuff. It seems to make everything go most smoothly.
I am so proud to be poetry editor of this year's wonderful delta, and additionally pleasantly surprised to be winner of this year's Matt Clark Prize for Poetry (for "stripped, she said"). That officially means I am getting paid money for my poetry. You doubters can go doubt yourselves. Seriously though, it's an honor. And, I might add, a great way to cap off a great semester ( / year / college career). It has been so crazyhectic at times and so & mind-blowingly full of words that I cannot even describe it (with words. Ha.). So many brilliant people have entered my life and come to mean a lot in the past few months...it's going to be hard to adjust to whatever new life is coming. Awh, now I'm getting all choked up. (I must admit, I very nearly teared up when Julia and Robert handed the reins off to new co-editors Seth and Rachel. But they are going to make next year awesome.)
I have used far too many superlative and gushy adjectives in this post, and done a rather pedantic job of describing what was in fact a night of magical beauty. ...Yeah, that phrase was worse. So now I'm going to post some pictures of the excellent creations I was thrilled to be a part of.
The release of Volume 54 of delta journal was nothing sort of gorgeous. The journal is beautiful. The party was beautiful. (The girls are beautiful! Even the orchestra...is beautiful!) So many people were involved in putting everything together on all fronts that there are not enough thank-yous in the word to get out, but I'm going to throw at least one out into the universe anyway: Thank You! to anyone and everyone who helped support me and/or any and all rest of the staff &c. while we were scrambling to make this journal (and it's killer debut into the world) possible. So pretty. I feel bad because for the last week I've been so exhausted and kind of disengaged; seriously, it's amazing the amount of crap I didn't give. So really I should have done more to help out with last night, but turns out it wasn't necessary. Because, as stated above, everything was/is awesome.
[Let me pause here for a moment to interject: I am up way earlier than I have any right to be (8 AM) given how hard I celebrated volume 54. Instead of falling back asleep [double interjection: then I did], I have found that I unexpectedly have bacon in the fridge. YES. Made myself the most beautiful plate of bacon eggs and toast. I love my life.]
Some stunningly creativetalented people went all out to make cross-media installations from pieces in the journal, and everything came together (as you may have guess from my above raving) positively beautifully. There was just so much texture going on everywhere. I would say I wanted to roll around in everything, but really not so much literally, as various projects had things like viciously pointed screws or a lot of dirt. A lot of the stuff was interactive, though, and I really have to admire those artists for it. I don't trust people with my work near enough to let them mess with it. But that's half the point, I guess. My installation turned out great for a project I whipped up mostly by saying, "Eh, this should work." (Pictures below. Getting wrapped up in duct tape turned out to be the easy part; the hard part was haling a 40 lb. bag of pool salt (weight to use in the stand) through Wal-Mart and parking lot. My arms are complaining quite loudly today.)
We had a short section of readings by the Matt Clark prize winners (poetry and fiction) and next year's co-editors--the crowd was well pleased. I kind of forgot I was doing one and almost didn't print off my poems; then I got to the gallery and pretty much forgot again practically until they called me up to the mic. Seth and Rachel's readings were a hoot and got several laughs, which is good because apparently my readings are borderline creepily intense. My friend Jeri in the front row told me she was praying that when I looked up from the podium I didn't look at her--apparently I had some super-piercing eyeball action going on. I was unaware. Seemed to be really well-received though. My new rule: two glasses of wine, no more, no less, before I get up to read any of my stuff. It seems to make everything go most smoothly.
I am so proud to be poetry editor of this year's wonderful delta, and additionally pleasantly surprised to be winner of this year's Matt Clark Prize for Poetry (for "stripped, she said"). That officially means I am getting paid money for my poetry. You doubters can go doubt yourselves. Seriously though, it's an honor. And, I might add, a great way to cap off a great semester ( / year / college career). It has been so crazyhectic at times and so & mind-blowingly full of words that I cannot even describe it (with words. Ha.). So many brilliant people have entered my life and come to mean a lot in the past few months...it's going to be hard to adjust to whatever new life is coming. Awh, now I'm getting all choked up. (I must admit, I very nearly teared up when Julia and Robert handed the reins off to new co-editors Seth and Rachel. But they are going to make next year awesome.)
I have used far too many superlative and gushy adjectives in this post, and done a rather pedantic job of describing what was in fact a night of magical beauty. ...Yeah, that phrase was worse. So now I'm going to post some pictures of the excellent creations I was thrilled to be a part of.
 |
| Making of the mannequin |
  |
| Finished installation: "rewrap me" |
 |
| Beautiful volume 54 (on my not so beautiful tabletop, but accompanied by survivors of Jeri's installation) |
So. Happy.
Monday, April 16, 2012
You Can't Take the Sky from Me.
Oh, hi, Life. Didn't see you there.
So it turns out I am graduating in a month. Graduating from college. This tidbit is only now beginning to hit me/sink in, and, looking back over the past few months I'm realizing how determinedly I have been sticking my head in the sand to avoid the reality of it. Hell--the past four years, even. Up until about last week, I've been in the mindset of oh I have plenty of time, plenty plenty. Oops.
I mean, I have my "plan," i.e., the spiel I spit out at well-meaning adults (ugh I guess I'll have to be one of those too now) when they inevitably ask brightly, "So, what do you want to do?" It goes basically as follows:
Oh, you know, I was planning on moving down to New Orleans for a year or so and just live for a while...take some time off so I don't burn out...and I'll start looking at grad schools while I'm down there...oh, no, I'm not sure what I'd go for, that's part of the reason I'm taking time off, y'know, so I don't get stuck in the wrong thing. I dunno, an MFA or something in linguistics. Yeah, I like words...Also, I really want to go out of state for grad school or whatever, really get out of here. I was born and raised in Louisiana, but I feel like if, y'know, I'm acting like a "writer" then it would be a crime not to like in New Orleans for a while...I mean, it's such a dynamic place, and I feel like I'm at the right "dynamic" time in my life to really be there, y'know?
[If they press me on the grad school issue I usually laugh nervously and mumble something about Boulder or Chicago]
Not that the above isn't true. That is, in fact, the current plan. I just have A) no idea how to get from point here to point New Orleans or B) from point New Orleans to point grad school. I know that there are plenty of resources available to me, especially regarding the grad school thing, but actually beginning to confront the looming precipice of Real Life (ha) by actually thinking about jobs and apartments (I've been looking, but I mean for serious) and then actually looking at admissions for grad programs... the latter made me physically want to vomit. Everywhere. My mind was completely filled with a horrified crescendo of I am not ready for this. I should have been publishing things. Or at least writing things. And most especially, I should have been working harder. For the future. Looking at the linguistics programs especially made me want to faint/disintegrate. So much is necessary. Always.
Tentative new plan: Two years in New Orleans (an additional one while I wait for Boy to graduate) building my portfolio etc, then MFA (two years), then Ph.D. in Linguistics (five+ years). That puts off Real Life for as long as possible, right?
Every time I start to panic about this (which is pretty much all of the times now), I try to take a step back and convince myself that I am not, in fact, crossing some giant, scary threshold into Real Life. Actually, I have been living for about twenty-one years now, so I should really have plenty of practice at the whole life thing. And I've been supporting myself (pretty damn well, I'd say) for the past four of those years. Dammit, I've been living this whole time!
If only I could make this realization stick.
So it turns out I am graduating in a month. Graduating from college. This tidbit is only now beginning to hit me/sink in, and, looking back over the past few months I'm realizing how determinedly I have been sticking my head in the sand to avoid the reality of it. Hell--the past four years, even. Up until about last week, I've been in the mindset of oh I have plenty of time, plenty plenty. Oops.
I mean, I have my "plan," i.e., the spiel I spit out at well-meaning adults (ugh I guess I'll have to be one of those too now) when they inevitably ask brightly, "So, what do you want to do?" It goes basically as follows:
Oh, you know, I was planning on moving down to New Orleans for a year or so and just live for a while...take some time off so I don't burn out...and I'll start looking at grad schools while I'm down there...oh, no, I'm not sure what I'd go for, that's part of the reason I'm taking time off, y'know, so I don't get stuck in the wrong thing. I dunno, an MFA or something in linguistics. Yeah, I like words...Also, I really want to go out of state for grad school or whatever, really get out of here. I was born and raised in Louisiana, but I feel like if, y'know, I'm acting like a "writer" then it would be a crime not to like in New Orleans for a while...I mean, it's such a dynamic place, and I feel like I'm at the right "dynamic" time in my life to really be there, y'know?
[If they press me on the grad school issue I usually laugh nervously and mumble something about Boulder or Chicago]
Not that the above isn't true. That is, in fact, the current plan. I just have A) no idea how to get from point here to point New Orleans or B) from point New Orleans to point grad school. I know that there are plenty of resources available to me, especially regarding the grad school thing, but actually beginning to confront the looming precipice of Real Life (ha) by actually thinking about jobs and apartments (I've been looking, but I mean for serious) and then actually looking at admissions for grad programs... the latter made me physically want to vomit. Everywhere. My mind was completely filled with a horrified crescendo of I am not ready for this. I should have been publishing things. Or at least writing things. And most especially, I should have been working harder. For the future. Looking at the linguistics programs especially made me want to faint/disintegrate. So much is necessary. Always.
Tentative new plan: Two years in New Orleans (an additional one while I wait for Boy to graduate) building my portfolio etc, then MFA (two years), then Ph.D. in Linguistics (five+ years). That puts off Real Life for as long as possible, right?
Every time I start to panic about this (which is pretty much all of the times now), I try to take a step back and convince myself that I am not, in fact, crossing some giant, scary threshold into Real Life. Actually, I have been living for about twenty-one years now, so I should really have plenty of practice at the whole life thing. And I've been supporting myself (pretty damn well, I'd say) for the past four of those years. Dammit, I've been living this whole time!
If only I could make this realization stick.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Poetic Notes
So, prepping for the back-to-back double-feature of poetry readings delta's putting on tonight-- I'm reading at Highland Coffees at 7 and still don't have my stuff put together for that (woo!), then must pick something to plagiarize (or inappropriately reappropriate, if you will) for our event at Northgate. So in lieu of typing something brand-new to put here, I present instead of confusion of notes for my review of Kim Hyesoon's book All the Garbage of the World, Unite!
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What is I? Kim Hyesoon is a woman. Kim Hyesoon is a woman poet. Kim Hyesoon is a woman poet from South Korea. Kim Hysoon is very conscious of being a woman poet from South Korea. Inside her poems, the I of Kim Hyesoon swells and fractalates to become construct of her complicated and beautiful idea of poetry (the “poesy”). “I am many inside poetry. [...] The confusion of the multiple ‘I’ is what makes me write poetry.” (x, Preface)
Body. Garbage. Urban & urban decay. We are mutilated body & garbage & urban decay. Trashbodyhole. We are I we are womanbodymotherbabycorpse. we are geography and “whitestwhite.” Violence against children, against the I. Against/between the Ichild. Somewhere there are men. There too is water (thirstwater) and drippingslurp saliva. Also dogs maybe. Here everywhere is a phantom lady shadowladies that bleed like I like Is. Manhole Humanity! O Hole O! How much repetition? How many times “whitestwhite”? Where all the child, where all the Mommy? O uncertainty. After the slap has left the face. Is one confined if one is inside out—a body that is?
What does it mean to have a delineation. To be in something (a body? a country?) to have something be in you? What is division what is (w)hole, a part of a (w)hole? Everything here is divided, is dividingsplit, but everything is swelling and seeping out of itselfanother.
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