and my head filled with half-melted cotton candy lovely for a summer morning, morning being the time between oneish PM and five, or maybe until the sun sets. A list of errands has been marked out, hypothetical accomplishments, minor triumphs in the struggle with inertia. I think about reading On The Road again but then think it will probably just make me all titchy so nevermind but then after that think maybe I should read it anyway for that very reason. I think absolutely nothing for a while. This is irrepressible this laziness, so unrepentant, so unbecoming. There is no room there inside my head for anything but a slow ooze, a loss of meaning.

A couple of minutes away there is a dashing boy waiting for me in a coffee shop with some espresso and a ham & swiss croissant. Maybe some semblance of a muse is there too, maybe the legion of "writers in coffee shops" are on to something. Onwards and upwards then. A grasp towards if not meaning then at least direction.

"It's like trying to have an ungroveling feeling..."

(title taken from Chelsey Minnis's Poemland)

So I just finished reading this discussion between Kate Durbin & Kate Zambreno, posted a couple of days ago on herkind. And in the spirit of this discussion, I am embarking on this here blog post before regaining complete "control" of myself (if I ever had it in the first place, which not so much).

Had an interestingly intense rapidfire series of reactions to reading this, which I suppose I could have expected--everything brought up in their discussion was too relevant to my own experience, both "literary" and personal, for it to be otherwise.

Almost girlypeed myself when I first saw the interview posted, first off. Both of these ladies have a close link to my direct circle of influence (thanks to great CW profs like Lara Glenum & Laura Mullen; I am a lucky lgirlwriter indeed). Kate Durbin has been a figure of intrigue (and a bit of intimidation) since I saw her read at Delta Mouth Festival, and Kate Zambreno... well, actually, I've framed up more than one post about following her blog, Frances Farmer Is My Sister, and how it is exactly how I want my own blog to be. Except hers is better, what with the actual knowledge of theory and writing effort behind it, &c. In any case, both writers are pretty inspiring, especially to someone in my position. (This inspiration is coupled, inevitably, with not a little handwringing over what I could/can contribute to the generation that participates in/follows this. No pressure.)

So: eagerness to read about how the Kates here deal with issues of control & the anxiety control (and/or lack thereof) generates is joined with a nagging sense of dread: they still have to fight with this, too. In fact, their concerns about control are way bigger (more real? not sure what that means though) than mine--not in spite of, but because of the fact that they've already gotten their work "out there". They are out of the training grounds, and in the arena.

So this kind of fretting (actually, let's go with agitation; fretting makes it sound petty, which it decidedly not) from Kate Zambreno scares me even more:

 "People answered – well-intentioned – yes, you should go to an MFA program but only do it for fun or to have time to write but not for a JOB, you won’t get one anyway, and I wanted to fight with the world, and counter: but I have three books! And I have been in the adjunct trenches forever! I have been progressively making less money every year for the past ten years since I’ve become a writer and now make less than an extremely bad graduate stipend!" 

I've attempted to train myself to realize that being published is not the end-all-be-all, nor is it any kind of guarantee. I mean, I know. But still--that is the goal I happen to be striving(ish) towards at the moment... actually making money off my writing is still a flit of a concept in the back of my head. So to the idea that getting published has the potential to put me in an even more uncomfortable place than I'm in now is, will, it's nervous-making. Again, Kate Zambreno:

It seems to me, when I was unpublished, I was a lot freer as a writer. Yes, I didn’t have a community, yet, I had to invent this invisible tea party, like Sontag’s Alice in Bed, except it was with Zelda and Jean Rhys and Colette Peignot (the woman known as Laure). But I had no sense of the scene, of the climate of publishing, of who my contemporary peers were, or what genre whatever monstrous project I was envisioning would be shuttled into, or who would publish it, or how much I was going to have to struggle to get published, or what people would write or say about it. So I wrote and wrote, a girl-Darger, and dreamed and wrote in my journal and I remember this period as a magic time, like your girlhood, that I wish to get back to.

Yeah, that's where I am now. Except I am already fretting (yes, here I use the word deliberately) about launching myself and my work into that world, that scene (about which I am still virtually ignorant). The budding prematurely of the control crises. And it does make me wonder just what I could be losing by attempting to look ahead, to shape myself, the channel out a groove even before I have a have a sense of the pattern (and is a sense of the pattern even necessary?).

And then I fret about such fretting.

And so on and so forth.

I would love to be about to expound more profoundly on the actual discussion of their topic, control and fredom in (specifically women's) writing. But my own feelings about it (is it even feelings I should be guided by in this? but I suppose that that's the question exactly...) are kind of hazy and wavering at this point. Because I am, after all a woman. Kidding. (Not about the woman bit, about the hysterical stereotype bit. Duh.)

Something to mentally chew on, though. And incredibly relevant to more than one of the projects I'm attempting to work on at the moment. (Hint: cyborg theory.)


The last part, though, got me a bit choked up--their thankfulness for a supportive and like-minded (in the relevant senses) community of women writers, stubbornly making a way in their world. One last bit from Kate Zambreno:

 "Sometimes I look at myself, or some of the woman writers a bit younger than me—and I think it’s not really about talent, succeeding as a woman writer, which I think means continuing, going forth, pushing on, but it’s about whether we’re strong enough. I think we need these sorts of bonds and confidantes to assure ourselves that we’re not crazy, we’re not weak, that we’re original, that we’re brilliant, when sometimes we don’t know it ourselves."

This really hit close to home, for some reasons that are too sappy and dealing-with-other-people to get into here. I just agree with this statement wholeheartedly, that these "bonds and confidantes" are a wonderful, necessary boon I have seen flourish even (especially) in my generation. Really, the value there can't be understated. But nor can they be used as a crutch; I am currently at the juncture of realizing that. Being "strong enough" has to, in the end, rely on yourself, I guess? Ye gods, that's really after-school-specially. So instead, I'll end with a fabulous sentiment from Kate Durbin (channeling Lady Gaga):

"To me, to be a woman, an artist, and to be free, the bitch has to trust herself, has to trust her art."

What New Orleans Craigslist Told Me

Been obsessively browsing the New Orleans Craigslist apartment listings, so I thought I would make a little word-doodle




ARE YOU TIRED of DOING LAUNDRY WITH EVERYONE?
 perfect for single   on premises
NO PETS!
recently renovated // never flooded
very modern open feel    extremely efficient

elevates the essentials and introduces the unexpected
 crafted to give your everyday life a sense of wonder and surprise

doesn't open up to  private
             meticulous renovation
The Lifestyle You Desire @ A Price You Can Afford!!
  cute  details throughout
         very charming     well-maintained and quiet
available immediately
   references requested
wOWowOow!!
utility is power
stay or be removed--your choice
It's your lucky day!

Running in the Heat

Alright, a metaphor-thingy occurred to me regarding the whole writing/workaday deal that I was rather sloppily mentioning previously. It's not particularly original or anything, just two Things I'm Dealing With (/With Which I'm Dealing) that frustrate me in parallel ways.

Writing, for me, is like running. (Told you. But bear with me.) They are both activities I try to do regularly, and sometimes I even get pretty good at building up a habit. Sometimes I am compelled to do these activities, even at inopportune times. Sometimes I really just don't want to, and I feel good about myself when I make myself go through it anyway. And, of course, sometimes it's easier than others. 

We are in a brutal heat wave right now, or in other words, business as usual for Louisiana summer. Not even August and I sweat standing still. So even a sedate jog seems like an exercise (ha) in insanity, not to mention an invitation for heat stroke. I have more or less given up on complaining abut the weather, especially during the summer (i.e. 9-10 months out of the year), but now when I want to run, I have to do at least a mental rant every time. Because it sucks. In addition to undergoing suffocation in motion (I am breathing but oh god where is all of the delicious oxygen?), I am so much slower during the summer. So much. And it's really, really difficult to go out there knowing I am going to drown in my own sweat and take ten minutes longer to go the same distance I always do, especially when it was so much easier just a few months ago. In the fall/winter I actually feel good when I go for a run, all zesty and energized--like how I hear exercise is supposed to make you feel. And I get better at it, and run faster, and look all cute in my shorts. Then summer rears its ugly hot humid head and oh god why. But you know what? In the last week, I've done my usual run--the long one, 2.8 miles--three times. Three. It wasn't pretty, but dammit I did it anyway. Take that, stifling weight of summery sluggishness.

My writing (and my attitude towards it) tends to follow a cycle of furious advancement followed by long plateaus. After having such a great semester of words, I fear--I know--that I am about to hit/hitting one of those plateaus, one which threatens to be impressively bleak and barren. And since my periods of good progress tend (not coincidentally, obviously) to coincide with workshops where I am being forced to read and write and interact with my peers, I am particularly nervous about this dry spell--for the first time in a long time, there are no formal workshops in my forseeable future (informal ones will be attempted, but those have a history of falling apart rather consistently). Making myself write during these times wreaks havoc on my psyche bordering on physical pain. I realized today, not incidentally on my run, that this is more or less exactly what trying to run in the summer is like (Ok I am thinking really hard but oh god where are all of the brilliant words?). Except somehow it is easier to make myself finish a run, and then start another, and another, than it is for me to keep writing. Or start writing. Or restrain from burning my notebook. But dammit, I need to keep doing it anyway. Because if I stop now, I'm afraid I won't ever start again. And I refuse to have that particular weight of regret on my (now tanned) shoulders.

So I won't. Get ready summer, because you about to get all churned up in my pigheaded determination to forge through this writing plateau. Now, take that.

Sharing Space

Up "early" (yes, 8:45 is skeleton-groaningly early for me) to spot-treat blouses and aprons, which process consists of rubbing at red wine and marinara stains with a ghetto dishsoap+water+bleach mixture and muttering under my breath about wearing whites at an Italian restaurant.  This takes place in my office, which by the way gets great morning light, especially very early (I'm almost never awake and useful enough to appreciate it).

Over the past couple months, I've attempted to transform the office from "that room where we put the crap we don't want to think about right now" to an actual functioning workspace. I think I've mostly succeeded; the desk is usually clear enough to write on (hypothetically, of course), and the futon is an appropriately cozy spot to curl up and read. Also, in addition to the good light, this is currently more or less the cleanest room in the house (albeit full of stuff everywhere). All in all, it's shaping up to be what I always intended it to be--a room where I could write/read/whatever separate from the space(s) in which I sleep, eat, entertain, etc. The restoration of this room has also proved to be quite timely; since Boy's return home for the summer, I have had to abruptly switch gears back from living in severe solitude to couples living, and the office provides a nice little retreat from video game noises or boys' night in.

Anyway, I had put together this room with writing in mind. There are no less than five separate notebooks surrounding me on this desk, plus various scraps of paper taped to the wall with journal submission deadlines and slightly threatening self-reminders to write, goddammit. And of course, my first rejection letter hangs proudly (or whatever) by the door.

But despite all of these good intentions, my writing implements and materials have quietly been gathering dust as they disappear beneath the uniforms and detritus sloughed off after a long day (or evening, or both) of being a waitron (also relegated to the office). The ironing board gets more use than the desk, and the submission deadlines go unheeded. Such a blunt and concrete representation of how quickly workaday life can suffocate creativity (passion? not really sure what the right word is here)-- if you let it. I am more than a bit weak and cowardly when it comes to this particular aspect of life. It has defeated me many times before. But I will get the upper hand again, and soon.

But yeah, now I have to go iron a blouse for a Sunday double. Life.