Another day where spring looks like it might be here. Dare we hope? I am hoping. I need warm weather and want to put out the porch furniture. I want things to start getting green and flowery. I want everything and everyone to wake up.
One thing is certain: I have an itch to do some spring cleaning. As I sit here in my study, I see stacks upon stacks of projects, materials, etc. and wonder how I could have gotten so lazy over a few months. Was I in some kind of hibernation? Was I dulled and numbed to my surroundings?
I have a strange way to clean: I take everything OUT of a room that is not supposed to be there and move it to another room. I dust, vac, and polish the now cleared out space. DONE! Then I move to the next room and take out everything that doesn't belong. Repeat add nauseam until at long last I am down to one room. Then whatever still doesn't need to be there can get donated or otherwise disposed of to someone else.
My question for me: do I start with this space (the worst) so I have a huge sense of accomplishment? I'd say yes, but... if I do this, it will be a LONG process. I may get discouraged and stop. I may lose sight of my goal as I begin re-reading poems, looking at my paints and brushes and wanting to stop to make a drawing or painting....
No! I have to begin. I have a goal of getting it all done in 6 days.... after all I am not creating the world here, just cleaning my world. And on the 7th day I will go outside and look for crocuses.
Now, to begin!
I have one of those USPS boxes that they give you when you pick up mail that was on vacation hold... good transport vehicle to move things from room to room. Of course first I have to do something with whatever I dropped in to get it out of the way.... oh sigh.
For those of you who might be concerned that I have become some kind of hoarder.... nope. Just a stacker. (slacker?)
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Loss and how spring might help
The sun is breaking through an otherwise grey and grim day. At long last there is no snow in the forecast. It is 46 degrees. I keep a row of colored bottles and jars on my office windowsill so that there is sparkle whenever the least ray of light comes through. They are shining today: blue, yellow, green. I really need the sparkle.
Loss is inevitable in every aspect of life. It is a fact that people and things come and they go. If we are paying attention, we learn how to grieve the losses and find our way out of the darkness. We don’t forget, but we forbear.
I am dealing with some artisitc losses right now that are hard. I am cheered by the fact that spring is here (mostly) and summer is on the way. But the losses are still losses. I must figure out how to forbear.
Loss #1
The lingering death of Poetry Month Rockland has been difficult. I established Poetry Month Rockland in 2010 with the coperation of Steve Donoso and the public library. It was designed to be part of the National Poetry Month festivites and celebration. Our first ever Poet Laureate, Kendall Merriam was appointed and served for two years. I was appointed in 2012 and served 2 terms (four years). We appointed our 4th laureate, Joanna Hynd, in 2016. She has served for 2 years.
I put my heart, soul, (and education) into the office of Poet Laureate with a multitude of activities and events which brought poetry to life in our city. On average, one event or activity per month. I was more than visible and ready to engage anyone with poetry at any time. Poetry Month was a big deal, always ending with our Swarm of Poets, something Steve Donoso and I conceived of in 2010. A room full of poets, reading their work. Contest winners getting their prizes (usually sacks of books of poetry) and reading in public for perhaps the very first time. There were poems all over town in various places and ways. It was nothing short of festive!
It all began to die in 2016. I saw it happening, and there was nothing I could do. Of course it was not at all about me…it was and remains all about poetry and bringing it to the people. It was and is about making people realize that poetry is for everyone. Now it is all about something else, perhaps about there being too much work involved (I offered my help and was turned away) … or maybe it is about cashing in on poetry via the Millay House and its for-profit festival in the fall.
When I was asked to do a workshop in April, one of two things happening for “poetry month,”I was told by the current laureate that the Swarm was going to be different this year, focusing more on contest winners. There is no swarm on the last Thursday in April as it has for 8 years. The contest begins in April and ends in August with winners to read at the Millay festival, part deux which will be in September. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist (or a rocket sonnet-ist) to see what is happening.
I have never asked to be in charge of anything with the Millay group. I don’t want to be in charge. I do want to help. Why not allow a person with experience and education in the area of poetry and the time and willingness to lend a hand? I don’t know because I have been shut out of the conversation, ghosted as it were. I have offered for the last time. Message received loud and clear.
At any rate, Poetry Month Rockland is no more a thing we do in April. I am grieving the death of poetry month. I am angry too, but that is going away, leaving instead sadness and disappointment… but leaving also RESOLVE.
Poetry is more important to me than to let it get run over by lack of intitative or by indifference, so I am preparing to create something in place of poetry month, something that will not be killed off so easily by someone else. So far, my idea is to create a Foundation for the Writing Arts. I will likely crowdfund and seek donations and other forms of financial support. I will locate the Foundation and it activities in a place conducive to its business and functioning. I want to bring something to this community that will last, as I thought Poetry Month would last. Poetry is for everyone and ought to be readily available to everyone, all the time. The foundation will make it so.
Through the loss and the grieving, there is hope. The sunlight will continue to stream though the glass jars on my windowsill and I will stop feeling so sad.
Loss #2
Winter is a time of loss in many ways. This winter I have experienced the loss of the poetry group of which I have been part for many years. In fact, for the past few years I was the last one of the original group which I joined in 2009.
This death too has been a slow process. Despite all attempts by some of us to save it, others were not dedicated to poetry or not dedicated enough to save the group. Some let their commitment slide, some were too thin-skinned to take critique as being about the poem, not about the person. Inevitably, personalities derailed the whole group. Details here are irrelevant. Even a carefully worded mission statement did not sustain us.
I will miss the sharing. I will miss the poems of some of the group members who have worked hard to hone their skills in making poems. I will miss the thoughtful comments/critiques of my poems by most of the members. I will miss these very much. But I cannot do anything to make this group last another single minute. It is not at all up to me. I did my part. I would do it all over again, in a heartbeat.
So now, another loss becomes another opportunity. I will grieve and move on. I will forbear.
GOING ON après mort:
On the horizon is a spring day, leading to another and another until it will be summer. I am cheered by that. I look forward to days at the beach with a book and a notebook in my bag. I look forward to more writing time. I have two new books, another in the works, and another finished except for fine-tuned editing. I will not be deterred from my life’s work. I will continue to bring poetry to as many people as I can in my short time here on this planet.
Loss is inevitable in every aspect of life. It is a fact that people and things come and they go. If we are paying attention, we learn how to grieve the losses and find our way out of the darkness. We don’t forget, but we forbear.
I am dealing with some artisitc losses right now that are hard. I am cheered by the fact that spring is here (mostly) and summer is on the way. But the losses are still losses. I must figure out how to forbear.
Loss #1
The lingering death of Poetry Month Rockland has been difficult. I established Poetry Month Rockland in 2010 with the coperation of Steve Donoso and the public library. It was designed to be part of the National Poetry Month festivites and celebration. Our first ever Poet Laureate, Kendall Merriam was appointed and served for two years. I was appointed in 2012 and served 2 terms (four years). We appointed our 4th laureate, Joanna Hynd, in 2016. She has served for 2 years.
I put my heart, soul, (and education) into the office of Poet Laureate with a multitude of activities and events which brought poetry to life in our city. On average, one event or activity per month. I was more than visible and ready to engage anyone with poetry at any time. Poetry Month was a big deal, always ending with our Swarm of Poets, something Steve Donoso and I conceived of in 2010. A room full of poets, reading their work. Contest winners getting their prizes (usually sacks of books of poetry) and reading in public for perhaps the very first time. There were poems all over town in various places and ways. It was nothing short of festive!
It all began to die in 2016. I saw it happening, and there was nothing I could do. Of course it was not at all about me…it was and remains all about poetry and bringing it to the people. It was and is about making people realize that poetry is for everyone. Now it is all about something else, perhaps about there being too much work involved (I offered my help and was turned away) … or maybe it is about cashing in on poetry via the Millay House and its for-profit festival in the fall.
When I was asked to do a workshop in April, one of two things happening for “poetry month,”I was told by the current laureate that the Swarm was going to be different this year, focusing more on contest winners. There is no swarm on the last Thursday in April as it has for 8 years. The contest begins in April and ends in August with winners to read at the Millay festival, part deux which will be in September. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist (or a rocket sonnet-ist) to see what is happening.
I have never asked to be in charge of anything with the Millay group. I don’t want to be in charge. I do want to help. Why not allow a person with experience and education in the area of poetry and the time and willingness to lend a hand? I don’t know because I have been shut out of the conversation, ghosted as it were. I have offered for the last time. Message received loud and clear.
At any rate, Poetry Month Rockland is no more a thing we do in April. I am grieving the death of poetry month. I am angry too, but that is going away, leaving instead sadness and disappointment… but leaving also RESOLVE.
Poetry is more important to me than to let it get run over by lack of intitative or by indifference, so I am preparing to create something in place of poetry month, something that will not be killed off so easily by someone else. So far, my idea is to create a Foundation for the Writing Arts. I will likely crowdfund and seek donations and other forms of financial support. I will locate the Foundation and it activities in a place conducive to its business and functioning. I want to bring something to this community that will last, as I thought Poetry Month would last. Poetry is for everyone and ought to be readily available to everyone, all the time. The foundation will make it so.
Through the loss and the grieving, there is hope. The sunlight will continue to stream though the glass jars on my windowsill and I will stop feeling so sad.
Loss #2
Winter is a time of loss in many ways. This winter I have experienced the loss of the poetry group of which I have been part for many years. In fact, for the past few years I was the last one of the original group which I joined in 2009.
This death too has been a slow process. Despite all attempts by some of us to save it, others were not dedicated to poetry or not dedicated enough to save the group. Some let their commitment slide, some were too thin-skinned to take critique as being about the poem, not about the person. Inevitably, personalities derailed the whole group. Details here are irrelevant. Even a carefully worded mission statement did not sustain us.
I will miss the sharing. I will miss the poems of some of the group members who have worked hard to hone their skills in making poems. I will miss the thoughtful comments/critiques of my poems by most of the members. I will miss these very much. But I cannot do anything to make this group last another single minute. It is not at all up to me. I did my part. I would do it all over again, in a heartbeat.
So now, another loss becomes another opportunity. I will grieve and move on. I will forbear.
GOING ON après mort:
On the horizon is a spring day, leading to another and another until it will be summer. I am cheered by that. I look forward to days at the beach with a book and a notebook in my bag. I look forward to more writing time. I have two new books, another in the works, and another finished except for fine-tuned editing. I will not be deterred from my life’s work. I will continue to bring poetry to as many people as I can in my short time here on this planet.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Poetry and Truth
I recently attended a workshop entitled, Singing in the Dark. It was about poetry as witness. We were each asked to contribute one of our own "political" or "witness" poems. We looked at many examples of poetry of witness.
By the end of the day I was convinced that there is
1. There is no one way of witness
2. There is no clear way to write about issues of society... the polis
3. There is a difference in seeing and giving the facts about something that happened and giving witness
to a greater truth, a universal truth.
AND
4. There is a big difference between truth (facts, the what happened when) and Truth.
I have wrestled with (Big T) Truth all my remembered life. I have considered absolute truth-telling versus the notion of an underlying morality that settles the psyche. For the past few decades, I have questioned myself as a poet in terms of what I am willing to say and how I am safe or not safe in saying it. I have had to become the arbiter of my own risk-taking. That is, I think, a good thing.
One thing seems clear to me: Truth (with the big T) is much more important than truth (with the little t).
Oh sure, telling the truth is a good thing, most of the time. One wants to be seen as honest and dependable. Lying (in the extreme) is certainly to be seen as pathological. However, all truth all the time can be pathological too, or at least passive aggressive.
There are glaringly obvious times when truth-telling could be a not so great plan. For example, don't tell your wife the dress makes her look fat even if she asks. Here is where tact replaces truth. But if asked do you love me? perhaps the unvarnished truth-telling needs to be plugged in. Tact may be involved here too, but don't duck out of the answer. Telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth might, in some cases, even get you killed. So truth-telling, for me, is a bit situational. It requires care and finesse. I am not suggesting a life of dishonesty or even a totally utilitarian style of truth-telling. I am saying, think first, speak second.
Eye witness accounts at crimes are universally seen by experts as unreliable. Why? Because the eye is NOT really a camera, and the brain is NOT really a recording device. Witnesses bring their own stuff, their baggage, their biases to their supposed recall. This is known. Still, juries love to have eyewitness accounts, largely I believe to make their decisions less self-responsible. It takes them off the hook for judging the defendant, the accused. Eyewitness accounts are not DNA evidence.
The bottom line for truth-telling is do your best to be honest as you can within your human limitations. Be a reliable, dependable person.
(Big T) Truth is markedly different from truth-telling. It's something far-reaching and critical. Universality, our shared human experience, depends upon it. We hold these Truths to be self-evident was the way the Founding Fathers put it. It ought to be that there is some kind of Truth we share, a Truth that protects us from the four horsemen of disenfranchisement, desperation, disillusionment, and despair. We ought to be able to hold on to something solid. Truth.
Let's examine this concept of Truth as it relates to poems and poets. To begin, we must acknowledge that there is always (ALWAYS) something happening that seems wrong, fearful, upsetting: government's behaviors, environmental issues, poverty, racism, abuse, divorce, and betrayals of all sorts. There is crossover between a single personal episode or incident and an acknowledged or disavowed pubic interest.
There is plenty of angst out there, all at once public and personal.
There is rampant injustice and strife out there and in families behind closed doors.
What to do if you are inclined to comment (write) about personal or public injustice or social issues? How can you be truthful while creating art? Is this possible? And what of the details? Must they be written about in such a way as the piece of writing is reportage rather than something artful? What is poetic license? What is my responsibility to Truth as a poet, as a human?
I write within my deeply-held belief that Truth is important. It is about authenticity for me. It ought to come through clearly that I am a sort of authoritative voice when I write. Have I done the research or am I writing from personal experience? What about the object and subject(s) of my writing? What is my responsibility to their truth?
I do consider the impact of my writing on others, which has held me back from risk-taking in my writing in the past. My early poems reflect that over-reticence and restraint. However, I am less interested now in censoring myself than at any other time in my career as a poet/writer. Where previously I have held back, I am more willing to take risks now. Of course I would not publish certain of my poems if it turned out that my doing so would put someone else's life at risk. I would not publish certain poems (though I am willing to write them) which would destroy relationships or livelihood. I am more likely to write anything, choosing whether or not to publish as my line of restraint.
Aside from public realm of comment, I seem to be the holder of many personal secrets. People tell me things. Must be I just have that face as my grandmother said. Do I want the secrets I have? Not so much. But am I in a weird way honored to have them. If you tell me a secret, it stays with me.
I carry one big secret that my mother told me over 50 years ago about someone close to me. To this day, I don't know why she shared the secret with me at age 17. I have never told that secret, other than to my husband who is never going to reveal it either. Letting it out would most certainly cause hurt. The secret likely dies with me. I had another, more personal secret that I kept for decades having to do with being molested by a dear friend's grandfather. I wrote that secret, but never put it out there until that friend died. Were she still alive today, the poem would exist only in my computer and the secret would be secret still. Here is the poem that I finally published about that secret:
At the time of the molestation, I did not my tell my own parents about what happened to me. I was afraid of the man, of his influence in the neighborhood, of the fact that his wife was my 2nd grade teacher and a lovely woman. I was afraid that if my father found out, he would kill the man and end up in jail. Fear = the enemy of Truth.
This remained a secret until 2003, when I finally confided in my mother. I might as well have not said anything to her. Her reaction was flat, somewhat unbelieving. She said well if that happened to you, I am sorry. She did not ask for details or ask me if I was okay. She simply turned the conversation to something else. Although she under-reacted, I did need to tell her for my own sense of well-being. I needed her, of all people, to hear it. To hear me. She just did not get it. Nothing I could do about that. There. Out. Secret told. Did I feel better? Worse? Honestly, her flatness just made me angry. But, Mr S and his disgusting garden were finally relegated to the compost pile. So, yes. Better.
What does telling this hard secret have to do with Truth (Big T variety)? It is a fact that I am not the first girl to be molested nor will I be the last. It (the poem) is only remotely about me, or even my friend, or even her grandfather. Here is where the Big T comes in: it is about the way men decide that women and girls are theirs for the taking. I know that somewhere a woman will read or hear my poem and relate. It is for her, and all of the rest that I tell the secret. Because I am a poet, my vehicle for telling is poetry.
You may wonder if the way the poem is written is accusatory of my friend. It is not. It speaks to her own silence. It is empathetic of that silence, while asserting that I could not deal with the silence. It isolated us both. Read the poem closely and you will see (I hope) that I have always suspected Debby was a victim too. I'd lay big money on that one. My regret is that we were never able to talk about it and be there for one another. She was sent to boarding school for junior high school and high school. I suspect that her parents knew what had happened and chose this way to protect her. I hope so.
I have written about hard things for a long time. It is a need I have to be more myself and less hidden. I was always myself inside, but as a bit of an introvert I kept myself closed. Why rock the boat? Why risk judgement or even retribution? I decided a few years ago that I would not be quiet (good little girls are seen, not heard). I wanted to be heard. I am still good, just no longer quiet. Risk-taker, not rule-breaker.
By the end of the day I was convinced that there is
1. There is no one way of witness
2. There is no clear way to write about issues of society... the polis
3. There is a difference in seeing and giving the facts about something that happened and giving witness
to a greater truth, a universal truth.
AND
4. There is a big difference between truth (facts, the what happened when) and Truth.
I have wrestled with (Big T) Truth all my remembered life. I have considered absolute truth-telling versus the notion of an underlying morality that settles the psyche. For the past few decades, I have questioned myself as a poet in terms of what I am willing to say and how I am safe or not safe in saying it. I have had to become the arbiter of my own risk-taking. That is, I think, a good thing.
One thing seems clear to me: Truth (with the big T) is much more important than truth (with the little t).
Oh sure, telling the truth is a good thing, most of the time. One wants to be seen as honest and dependable. Lying (in the extreme) is certainly to be seen as pathological. However, all truth all the time can be pathological too, or at least passive aggressive.
There are glaringly obvious times when truth-telling could be a not so great plan. For example, don't tell your wife the dress makes her look fat even if she asks. Here is where tact replaces truth. But if asked do you love me? perhaps the unvarnished truth-telling needs to be plugged in. Tact may be involved here too, but don't duck out of the answer. Telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth might, in some cases, even get you killed. So truth-telling, for me, is a bit situational. It requires care and finesse. I am not suggesting a life of dishonesty or even a totally utilitarian style of truth-telling. I am saying, think first, speak second.
Eye witness accounts at crimes are universally seen by experts as unreliable. Why? Because the eye is NOT really a camera, and the brain is NOT really a recording device. Witnesses bring their own stuff, their baggage, their biases to their supposed recall. This is known. Still, juries love to have eyewitness accounts, largely I believe to make their decisions less self-responsible. It takes them off the hook for judging the defendant, the accused. Eyewitness accounts are not DNA evidence.
The bottom line for truth-telling is do your best to be honest as you can within your human limitations. Be a reliable, dependable person.
(Big T) Truth is markedly different from truth-telling. It's something far-reaching and critical. Universality, our shared human experience, depends upon it. We hold these Truths to be self-evident was the way the Founding Fathers put it. It ought to be that there is some kind of Truth we share, a Truth that protects us from the four horsemen of disenfranchisement, desperation, disillusionment, and despair. We ought to be able to hold on to something solid. Truth.
Let's examine this concept of Truth as it relates to poems and poets. To begin, we must acknowledge that there is always (ALWAYS) something happening that seems wrong, fearful, upsetting: government's behaviors, environmental issues, poverty, racism, abuse, divorce, and betrayals of all sorts. There is crossover between a single personal episode or incident and an acknowledged or disavowed pubic interest.
There is plenty of angst out there, all at once public and personal.
There is rampant injustice and strife out there and in families behind closed doors.
What to do if you are inclined to comment (write) about personal or public injustice or social issues? How can you be truthful while creating art? Is this possible? And what of the details? Must they be written about in such a way as the piece of writing is reportage rather than something artful? What is poetic license? What is my responsibility to Truth as a poet, as a human?
I write within my deeply-held belief that Truth is important. It is about authenticity for me. It ought to come through clearly that I am a sort of authoritative voice when I write. Have I done the research or am I writing from personal experience? What about the object and subject(s) of my writing? What is my responsibility to their truth?
I do consider the impact of my writing on others, which has held me back from risk-taking in my writing in the past. My early poems reflect that over-reticence and restraint. However, I am less interested now in censoring myself than at any other time in my career as a poet/writer. Where previously I have held back, I am more willing to take risks now. Of course I would not publish certain of my poems if it turned out that my doing so would put someone else's life at risk. I would not publish certain poems (though I am willing to write them) which would destroy relationships or livelihood. I am more likely to write anything, choosing whether or not to publish as my line of restraint.
Aside from public realm of comment, I seem to be the holder of many personal secrets. People tell me things. Must be I just have that face as my grandmother said. Do I want the secrets I have? Not so much. But am I in a weird way honored to have them. If you tell me a secret, it stays with me.
I carry one big secret that my mother told me over 50 years ago about someone close to me. To this day, I don't know why she shared the secret with me at age 17. I have never told that secret, other than to my husband who is never going to reveal it either. Letting it out would most certainly cause hurt. The secret likely dies with me. I had another, more personal secret that I kept for decades having to do with being molested by a dear friend's grandfather. I wrote that secret, but never put it out there until that friend died. Were she still alive today, the poem would exist only in my computer and the secret would be secret still. Here is the poem that I finally published about that secret:
At Our 20th Class Reunion
for Debby
If you mention him, your grandfather,
speak of his beautiful garden, of the tall corn
where we played
as children, I’ll have to tell
you about the rows
of theiving stalks with their pale silk flags —
warnings of the approaching storm,
the shaft of lightning
that split my childhood in two.
If you talk about his stubbled jaw,
say it smiled, say it was kindly,
I’ll think of crooked yellow teeth
like misshapen kernels of corn, grimacing
through open husks, a sudden
split in the green of August.
If you go so far as to say
he loved you, and you miss him,
I’ll glance away, remember the day
you strode from the rows
to brush your teeth over and over, to scrub
garden dirt from your face, your knees,
your pretty lace socks.
If you utter a single word
about his sad end, twisted with palsy,
rotting bit by bit from cancer,
I’m afraid I will laugh, twirl madly
with my skirts up around my waist,
letting the stench of his garden
fly off me into the wind.
At the time of the molestation, I did not my tell my own parents about what happened to me. I was afraid of the man, of his influence in the neighborhood, of the fact that his wife was my 2nd grade teacher and a lovely woman. I was afraid that if my father found out, he would kill the man and end up in jail. Fear = the enemy of Truth.
This remained a secret until 2003, when I finally confided in my mother. I might as well have not said anything to her. Her reaction was flat, somewhat unbelieving. She said well if that happened to you, I am sorry. She did not ask for details or ask me if I was okay. She simply turned the conversation to something else. Although she under-reacted, I did need to tell her for my own sense of well-being. I needed her, of all people, to hear it. To hear me. She just did not get it. Nothing I could do about that. There. Out. Secret told. Did I feel better? Worse? Honestly, her flatness just made me angry. But, Mr S and his disgusting garden were finally relegated to the compost pile. So, yes. Better.
What does telling this hard secret have to do with Truth (Big T variety)? It is a fact that I am not the first girl to be molested nor will I be the last. It (the poem) is only remotely about me, or even my friend, or even her grandfather. Here is where the Big T comes in: it is about the way men decide that women and girls are theirs for the taking. I know that somewhere a woman will read or hear my poem and relate. It is for her, and all of the rest that I tell the secret. Because I am a poet, my vehicle for telling is poetry.
You may wonder if the way the poem is written is accusatory of my friend. It is not. It speaks to her own silence. It is empathetic of that silence, while asserting that I could not deal with the silence. It isolated us both. Read the poem closely and you will see (I hope) that I have always suspected Debby was a victim too. I'd lay big money on that one. My regret is that we were never able to talk about it and be there for one another. She was sent to boarding school for junior high school and high school. I suspect that her parents knew what had happened and chose this way to protect her. I hope so.
I have written about hard things for a long time. It is a need I have to be more myself and less hidden. I was always myself inside, but as a bit of an introvert I kept myself closed. Why rock the boat? Why risk judgement or even retribution? I decided a few years ago that I would not be quiet (good little girls are seen, not heard). I wanted to be heard. I am still good, just no longer quiet. Risk-taker, not rule-breaker.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Web site is up!
The site is live!
What a learning curve this has been, with each challenge fraught with a bit of the crazy. I am pretty tech savvy, but all the code stuff and the settings required help from both rapid weaver (my building platform) and GoDaddy (my hosting and domain service)
The result of over a week of hard work to rebuild my web site is a site that is beautiful and functional. I will be able to keep track of myself and my books, with a solid format for book sales and reviews and notes by me on the reasons and processes of the books as they are created and offered for sale. I think the site is easy to navigate for readers. It is nw easy for me too. I can add and change pretty effortlessly now. Feels a bit like I just had a new baby.
So, please visit the site at www.carolbachofner.com and browse, read, comment, and ORDER books!
Enjoy.
PS
I need to mention here the person who built and managed my site for the past five years, DiTa Ondek. As I built this new site, following the news that DiTa was retiring from this work, I kept thinking how wonderful her help has been. Whew!
What a learning curve this has been, with each challenge fraught with a bit of the crazy. I am pretty tech savvy, but all the code stuff and the settings required help from both rapid weaver (my building platform) and GoDaddy (my hosting and domain service)
The result of over a week of hard work to rebuild my web site is a site that is beautiful and functional. I will be able to keep track of myself and my books, with a solid format for book sales and reviews and notes by me on the reasons and processes of the books as they are created and offered for sale. I think the site is easy to navigate for readers. It is nw easy for me too. I can add and change pretty effortlessly now. Feels a bit like I just had a new baby.
So, please visit the site at www.carolbachofner.com and browse, read, comment, and ORDER books!
Enjoy.
PS
I need to mention here the person who built and managed my site for the past five years, DiTa Ondek. As I built this new site, following the news that DiTa was retiring from this work, I kept thinking how wonderful her help has been. Whew!
Monday, March 19, 2018
Building a new web site
My web master is retiring. She has been wonderful for several years of managing my web site. All I ever had to do was send things her way and voilà. Within hours or at worst a day, the new material would be there. The only drawback was that I had no direct control over how the page looks or adding things on my own. I was the administrator of the site without direct access to administer. It was certainly workable and I got to be a bit lazy. I would say, please do —— and it would get done.
Fast forward to now:
She's retiring from 20+ years of managing web sites, building web pages, etc. Great job, but she is ready to be done. Therefore, I have to do it on my own now, including finding a place to host the site. This has sent me off on a BIG-ASS journey. I have until April 1st. Then my web site goes bye-bye. I am determined not to have this happen.
I am fortunate to have an involved husband, one with a few skills and more than a few ideas. He suggested I try something called RapidWeaver 7.5 to build (rebuild) my site. He suggested Go Daddy for hosting. They are where I get my domain name and renew it.
Based upon his suggestions, I immediately started the journey to autonomy as a web author and blogger. I had already been blogging (albeit intermittently) for years and knew I could simply link this site to my web site as it was linked previously. Whew. One less thing to do over. I already have the domain name, so I simply needed to renew it (which my previous web master had done each year). What needed to happen, the two BIG things were:
1. Get my domain administration moved over to my ownership and sign up for hosting services.
2. Rebuild my web site. (This is the BIGGEST thing, requiring loads of time spent and things to master that I have never tried before.)
Getting my domain administration moved to my ownership meant I had to send in my passport face page and my driver's license copy to Go Daddy. They need to know I am me. I suppose I could have waited for my current web master to send me the login and password, but she is out of town right now and I am impatient. After all, I need to be up and ready by April 1st. Tick Tock.
Rebuilding my web site is really involved and a bit complex, but also a load of FUN. I rely upon my husband to interpret things for me, but Rapid Weaver 7.5 is a treasure trove of things one can do to make a site beautiful, efficient, and user-friendly. My site will be uniquely ME. It will be interactive too, with opportunities for readers/visitors to chat with me via my contact page. I have a place to say why the person visited, what was most interesting and what questions could be answered by me. I love this!
I'm learning about plug-ins, stacks, links, and so much more. I think I am about 90% finished with the rebuild. I think I will be fully ready to go live on March 31st. That is my goal. I still have to put PayPal on my site for selling my books and artwork. I still have to tweak the way my books are displayed (stacks maybe?) and I still have to make sure all the pages are ready to be found by my site visitors, so I also need to add an SEO so my site pops up on search engines everywhere.
So, in the meantime, enjoy visiting the site and my blog as they are right now. I think (hope, plan) all will be smooth in the transition.
Fast forward to now:
She's retiring from 20+ years of managing web sites, building web pages, etc. Great job, but she is ready to be done. Therefore, I have to do it on my own now, including finding a place to host the site. This has sent me off on a BIG-ASS journey. I have until April 1st. Then my web site goes bye-bye. I am determined not to have this happen.
I am fortunate to have an involved husband, one with a few skills and more than a few ideas. He suggested I try something called RapidWeaver 7.5 to build (rebuild) my site. He suggested Go Daddy for hosting. They are where I get my domain name and renew it.
Based upon his suggestions, I immediately started the journey to autonomy as a web author and blogger. I had already been blogging (albeit intermittently) for years and knew I could simply link this site to my web site as it was linked previously. Whew. One less thing to do over. I already have the domain name, so I simply needed to renew it (which my previous web master had done each year). What needed to happen, the two BIG things were:
1. Get my domain administration moved over to my ownership and sign up for hosting services.
2. Rebuild my web site. (This is the BIGGEST thing, requiring loads of time spent and things to master that I have never tried before.)
Getting my domain administration moved to my ownership meant I had to send in my passport face page and my driver's license copy to Go Daddy. They need to know I am me. I suppose I could have waited for my current web master to send me the login and password, but she is out of town right now and I am impatient. After all, I need to be up and ready by April 1st. Tick Tock.
Rebuilding my web site is really involved and a bit complex, but also a load of FUN. I rely upon my husband to interpret things for me, but Rapid Weaver 7.5 is a treasure trove of things one can do to make a site beautiful, efficient, and user-friendly. My site will be uniquely ME. It will be interactive too, with opportunities for readers/visitors to chat with me via my contact page. I have a place to say why the person visited, what was most interesting and what questions could be answered by me. I love this!
I'm learning about plug-ins, stacks, links, and so much more. I think I am about 90% finished with the rebuild. I think I will be fully ready to go live on March 31st. That is my goal. I still have to put PayPal on my site for selling my books and artwork. I still have to tweak the way my books are displayed (stacks maybe?) and I still have to make sure all the pages are ready to be found by my site visitors, so I also need to add an SEO so my site pops up on search engines everywhere.
So, in the meantime, enjoy visiting the site and my blog as they are right now. I think (hope, plan) all will be smooth in the transition.
Saturday, March 17, 2018
Why I Don't Write Novels
My husband loves the way I write. He says the words just pour out of you. Of course I'm happy he loves the way I write. Today, however, he asked me why I don't write novels since I am so prolific. The man certainly is not afraid to poke me when he gets a notion. Sweet man. Poke, poke, poke.
I have long considered why I am a poet, why I don't write fiction. In grad school, my friend Audrey's husband admonished both of us to write something more economically productive. You girls ought to write "smut novels," he said. That's where the money is. We laughed til our sides ached. Smut novels... indeed. We are poets. We are always going to be poets. It's in our DNA.
Many of my colleagues in grad school were concentrating their schooling on fiction, either short stories or novels. I am in awe of novelists like Janet Fitch (White Oleander is my favorite) and who hates a good short story? But write them? Sigh.
I joke with people when they ask why not write a novel. I tell them that whatever a novelist can put in 100,000 words I can do in 40 lines or fewer. Funny joke, right? Well, it is not so funny to me. I do not, just do not have the staying power to go 100,000 words to get across a single incident or point. I get bored. I get so frustrated that soon I am putting the thing into a poem and feeling darned satisfied if I do say so. And I do say so.
My friend Layne is an amazing writer. She was part of my grad school cohort but in fiction. My friend Nanci was also part of that cohort, but in creative nonfiction (aka memoir). Both of these women can write circles around me when it comes to prose. I love novels and memoir. I have always read both. But when it comes to writing, poetry is my place. It is how I think, all metaphor all the time. I love metaphor, word play, form. I think this way, much the way I dream. Maybe I am a dreamer because of poetry, or maybe I am a poet because I dream.
I have studied under some pretty fantastic poets. Each class or workshop was like going to Disneyland for me. So many rides! Such a magical land. Look...over there... a woman who flies out of a castle! Each poet/teacher added something to my way of looking at poems, thinking of poems, writing poems. Even the least of these teachers added.
My father used to say to us find something you're good at and do that. Do that all the time if it makes you happy. Smart man. I know that my husband, in asking why I don't write novels, was actually asking me if writing novels might make me as happy as writing poetry does. He was letting me know that he sees my writing as perhaps more malleable and more open than I do. What he he has done however is to make me explore more deeply why I do what I do.
Novels are complex machines. They are also very needy. They want to be fed over the long haul with exotic foods like plots, rising action, climaxes, faux climaxes, falling action, round and flat characters, protagonists and antagonists. Denouement. My friend Layne did a presentation in grad school on the "W" of novel structure. Brilliant way to look at construction of a novel. I kept a copy and look at it from time to time, but every time I look at it, I realize that it is too much for me. It's like building a whole house with five bedrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, four baths, and a garage would be too much for me. I like working small. I don't mind working hard. Just small, please. 40 lines or fewer.
I did write a 100 line poem in 2014. That is 100 lines, not 100,000 words. Writing that poem was like running a marathon. When I was finished I wondered where I had been and how I got here. I will probably never write a poem that long again. And forget ever getting it published. Who would take on a 100 line poem?
One of these days I may do a novel. On my terms. A verse novel. Guaranteed it will not be 100,000 words. It will be a series of poem-like chapters with a plot line running through them. It will have characters and setting and action, rising and falling. Maybe Laynes "W" handout will be my guide. Oh, yes. It will not be a "smut novel."
I have long considered why I am a poet, why I don't write fiction. In grad school, my friend Audrey's husband admonished both of us to write something more economically productive. You girls ought to write "smut novels," he said. That's where the money is. We laughed til our sides ached. Smut novels... indeed. We are poets. We are always going to be poets. It's in our DNA.
Many of my colleagues in grad school were concentrating their schooling on fiction, either short stories or novels. I am in awe of novelists like Janet Fitch (White Oleander is my favorite) and who hates a good short story? But write them? Sigh.
I joke with people when they ask why not write a novel. I tell them that whatever a novelist can put in 100,000 words I can do in 40 lines or fewer. Funny joke, right? Well, it is not so funny to me. I do not, just do not have the staying power to go 100,000 words to get across a single incident or point. I get bored. I get so frustrated that soon I am putting the thing into a poem and feeling darned satisfied if I do say so. And I do say so.
My friend Layne is an amazing writer. She was part of my grad school cohort but in fiction. My friend Nanci was also part of that cohort, but in creative nonfiction (aka memoir). Both of these women can write circles around me when it comes to prose. I love novels and memoir. I have always read both. But when it comes to writing, poetry is my place. It is how I think, all metaphor all the time. I love metaphor, word play, form. I think this way, much the way I dream. Maybe I am a dreamer because of poetry, or maybe I am a poet because I dream.
I have studied under some pretty fantastic poets. Each class or workshop was like going to Disneyland for me. So many rides! Such a magical land. Look...over there... a woman who flies out of a castle! Each poet/teacher added something to my way of looking at poems, thinking of poems, writing poems. Even the least of these teachers added.
My father used to say to us find something you're good at and do that. Do that all the time if it makes you happy. Smart man. I know that my husband, in asking why I don't write novels, was actually asking me if writing novels might make me as happy as writing poetry does. He was letting me know that he sees my writing as perhaps more malleable and more open than I do. What he he has done however is to make me explore more deeply why I do what I do.
Novels are complex machines. They are also very needy. They want to be fed over the long haul with exotic foods like plots, rising action, climaxes, faux climaxes, falling action, round and flat characters, protagonists and antagonists. Denouement. My friend Layne did a presentation in grad school on the "W" of novel structure. Brilliant way to look at construction of a novel. I kept a copy and look at it from time to time, but every time I look at it, I realize that it is too much for me. It's like building a whole house with five bedrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, four baths, and a garage would be too much for me. I like working small. I don't mind working hard. Just small, please. 40 lines or fewer.
I did write a 100 line poem in 2014. That is 100 lines, not 100,000 words. Writing that poem was like running a marathon. When I was finished I wondered where I had been and how I got here. I will probably never write a poem that long again. And forget ever getting it published. Who would take on a 100 line poem?
One of these days I may do a novel. On my terms. A verse novel. Guaranteed it will not be 100,000 words. It will be a series of poem-like chapters with a plot line running through them. It will have characters and setting and action, rising and falling. Maybe Laynes "W" handout will be my guide. Oh, yes. It will not be a "smut novel."
Support your local poet(s); a teeny tiny rant
Today I am going off the rails a bit to complain. I don't like to do this, but sometimes one must. A complaint can sometimes seem like (or be) whining. I am not a whiner. But I do think I want to speak out.
I am what I like to think of as a poet's poet. I have been told this by not just a few people. I support poetry in many ways, not the least of which is buying poetry books, either for my personal library or for giving away to others or to public libraries and schools. I attend readings and book launches whenever I can. I particularly like to buy directly from poets at readings and book launches. If I cannot do this, I order them from publishers or find them in bookstores.
I think this is what ought to happen — because unlike someone with a film, a novel, or a memoir, poets do not get huge sales for their books even when they do sell them, unless they have the good luck to become nationally known. Even at readings, it is rare for poets to sell many books. There is interest in reading poetry, just not so much in buying it. I have noticed a phenomenon that is, frankly, quite disturbing. Some people attend readings and go up to speak with the poet afterward, but instead of buying the book from the poet, they will ask the poet to email a copy of a poem or provide a printed copy of that "special poem I loved so much which brought me to tears." I'd love to have a copy for my sister whose ..... can you send it to me? I am amazed that some people think poems ought to be free, where they would never assume a novelist would give away a chapter. I've considered putting out a tip jar at readings, the way musical groups do at cafés and coffee houses. Suggested donation, $5. Maybe a "free" poem for your donation. By the way, at my readings I always have a door prize or two, usually one of my books.
We who write work very hard at our craft. To poets, every word is critical: right word, right place. Writing poems is not a matter of taking nice sentences and breaking them into lines (or it shouldn't be that). Poems are mirrors. They are magic boxes. They are clues and answers to the riddle that is humanity. So we who write them are careful. We know that the wrong word can change everything. It is a big responsibility. We FEEL that responsibility when we write. The truth of the matter is that most poets are the starving artists we hear about in clichés. No, I am not starving. I am fortunate to be supported by a loving husband who is happy to feed me, and then some.
I am a writer, an artist. This is not a hobby. It is something for which I attended school, for which I earned two degrees. I am a professional. So are all of us who write and make books.
So if you have a book, I will buy it. If you hold a reading or a book launch, I will do my best to attend if I am in town where you are holding your event. I will buy your books there too.
OK, I am done now. I will keep this short because I have to dash off to get my free root canal.
I am what I like to think of as a poet's poet. I have been told this by not just a few people. I support poetry in many ways, not the least of which is buying poetry books, either for my personal library or for giving away to others or to public libraries and schools. I attend readings and book launches whenever I can. I particularly like to buy directly from poets at readings and book launches. If I cannot do this, I order them from publishers or find them in bookstores.
I think this is what ought to happen — because unlike someone with a film, a novel, or a memoir, poets do not get huge sales for their books even when they do sell them, unless they have the good luck to become nationally known. Even at readings, it is rare for poets to sell many books. There is interest in reading poetry, just not so much in buying it. I have noticed a phenomenon that is, frankly, quite disturbing. Some people attend readings and go up to speak with the poet afterward, but instead of buying the book from the poet, they will ask the poet to email a copy of a poem or provide a printed copy of that "special poem I loved so much which brought me to tears." I'd love to have a copy for my sister whose ..... can you send it to me? I am amazed that some people think poems ought to be free, where they would never assume a novelist would give away a chapter. I've considered putting out a tip jar at readings, the way musical groups do at cafés and coffee houses. Suggested donation, $5. Maybe a "free" poem for your donation. By the way, at my readings I always have a door prize or two, usually one of my books.
We who write work very hard at our craft. To poets, every word is critical: right word, right place. Writing poems is not a matter of taking nice sentences and breaking them into lines (or it shouldn't be that). Poems are mirrors. They are magic boxes. They are clues and answers to the riddle that is humanity. So we who write them are careful. We know that the wrong word can change everything. It is a big responsibility. We FEEL that responsibility when we write. The truth of the matter is that most poets are the starving artists we hear about in clichés. No, I am not starving. I am fortunate to be supported by a loving husband who is happy to feed me, and then some.
I am a writer, an artist. This is not a hobby. It is something for which I attended school, for which I earned two degrees. I am a professional. So are all of us who write and make books.
So if you have a book, I will buy it. If you hold a reading or a book launch, I will do my best to attend if I am in town where you are holding your event. I will buy your books there too.
OK, I am done now. I will keep this short because I have to dash off to get my free root canal.
Friday, March 16, 2018
365/365, a discipline
Today my chat with you is about discipline. No, not the "go to your room until you can tell me why you did that" kind of discipline. I'm referring to the kind where you set up a challenge for yourself to accomplish a task that will create a habit, bust you out of a locked door (artistically), or set yourself on a course to completion of a project. My project was to be 365/365.
For me, the discipline came sneaking in where I had not expected it. November is typically a writing month challenge. You've seen them: NaNoWriMo etc. November National Writing Month. I've taken a stab at these every couple years, to no good end. You see, I am easily distracted. Very easily. I'd write for a couple days and then remember a particular project and shift to that, or I'd start writing and the watercolors would call my name and I'd go paint. I realized a long time ago that I am scattery and random in my artistic practice. Ever hear that one needs to work 10,000 hours to be good at something? Yeah. But do those hours have to be in any kind of a time frame? How about spread out over 50 years? UGH. I am sure that is not the way it is supposed to go.
I want to be a great poet. Not just a good enough poet. Not even a very good poet. I want to leave something on this planet that might survive my mortality. Big goal, yes? Achievable? Maybe or maybe not. But isn't it about the journey rather than the destination?
My dear husband once said to me only a handful of poets ever really make it big. I won't go into how mad that made me other than to say that I was thinking why can't I be in that handful? NOTE: we worked out later why that statement hurt and why he ought to NEVER say such a limiting thing to me again. Love the guy. He is very supportive. I probably got overly sensitive when he said it. Happens. But one good thing came from that incident as it haunted me like a crazy relative with an axe. I became more determined. I wanted to keep going.
In October of 2012, with the NaNoWriMo challenge on the horizon, I decided to go for it. But, as I am a fairly stubborn person, I wanted to do it my own way. So I set out to create my own prompts. I wrote a month's worth and put them into a file on my computer. I had difficulty writing just 30 prompts. I like to write them for the workshops I offer, a kind of nerdy hobby you might say. So for giggles I wrote a few more, then several more. I had over 60 more before the tv show I was watching had ended. I knew I'd have use for the "leftovers" later. I began my writing project precisely on November 1, 2012. A poem a day for 30 days. Oh, and I decided not to veer off course by changing the prompts I had already devised. No matter what. Stay the course exactly as it was plotted. This was to change ever so slightly, but more on that later.
Once November was winding down, me chugging right along with a poem (draft of course) every day, it occurred to me that I might not be done yet. Maybe I would write into December, finish up the year. Good. Had prompts I could use. At the end of December, the 30th to be exact, I recalled that the writing the final poem of December fit nicely in with another discipline I have done for 18 years: write the final poem of the year on New Year's Eve and the first poem of the next year on New Year's Day (another story for another blog post). I was already going to write one on January 1st. What the hell; why not just keep going. Do the thing for a whole year. Thus my 365/365 discipline was underway.
Discipline of any kind requires a certain amount of stamina. It means one has to keep going in all kinds of emotional weather. There is no day off for going to the beach or even for being down with a bad cold. One must be self-pushing. Oh dear. Could I? Would I?
I said yes.
Thus was my year-long discipline born. Yikes.
I decided to fine-tune. I wanted the prompts to speak to me as if freshly baked. I did not want to be aware of what the prompts were before I got to them. So, time had to be spent putting together a year of prompts. Cue me sitting in front of the tv, watching favorite shows as I created prompts. Multi-tasker is what I am. After all, I raised a flock of kids. I divided the prompts into months, then weeks. I numbered them within each week, Days 1-7. I created a folder and filled it, ready to keep going. It didn't take long however for me to decide to veer a bit from the never change a prompt no matter what plan. December 2012 bought an event that shook me right to the core of myself as a human being, as a mother, as a poet. Evil walked into a school in Connecticut and took the lives of children and teachers and staff. Evil walked right in and did that. I don't remember what my original prompt was for that day. I just know it was too much to write about something else. My poem, Lessons From First Grade, was the poem I wrote instead.
— for the children of Newtown, CT
I broke my promise to myself for these broken children. How could I not?
One thing we learn from undertaking such a discipline as this one, is that we poets, writers, artists of all kinds have the rare opportunity to stop and look carefully at the world, then render it in ways that help others see what we are seeing. We hold up a mirror and ask the world to look, to see what we see.
After the Newtown poem was written, I could hardly go on. Once I became aware that there was going to be no reckoning on behalf of these children in terms of changes to our laws, to our mechanisms of protecting the most vulnerable among us, I became sadder and more deeply afraid for what we might become as a world.
I was not ready to continue writing. But I had to.
The only other time during the year's discipline that I veered from the plan came in spring of 2013, four months after Newtown. A pair of crazy men decided to create death and havoc at the running of the Boston Marathon. Evil walked the route of the marathon and turned a beautiful day of sunshine into a rain of metal, killing and maiming runners and spectators. This was not supposed to happen, but Evil knows no bounds. Of course the day's prompt had to be replaced. I had to do something. Mirror, world: how do you look as you gaze into it?
Once more, Evil had to be called out. What kind of discipline can we find to change things?
The next day, I resumed writing to the proscribed prompts with a gusto. I seem to have gained strength from weakness. I finished the project on October 31, 2013. I was not even tired.
After the disciplined writing was at an end, I wondered what would become of these prompts and their resulting poems. Each month, week, day had taught me something about writing, about myself as a poet, and about the world around me. I had to share. But I needed time and distance from the poems to gain perspective. So, printed out and put into file folders (as well as in folders on my computer), they sat. Occasionally I'd dig out a folder and read a bit.
I knew the poems were not quite finished, needed editing and revising. A few months ago, I got busy with them again, folder by folder, week by week, day by day. I began putting the prompts together into a manuscript, along with comments and sample poems. Maybe someone else would like to have the prompts, and a little insight from my discipline. Just maybe this was worth publishing. I decided to go for it. I decided that there also needs to be somewhere for people to read ALL the poems I had written in that year of discipline. 365 prompts and 365 poems. BIG book.
Perhaps there is another way. What about two books, companions to one anther, to be sold separately in case the reader only wants one or the other. Still, what publisher would want to take on such a project?
Time will tell. At this point, I have completed both. I have a cover and a title. Not sure if I am going to send it out or if I will publish as an eBook. At any rate, here is the cover.
The art work is my own, done in the late 80s. It is a digital drawing, Bird Heart.
Enough from me for today. I need to do laundry and call about getting my revised web site hosted. April is coming and it needs to be ready to roll out then. No time like the present. After all, I am a disciplined person, right?
Tomorrow? hmmmm
For me, the discipline came sneaking in where I had not expected it. November is typically a writing month challenge. You've seen them: NaNoWriMo etc. November National Writing Month. I've taken a stab at these every couple years, to no good end. You see, I am easily distracted. Very easily. I'd write for a couple days and then remember a particular project and shift to that, or I'd start writing and the watercolors would call my name and I'd go paint. I realized a long time ago that I am scattery and random in my artistic practice. Ever hear that one needs to work 10,000 hours to be good at something? Yeah. But do those hours have to be in any kind of a time frame? How about spread out over 50 years? UGH. I am sure that is not the way it is supposed to go.
I want to be a great poet. Not just a good enough poet. Not even a very good poet. I want to leave something on this planet that might survive my mortality. Big goal, yes? Achievable? Maybe or maybe not. But isn't it about the journey rather than the destination?
My dear husband once said to me only a handful of poets ever really make it big. I won't go into how mad that made me other than to say that I was thinking why can't I be in that handful? NOTE: we worked out later why that statement hurt and why he ought to NEVER say such a limiting thing to me again. Love the guy. He is very supportive. I probably got overly sensitive when he said it. Happens. But one good thing came from that incident as it haunted me like a crazy relative with an axe. I became more determined. I wanted to keep going.
In October of 2012, with the NaNoWriMo challenge on the horizon, I decided to go for it. But, as I am a fairly stubborn person, I wanted to do it my own way. So I set out to create my own prompts. I wrote a month's worth and put them into a file on my computer. I had difficulty writing just 30 prompts. I like to write them for the workshops I offer, a kind of nerdy hobby you might say. So for giggles I wrote a few more, then several more. I had over 60 more before the tv show I was watching had ended. I knew I'd have use for the "leftovers" later. I began my writing project precisely on November 1, 2012. A poem a day for 30 days. Oh, and I decided not to veer off course by changing the prompts I had already devised. No matter what. Stay the course exactly as it was plotted. This was to change ever so slightly, but more on that later.
Once November was winding down, me chugging right along with a poem (draft of course) every day, it occurred to me that I might not be done yet. Maybe I would write into December, finish up the year. Good. Had prompts I could use. At the end of December, the 30th to be exact, I recalled that the writing the final poem of December fit nicely in with another discipline I have done for 18 years: write the final poem of the year on New Year's Eve and the first poem of the next year on New Year's Day (another story for another blog post). I was already going to write one on January 1st. What the hell; why not just keep going. Do the thing for a whole year. Thus my 365/365 discipline was underway.
Discipline of any kind requires a certain amount of stamina. It means one has to keep going in all kinds of emotional weather. There is no day off for going to the beach or even for being down with a bad cold. One must be self-pushing. Oh dear. Could I? Would I?
I said yes.
Thus was my year-long discipline born. Yikes.
I decided to fine-tune. I wanted the prompts to speak to me as if freshly baked. I did not want to be aware of what the prompts were before I got to them. So, time had to be spent putting together a year of prompts. Cue me sitting in front of the tv, watching favorite shows as I created prompts. Multi-tasker is what I am. After all, I raised a flock of kids. I divided the prompts into months, then weeks. I numbered them within each week, Days 1-7. I created a folder and filled it, ready to keep going. It didn't take long however for me to decide to veer a bit from the never change a prompt no matter what plan. December 2012 bought an event that shook me right to the core of myself as a human being, as a mother, as a poet. Evil walked into a school in Connecticut and took the lives of children and teachers and staff. Evil walked right in and did that. I don't remember what my original prompt was for that day. I just know it was too much to write about something else. My poem, Lessons From First Grade, was the poem I wrote instead.
Lessons From First Grade
In the front row, a boy fidgeting
with the buttons on his shirt.
His mother lets him do them on his own
because it’s what mothers do
for their first grader sons. He hears
a sound and looks up to see a shadow:
Is it his dad coming home early? His
cousin bringing cookies for the party?
A loud noise. All the buttons
pop off his shirt as he falls to the floor.
— and no time to call for his mother.
One thing we learn from undertaking such a discipline as this one, is that we poets, writers, artists of all kinds have the rare opportunity to stop and look carefully at the world, then render it in ways that help others see what we are seeing. We hold up a mirror and ask the world to look, to see what we see.
After the Newtown poem was written, I could hardly go on. Once I became aware that there was going to be no reckoning on behalf of these children in terms of changes to our laws, to our mechanisms of protecting the most vulnerable among us, I became sadder and more deeply afraid for what we might become as a world.
I was not ready to continue writing. But I had to.
The only other time during the year's discipline that I veered from the plan came in spring of 2013, four months after Newtown. A pair of crazy men decided to create death and havoc at the running of the Boston Marathon. Evil walked the route of the marathon and turned a beautiful day of sunshine into a rain of metal, killing and maiming runners and spectators. This was not supposed to happen, but Evil knows no bounds. Of course the day's prompt had to be replaced. I had to do something. Mirror, world: how do you look as you gaze into it?
Marathon
Birds of spring swoop in low and land.
Runners gasping, sucking for breath
don’t think they’re in a race with death,
know nothing of the evil plan
of someone on this festive day.
Boston town, where patriots stood
their ground for freedom’s cause of good,
bloodied, cleft by terror’s sway.
Birds of prey, of metal pieces,
spew death and mayhem in the crowd
as two sharp blasts report out loud.
Helpers run straight into the fracus.
They give quick aid to everyone,
risking all to aid the dying,
staunching wounds, comforting crying
kids looking for their dads or moms.
Guardian angels overhead
watch with woe o’er the grisly scene.
With haloed heads bent low, they keen
a dirge for all the newly dead.
Heaven opens reluctant gates
to welcome those newly arrived.
Those whose bodies did not survive
an act of terror and of hate.
As darkness falls to darkest night
the city birds forget their flight
but perch the tops of wrecked remains,
a cordoned street of blood and brains
spilled out in such a gruesome deed,
its evil such an awful breed
which glories in its brutal ways
on such a happy peaceful day.
The next day, I resumed writing to the proscribed prompts with a gusto. I seem to have gained strength from weakness. I finished the project on October 31, 2013. I was not even tired.
After the disciplined writing was at an end, I wondered what would become of these prompts and their resulting poems. Each month, week, day had taught me something about writing, about myself as a poet, and about the world around me. I had to share. But I needed time and distance from the poems to gain perspective. So, printed out and put into file folders (as well as in folders on my computer), they sat. Occasionally I'd dig out a folder and read a bit.
I knew the poems were not quite finished, needed editing and revising. A few months ago, I got busy with them again, folder by folder, week by week, day by day. I began putting the prompts together into a manuscript, along with comments and sample poems. Maybe someone else would like to have the prompts, and a little insight from my discipline. Just maybe this was worth publishing. I decided to go for it. I decided that there also needs to be somewhere for people to read ALL the poems I had written in that year of discipline. 365 prompts and 365 poems. BIG book.
Perhaps there is another way. What about two books, companions to one anther, to be sold separately in case the reader only wants one or the other. Still, what publisher would want to take on such a project?
Time will tell. At this point, I have completed both. I have a cover and a title. Not sure if I am going to send it out or if I will publish as an eBook. At any rate, here is the cover.
The art work is my own, done in the late 80s. It is a digital drawing, Bird Heart.
Tomorrow? hmmmm
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Welcome Back Bachofner
Here I am, the prodigal blogger. Mea culpa, mea culpa for wasting the opportunity to connect with all of you via my blog-o-sphere! It’s not that I’ve had nothing to say… THAT never happens. I have just been busy writing. I guess that is not me being lazy, just not being communicative with all of you. So, here’s what I have to tell you. I’ll try to be brief.
1. I have been traveling
Where did I go? I went to Prague in November and spent three days wandering around the city, amazed by the architecture and the culture. This is a city to which I will return for more. From Prague on to Nuremburg, Germany and boarding the Viking longship, Gullveig, for a cruise on the Danube all the way to Budapest, Hungary. What a wonderful trip. Maybe later a few photos. took so many of those.
More travels coming in the future, including an Alaska cruise (to keep a promise to my fahter who always wanted to go there, but did not live to do so) and in 2019 a BIG trip to the Vking Homelands: Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Estonia, Poland, Berlin, Iceland. Wow, cannot wait for that one.
2. I have been writing (well, of course that is what I am SUPPOSED to be doing)
What have you accomplished, Carol? you ask…
a. A new book out inlate 2017 The Boyfriend Project is a collection of poems about girlfriends and their boyfriends, a look at the stories I have and stories other women have shared with me, translated into poems. Some who have read it tell me they were immediately brought back to their “love experiences” and took that stroll into the past. One woman thanked me for not making the poems all mushy and sentimental. Indeed they are not. Sweet and soulful some, dark and dangerous others. Everything in between. I am actually thinking of a sequel.
b. A new book, Test Pattern; a Fantod of Prose Poems, soon to be relased by Finishing Line Press (May 2018). These poems are a real departure for me, wandering off like Old Pima into the realm of prose poetry. There are a couple postcard poems and a Q & A poem, along with some poems that defy labeling. I am particularly happy with this collection because it was a wild ride from start to finish, 21 of the drafts written in a single week. Yes, of course there was the massive revision process later, but quite a production for a wekk just getting the drafts of these done.
I can hear you now: what is a fantod? Ha!
A fantod is defined as a state of discomfort or unreasonableness. Nod to Edward Gorey here for creating his amazing Fantod Pack of “tarot” style cards, from whence came the inspiration.
c. Ther has been some adding to the family and other amazing family events
Since last we chatted here, we have added 4 GREATgrandchildren to the family:
Althea Rose (Justin & Brittany)
Emily Christeen (Alex & Elizabeth)
Calvin R. (Nick & Allie)
Charlotte Joy (Justin and Brittany AGAIN)
Two granddaughters went off to university this fall, one to Univeristy of California at Santa Barbara and the other to Univeristy of Washington. I am writing them letters and sending care packages. Isn’t that what grandmothers do?
Okay, now to what's on my mind right now? Oh so much but here are a couple things:
1. I am so distressed at the state of our country
2. I am so distressed over all these mass shootings
About 1. I plan on exercising my voice at the polls as my contribution to "righting the ship" The madness, ignorance, and complacency has got to stop before we have no nation left.
About 2. I stood with our students this morning as hey silently remember the 17 students murdered by a gunman in Parkland FL a month ago yesterday. I am working (as a school board member here) on issues and policies around school safety.
I will not belabor these points. Not today.
On a very happy and positive note:
Soon, in the next couple of weeks, my web site www.carolbachofner.com will have a new look and new content. It will feature not only my writing but also my art (original watercolors) and my photography. It will be an interactive site where you can order books and ask me questions about anything art/writing related.
I have another new book in the making. It came from my 365 Project (a prophet and a poem a day for a year. I will put this out as a pair of eBooks which will be VERY reasonable in cost. It is in two books, one book of the prompts, one book is my response poems to those prompts).
The prompt part consists of a daily prompt arranged by months and weeks. Each month's entry has a bit of writing advice and a sample poem of mine from that month. The poetry book part has the same divisions, but features all of the poems I wrote in response to the prompts.
This will be FUN, INSPIRING, and really low cost to the purchaser. I am working on how to offer subscriptions to it without violating my own intellectual property rights.
Look for this by end of summer, if not sooner. It will be announced in the Bookography section of my web site, so be sure to visit to find it.
I am featured as a guest blogger on Luanne Castle's blog site. Luanne was one of my professors at California State University San Bernardino. Later we became friends and are colleagues in the world of writing.
My contribution to her blog is in two parts. The first is me discussing my new book, The Boyfriend Project, the second (to be published in a few days) is the upcoming book, Test Pattern: a Fantod of Prose Poems, soon to be released by Finishing Line Press. You can visit the website to order this book at www.finishinglinepress.com Look under new releases and the letter B.
Please visit Luanne's blog at https://writersite.org/2018/03/15/bachofner-on-the-boyfriend-project/ While you are there, investigate her book, Kin Types and order a copy for yourself. You will love it as I do.
On a not so happy note:
I have suspended the magazine which I had edited and published since 1996, Pulse. Reason: lack of contributions that were publishable, especially in fiction. This is painful. But, I do not throw in the towel. Pulse may rise again under a new name and new format. One thing at a time though.
Well, my promise to be "brief" here has been broken. As I like to say, Like to say.
So adieu for now.
Stay tuned.
1. I have been traveling
Where did I go? I went to Prague in November and spent three days wandering around the city, amazed by the architecture and the culture. This is a city to which I will return for more. From Prague on to Nuremburg, Germany and boarding the Viking longship, Gullveig, for a cruise on the Danube all the way to Budapest, Hungary. What a wonderful trip. Maybe later a few photos. took so many of those.
More travels coming in the future, including an Alaska cruise (to keep a promise to my fahter who always wanted to go there, but did not live to do so) and in 2019 a BIG trip to the Vking Homelands: Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Estonia, Poland, Berlin, Iceland. Wow, cannot wait for that one.
2. I have been writing (well, of course that is what I am SUPPOSED to be doing)
What have you accomplished, Carol? you ask…
a. A new book out inlate 2017 The Boyfriend Project is a collection of poems about girlfriends and their boyfriends, a look at the stories I have and stories other women have shared with me, translated into poems. Some who have read it tell me they were immediately brought back to their “love experiences” and took that stroll into the past. One woman thanked me for not making the poems all mushy and sentimental. Indeed they are not. Sweet and soulful some, dark and dangerous others. Everything in between. I am actually thinking of a sequel.
b. A new book, Test Pattern; a Fantod of Prose Poems, soon to be relased by Finishing Line Press (May 2018). These poems are a real departure for me, wandering off like Old Pima into the realm of prose poetry. There are a couple postcard poems and a Q & A poem, along with some poems that defy labeling. I am particularly happy with this collection because it was a wild ride from start to finish, 21 of the drafts written in a single week. Yes, of course there was the massive revision process later, but quite a production for a wekk just getting the drafts of these done.
I can hear you now: what is a fantod? Ha!
A fantod is defined as a state of discomfort or unreasonableness. Nod to Edward Gorey here for creating his amazing Fantod Pack of “tarot” style cards, from whence came the inspiration.
c. Ther has been some adding to the family and other amazing family events
Since last we chatted here, we have added 4 GREATgrandchildren to the family:
Althea Rose (Justin & Brittany)
Emily Christeen (Alex & Elizabeth)
Calvin R. (Nick & Allie)
Charlotte Joy (Justin and Brittany AGAIN)
Two granddaughters went off to university this fall, one to Univeristy of California at Santa Barbara and the other to Univeristy of Washington. I am writing them letters and sending care packages. Isn’t that what grandmothers do?
Okay, now to what's on my mind right now? Oh so much but here are a couple things:
1. I am so distressed at the state of our country
2. I am so distressed over all these mass shootings
About 1. I plan on exercising my voice at the polls as my contribution to "righting the ship" The madness, ignorance, and complacency has got to stop before we have no nation left.
About 2. I stood with our students this morning as hey silently remember the 17 students murdered by a gunman in Parkland FL a month ago yesterday. I am working (as a school board member here) on issues and policies around school safety.
I will not belabor these points. Not today.
On a very happy and positive note:
Soon, in the next couple of weeks, my web site www.carolbachofner.com will have a new look and new content. It will feature not only my writing but also my art (original watercolors) and my photography. It will be an interactive site where you can order books and ask me questions about anything art/writing related.
I have another new book in the making. It came from my 365 Project (a prophet and a poem a day for a year. I will put this out as a pair of eBooks which will be VERY reasonable in cost. It is in two books, one book of the prompts, one book is my response poems to those prompts).
The prompt part consists of a daily prompt arranged by months and weeks. Each month's entry has a bit of writing advice and a sample poem of mine from that month. The poetry book part has the same divisions, but features all of the poems I wrote in response to the prompts.
This will be FUN, INSPIRING, and really low cost to the purchaser. I am working on how to offer subscriptions to it without violating my own intellectual property rights.
Look for this by end of summer, if not sooner. It will be announced in the Bookography section of my web site, so be sure to visit to find it.
I am featured as a guest blogger on Luanne Castle's blog site. Luanne was one of my professors at California State University San Bernardino. Later we became friends and are colleagues in the world of writing.
My contribution to her blog is in two parts. The first is me discussing my new book, The Boyfriend Project, the second (to be published in a few days) is the upcoming book, Test Pattern: a Fantod of Prose Poems, soon to be released by Finishing Line Press. You can visit the website to order this book at www.finishinglinepress.com Look under new releases and the letter B.
Please visit Luanne's blog at https://writersite.org/2018/03/15/bachofner-on-the-boyfriend-project/ While you are there, investigate her book, Kin Types and order a copy for yourself. You will love it as I do.
On a not so happy note:
I have suspended the magazine which I had edited and published since 1996, Pulse. Reason: lack of contributions that were publishable, especially in fiction. This is painful. But, I do not throw in the towel. Pulse may rise again under a new name and new format. One thing at a time though.
Well, my promise to be "brief" here has been broken. As I like to say, Like to say.
So adieu for now.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Trump and Through the Looking Glass
We are through the looking glass these days, where everything real isn't and everything unreal is. We have allowed crazy upsidedownness to thrive. We do it by seeing politics as a place to be "funny" at the expense of others. We seem to like the loudest mouths and the biggest booming threats. We believe that if we elect a CEO, we will get benefits from that person. We ignore things of moral value in favor of flashy rhetoric, even when the flashy rhetoric is false, PROVABLY false.
We allow, even celebrate, those who lie and are inhumane and threatening to others (those others are people who are not like"us.") We choose to believe lies because the lies seem "entertaining" or because those lies seem to offer change. Some even say "he thinks like I do" (which gives me a shudder to think how many might be like him)
We prefer ANY difference in or challenge to the "status quo" versus truths or facts that can be verified. We prefer to let sound bytes "educate us" and believe what others tell us to believe, maybe because we are so confused we don't recognize our own beliefs, our own values. We are part of a problem we cannot see as we cheer the emperor with no clothes in a kind of sad mob mentality, sad and dangerous mob mentality.
Do we think this fear-mongering stance will not be "real" in its dire consequence after November? It is going to get "real" real fast, people. Step away from the funhouse mirror.
I for one, am scared that should Trump take office, only people like him will survive. And that one of his tantrums of xenophobia and racism will end us, literally end us in a puff of nuclear smoke and ash. Listen to what other people around the world are saying about him and pull your heads out of his butt.
If you are not a rich white male you will soon realize Trump doesn't care about you at all. He is a vapid, self-serving, man. HOPE: get every person of color, every middle class person, every young voter, every woman you know to vote against this terror of a man. And PLEASE understand that a third party vote will GIVE the election to Trump, will hand him the nuclear codes and double-dog-dare him to use them.
We allow, even celebrate, those who lie and are inhumane and threatening to others (those others are people who are not like"us.") We choose to believe lies because the lies seem "entertaining" or because those lies seem to offer change. Some even say "he thinks like I do" (which gives me a shudder to think how many might be like him)
We prefer ANY difference in or challenge to the "status quo" versus truths or facts that can be verified. We prefer to let sound bytes "educate us" and believe what others tell us to believe, maybe because we are so confused we don't recognize our own beliefs, our own values. We are part of a problem we cannot see as we cheer the emperor with no clothes in a kind of sad mob mentality, sad and dangerous mob mentality.
Do we think this fear-mongering stance will not be "real" in its dire consequence after November? It is going to get "real" real fast, people. Step away from the funhouse mirror.
I for one, am scared that should Trump take office, only people like him will survive. And that one of his tantrums of xenophobia and racism will end us, literally end us in a puff of nuclear smoke and ash. Listen to what other people around the world are saying about him and pull your heads out of his butt.
If you are not a rich white male you will soon realize Trump doesn't care about you at all. He is a vapid, self-serving, man. HOPE: get every person of color, every middle class person, every young voter, every woman you know to vote against this terror of a man. And PLEASE understand that a third party vote will GIVE the election to Trump, will hand him the nuclear codes and double-dog-dare him to use them.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
winding down 2015
It's been a busy year. Not that this blog is evidence. I have not posted since LAST New Year's Eve, sad to say. But I shall do better.
To my credit I have not been idle. Many poems written, much work done on local school board, progress on the Wilbur book, and lots of living lived. But I am remiss in my posting. Mea culpa.
So... expect more from this poet in 2016
I have a few goals:
1. finish the Wilbur book.
2. get two manuscripts out there
3. write for 2 hours a day on SOMETHING
4. take more art classes ( I took up watercolor this year after a 35 year hiatus... more of a lack of confidence as an artist than a hiatus)
5. did I mention finish the Wilbur book? yeah that.
To my credit I have not been idle. Many poems written, much work done on local school board, progress on the Wilbur book, and lots of living lived. But I am remiss in my posting. Mea culpa.
So... expect more from this poet in 2016
I have a few goals:
1. finish the Wilbur book.
2. get two manuscripts out there
3. write for 2 hours a day on SOMETHING
4. take more art classes ( I took up watercolor this year after a 35 year hiatus... more of a lack of confidence as an artist than a hiatus)
5. did I mention finish the Wilbur book? yeah that.
Monday, December 29, 2014
As the year 2014 winds down, sliding along the wet ground like a shadow, I think of times gone by, of poems written and read, of friends made and kept, of walks along the boardwalk and countless sunsets that made me want to cry and sing at the same time. I think of family weddings, graduations, losses, triumphs.
If there is any message I'd like to impart here it is this:
Don't worry about the days and nights gone, don't regret, don't wallow. Just be for one another.
I credit my Abenaki and Scots ancestry for the ability to access long memory, the sense of being part of something that began long long ago and continues infinitely through what we leave behind, a fingerprint on the pages of history we turn, the book we leave open for the next reader. To that end, I have placed here on my blog the Scots version of Auld Lang Syne. It's melody is different from what is sung elsewhere. I prefer it. But whatever version YOU enjoy, the message is clear:
Be for one another; be kindness; be of long memory.
2015, I welcome you, with a full heart and a full pen.
If there is any message I'd like to impart here it is this:
Be for one another.
Don't worry about the days and nights gone, don't regret, don't wallow. Just be for one another.
I credit my Abenaki and Scots ancestry for the ability to access long memory, the sense of being part of something that began long long ago and continues infinitely through what we leave behind, a fingerprint on the pages of history we turn, the book we leave open for the next reader. To that end, I have placed here on my blog the Scots version of Auld Lang Syne. It's melody is different from what is sung elsewhere. I prefer it. But whatever version YOU enjoy, the message is clear:
Be for one another; be kindness; be of long memory.
2015, I welcome you, with a full heart and a full pen.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Nature vs Nurture really?
We are in trouble. We are in so deep I often wonder if there is a way out. Gun violence has risen to the point that I cannot recall a day in the recent past without some news story about an unarmed person getting killed by the police, or some kind of mass shooting somewhere. We have a segment of our citizenry defending gun rights as if the guns were their firstborn children. We have politicians behaving as if stepping up to enact safety laws is their own kiss of death.Truthfully, it is in many cases... the kiss of death for their political careers. They act expediently, with no political will do right by their constituents for basic safety of all. We act self-righteously indignant when we hear of, read about these senseless killings. We snicker and sneer over stories of rape and violence all the while not doing one whit to stop it all. Oh sure, we sign petitions asking for change, for help, but these go to political hacks who have not enough courage to even try to make a difference for us. When and how will it end?
I studied psychology in college... many many courses (if I had a declared minor, that would have been it) and in those courses, one of the big issues was an ongoing debate over whether nature or nurture made the difference in a person's moral outcome, the resultant world view/behavior of that person. I have studied philosophy and there the debate is similar: is a person inherently good or does "good" have to be learned? (I have, by the way, had THIS discussion with my 14 year old grandson and my 15 year old granddaughter who stand on opposite sides of the question). Nature vs Nurture. If it is Nurture, why do some of the BEST (defined as morally upright i.e. "good", kindness, acceptance of others over self) come from homes and environments where there is rampant moral turpitude and some of the WORST come from homes where there are good and loving parents who exemplified and taught uprightness?
Some religious people would have us look to a purported baser nature of mankind or womankind that derives its origins from the Fall of Adam. They say that humans naturally revert to "sinfulness" or lawlessness without regimentation and control by others, particularly those in authority. Areligious folks might argue that it is this very hemming in or control that pushes some folks toward the brink of bad behavior. Others might argue that worldy influences and fear are the roots of evil. I do not have the answer. I do believe that people are inherently good (seen any evil babies so far? I have not) and that something has caused hurt and that some may lack the life skills to seek peaceful resolution to their hurt. I also believe there are people (a tiny percentage) who have short-circuited brains that misfire enough to change personality in that person.
These are the folks with no apparent "conscience" or moral compass. These, I believe are RARE. This certainly does not fit with the tidal wave of violence that we face right now, which I believe comes in large part from a learned fear of others. I also believe that we are facing a time where we have been taught to fear thinking. I just cannot understand this at all. Mankind is so much more likely to be swayed into mob action if kept undereducated and marginalized.
I believe we must keep asking questions, holding one another accountable for our actions, and be brave enough to call a wrong a wrong when it happens rather than rushing to find/make excuses for it. We cannot hope to eradicate rape, for example if we keep blaming the victim, saying "this is just boys being boys," or looking the other way when women and girls (and some men too) come forward to tell us what has happened to them. We cannot rush to find a reason an unarmed teen is gunned down, or a woman is beaten by cops avon the roadside, or a deaf man is beaten because he didn't hear what the cops were asking him to do, or a man is beaten and dragged out of his car for simply telling the policemen that his son is autistic and cannot understand what they are asking. We have to say WRONG and hold these folks accountable. We have to say that their training (nurture) is flawed and change it. We have to say that their nature is being overcome. We have to promote peace and not supply tools of violence to anyone not seeking and acting on peacefulness. We cannot keep taking sides in armed conflicts.
I swear I do not understand what the point is to the arrogance, "me me me" attitude that is running rampant these days. It sickens me. Makes me want to escape to an isolated spot and wait for the shooting to stop. But then, I would not be part of the solution. So I have to blame myself too if nothing changes for good.
We have to ask ourselves the hard questions and not give up until we have answers and solutions. Why are guns more important than peace? Why is money to be made from doing harm more important than people? Why do we glory in some people being advantaged at the expense of others who are already struggling? Why do we look at others who are not like us and see with eyes of fear rather than seeing how we might learn from them and become more ourselves in the process? Why is hatred more attractive than love? Why are we less interested in being helpful and KIND to those we come to us for help and safety? I do not think or believe that it is at all Nature vs Nurture. I believe it is fear vs peace.
Therefore I will be peaceful no matter what. I will promote peace by voice and example. I will keep saying it is better to be happy than "right." I will keep believing that we are better than who we appear to be right now. I will not live in fear.
And I will pray that there are more people interested in peace than there are people picking up guns to defend their own fears.
I studied psychology in college... many many courses (if I had a declared minor, that would have been it) and in those courses, one of the big issues was an ongoing debate over whether nature or nurture made the difference in a person's moral outcome, the resultant world view/behavior of that person. I have studied philosophy and there the debate is similar: is a person inherently good or does "good" have to be learned? (I have, by the way, had THIS discussion with my 14 year old grandson and my 15 year old granddaughter who stand on opposite sides of the question). Nature vs Nurture. If it is Nurture, why do some of the BEST (defined as morally upright i.e. "good", kindness, acceptance of others over self) come from homes and environments where there is rampant moral turpitude and some of the WORST come from homes where there are good and loving parents who exemplified and taught uprightness?
Some religious people would have us look to a purported baser nature of mankind or womankind that derives its origins from the Fall of Adam. They say that humans naturally revert to "sinfulness" or lawlessness without regimentation and control by others, particularly those in authority. Areligious folks might argue that it is this very hemming in or control that pushes some folks toward the brink of bad behavior. Others might argue that worldy influences and fear are the roots of evil. I do not have the answer. I do believe that people are inherently good (seen any evil babies so far? I have not) and that something has caused hurt and that some may lack the life skills to seek peaceful resolution to their hurt. I also believe there are people (a tiny percentage) who have short-circuited brains that misfire enough to change personality in that person.
These are the folks with no apparent "conscience" or moral compass. These, I believe are RARE. This certainly does not fit with the tidal wave of violence that we face right now, which I believe comes in large part from a learned fear of others. I also believe that we are facing a time where we have been taught to fear thinking. I just cannot understand this at all. Mankind is so much more likely to be swayed into mob action if kept undereducated and marginalized.
I believe we must keep asking questions, holding one another accountable for our actions, and be brave enough to call a wrong a wrong when it happens rather than rushing to find/make excuses for it. We cannot hope to eradicate rape, for example if we keep blaming the victim, saying "this is just boys being boys," or looking the other way when women and girls (and some men too) come forward to tell us what has happened to them. We cannot rush to find a reason an unarmed teen is gunned down, or a woman is beaten by cops avon the roadside, or a deaf man is beaten because he didn't hear what the cops were asking him to do, or a man is beaten and dragged out of his car for simply telling the policemen that his son is autistic and cannot understand what they are asking. We have to say WRONG and hold these folks accountable. We have to say that their training (nurture) is flawed and change it. We have to say that their nature is being overcome. We have to promote peace and not supply tools of violence to anyone not seeking and acting on peacefulness. We cannot keep taking sides in armed conflicts.
I swear I do not understand what the point is to the arrogance, "me me me" attitude that is running rampant these days. It sickens me. Makes me want to escape to an isolated spot and wait for the shooting to stop. But then, I would not be part of the solution. So I have to blame myself too if nothing changes for good.
We have to ask ourselves the hard questions and not give up until we have answers and solutions. Why are guns more important than peace? Why is money to be made from doing harm more important than people? Why do we glory in some people being advantaged at the expense of others who are already struggling? Why do we look at others who are not like us and see with eyes of fear rather than seeing how we might learn from them and become more ourselves in the process? Why is hatred more attractive than love? Why are we less interested in being helpful and KIND to those we come to us for help and safety? I do not think or believe that it is at all Nature vs Nurture. I believe it is fear vs peace.
Therefore I will be peaceful no matter what. I will promote peace by voice and example. I will keep saying it is better to be happy than "right." I will keep believing that we are better than who we appear to be right now. I will not live in fear.
And I will pray that there are more people interested in peace than there are people picking up guns to defend their own fears.
Friday, August 15, 2014
An Uncomfortable Poem
We hear of the bombings in Gaza and Israel, the air strikes in Iraq, and think "thank God not here" until we watch what's happening in cities across America, large and small. Young unarmed people of color gunned down in a "shoot first, duck responsibility later" mode. This mess with out of control "law enforcement" has overtaken whatever joy there has been in our summertime. We shake our heads and wonder what got us to this point. The truth of the matter (as I see it, MHO only) is that we have lived for so long under a false coating of peaceful diversity when in fact racism has never really gone away. We elect a person of color to be president and there it goes, BAM! Out of the shadows the KKK (turned TEA) has erupted in angry off-the-wall and OPEN fear and loathing. It is dismaying to see this. The situation of immigration has fanned the flames of racism as well, with people being taught to fear anyone not like them, to decry these fellow humans as somehow taking away something to which only THEY are entitled, i.e. jobs, benefits, health care, education. The face on these people is decidedly BROWN or BLACK this time around. Forget the 20s and 30s when we feared the Irish or the Italians (though we did fear them, thinking the same thoughts "they're coming to take OUR jobs, apartments, schools, way of life). Forget the 50s and 60s when it was the Cubans or Puerto Ricans. Same thinking, same fears. Now it is a return to the slave days when Blacks were kept "in their place," but now there is mass media, social media, instant video feed, so we see it up close and in real time. Our rampant (and persistent) racism and xenophobia is on every TV or computer screen, on our phones as it happens. We can spin it, whitewash it, call it something else, or deny it is happening. We can wait for someone ELSE to fix it, or hope it goes away somehow. But it is not going away. When we as a nation, militarize our police, hand over control of daily life to fear, we will only go from bad to worse, and life as we know it (or thought we knew it) becomes a memory.
As usual, feeling frustrated at not being able to DO anything, I can only shine a light in the way I know best: through my writing. Therefore, yesterday, discouraged and angry, I penned this very uncomfortable poem. Please, readers, see it as what it is: commentary. I do not hate police, but I do hate what some of them are doing. We need to see the drastic situation for what it is: a tipping point.
So here goes (the "we" of the poem implies the voice of society):
As usual, feeling frustrated at not being able to DO anything, I can only shine a light in the way I know best: through my writing. Therefore, yesterday, discouraged and angry, I penned this very uncomfortable poem. Please, readers, see it as what it is: commentary. I do not hate police, but I do hate what some of them are doing. We need to see the drastic situation for what it is: a tipping point.
So here goes (the "we" of the poem implies the voice of society):
Police
We’re killing black kids, young men
ready for college or just shopping the sales
at Wally World. We choke hold ‘em,
shoot ‘em, would lynch a few if we could,
and maybe it’s heading back to that.
We don’t like brown or black, too dark
for us ‘cept on the beach where we risk melanoma
to get browner, but the palms of our hands
stay lily white as we grip
our weapons of choice for tonight.
We make sure the cops are armed for this:
semi-automatics, riot gear, tear gas
for all. Don’t worry officer, ain’t no one
gonna give up your name after.
We got your back, your white entitled back.
Hey you over there! Don’t you dare stand up,
hands up or not, just oughta stay the hell
in your place I say, one down
or cowered back like your grandaddies did.
You go tell your mama you did right.
We’re killing anyone and everyone
who don’t pray to the right Jesus, who ain’t
gonna stay inside tonight. We coming
for you, Mister Protester, Miss Civil Rights.
We're gettin’ closer and closer. We’ll kill you all.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Post Mortem, dona nobis pacem
I don't know where to start, but something about this world is making the most brilliant among us heartsick to the point of no longer being able to cope or stay. Robin Williams just couldn't stay. We will be the poorer for this early departure, the loss is feeling unbearable.
Private demons, the weight of celebrity, whatever it is, we are dying here. We are being killed by invisibles that haunt us at night, chase us by day, and hover over us always waiting to pounce.
Robin Williams' suicide is one in a long long line of these sadnesses. Many (most) we never hear about because they happen in bedrooms and garages and barns and cars all over the place to "ordinary" folks who just cannot endure another living moment. We hear of and are publicly shocked by celebrity suicides; we have claimed these brilliant people as "part of us" and cannot stand the thought they were not strong enough to stay. What a waste, we say. Indeed. but what of all the other sad, shortened lives we do not see in the public arena, the people we pass in the streets, know in our work, play with at school? They are lost to darkness too. The dark that is all around us.
I recall an incident from my childhood where a nine year old boy hanged himself in his grandmother's barn. Nine. He and his grandmother went to our church. He was in my class. I did not know what could possibly make him do this thing. But I do know, I did know at least a part of his darkness. This boy was bullied unmercifully — for having red hair and freckles and large ears that stuck out. He was called Howdy (after the Howdy Doody puppet on TV's Buffalo Bob Smith Show). He was never without some kind of sneering comment. The worst part of it was that no one thought anything about that at all. (I will say I did not make fun of him, but neither did I come to his side and tell kids to stop, so I bear a load of guilt too). When he died, I was shocked beyond belief. We had no grief counselors coming to school, no one talked about it whatsoever. No teacher intervened. It was right there in front of us and we all did nothing. But he did. The most awful something was what he did.
This visual will never leave me: One day his desk was spilling over with papers, the next day it was REMOVED from the row and put in the back of the room until the janitor came at lunchtime and took it to the school basement. I remember going down there (it was where our bathrooms were) and sitting in his chair and crying. It was so sad. I never knew anyone who had died until then. It was life-altering for me. To this day, I can close my eyes and see his face, his sad little freckled face. I mourn for him. I am ashamed.
Later I would encounter two more suicides: after high school, one of my classmate's father shot himself between their house and the post office, and in high school a girl a year ahead of me came home one day to find her mother, dead from hanging. What kind of terror is that? But no one much talked about these deaths either. It was whispered about and tongues clicked about what kind of horrible people these were to have done this to their families. NO ONE spoke about what life was like for these two desperately sad people, nor did anyone see the signs and intervene. I struggled then as I do now to find words or to figure out the whole of it.
I have been depressed in my life. Deeply and drastically depressed. After my divorce, with four young children to raise alone in poverty, I spent weeks barely coping, staying in bed most of the day when the kids were at school, wishing I were not alive. I was barely dealing with the kids, though I managed to hold onto that part of life as a thread back. We ate, I oversaw homework, washed the clothes, etc. I credit my kids too with providing me with so much unconditional love that it kept a light on in my heart. (Many people with depression cannot find that light... not their fault, just how it is sometimes, so families ought not to think they failed if the depressed person cannot see their blessings there).
I did not die. Fortunately for me, I had ONE loyal friend who saw what was happening to me and did the best thing any adult can do: she was THERE. She never told me to "get over it" or to "snap out of it," nor did she make me feel guilty (I was doing a great job of that myself). She simply came and sat with me, offered to make food and did so. She took me out to breakfast once in awhile, or came over to help me with the kids, took over when I couldn't do one more thing... she talked to me about nothing and everything. She LISTENED to me cry and didn't accuse me of being a bad person for my inertia. She commiserated with me when I wanted to moan and groan about the sack of lemons I'd been handed. Slowly, but surely, with her hand in mine, I dragged myself out of the abyss, the pit I'd fallen into. I got counseling too, but it was NOT the professional help (the counselor actually told me that if I "became" a lesbian, I'd be happier because men are toxic. What???) Not that I think counseling is a wage for coping. Just was not what helped me. It was the FRIEND who helped the most by riding the terrible seas of my depression with me. I know she saved my life by being there for the worst parts of it. Thank you Maxine. Thank you.
We have lost a great guy in Robin Williams. Not a perfect guy of course; not one of those exists, but a great guy. He gave so much of his best self to all of us. He triumphed over and over again in his own darkness. Ultimately, the darkness came for him and he went with it. We do not, nor will we, know what that darkness was like for him. It is private, intimate, and powerful. We can only let his spirit be as free now as it could never be before by celebrating his life and being GRATEFUL for him and his beautiful place in our lives.
To put things into a form that comforts me, poetry, I have turned to a favorite passage from Whitman's Leaves of Grass and written this poem about the darkness that is depression. The form is a variation on a glosa, which employs the use of lines from another source as the foundation for the resultant poem. It is also a persona poem, written in the voice of another person, not my voice.
I sure hope you can hear me reading this heartfelt, but imperfect poem for you, Robin:
Private demons, the weight of celebrity, whatever it is, we are dying here. We are being killed by invisibles that haunt us at night, chase us by day, and hover over us always waiting to pounce.
Robin Williams' suicide is one in a long long line of these sadnesses. Many (most) we never hear about because they happen in bedrooms and garages and barns and cars all over the place to "ordinary" folks who just cannot endure another living moment. We hear of and are publicly shocked by celebrity suicides; we have claimed these brilliant people as "part of us" and cannot stand the thought they were not strong enough to stay. What a waste, we say. Indeed. but what of all the other sad, shortened lives we do not see in the public arena, the people we pass in the streets, know in our work, play with at school? They are lost to darkness too. The dark that is all around us.
I recall an incident from my childhood where a nine year old boy hanged himself in his grandmother's barn. Nine. He and his grandmother went to our church. He was in my class. I did not know what could possibly make him do this thing. But I do know, I did know at least a part of his darkness. This boy was bullied unmercifully — for having red hair and freckles and large ears that stuck out. He was called Howdy (after the Howdy Doody puppet on TV's Buffalo Bob Smith Show). He was never without some kind of sneering comment. The worst part of it was that no one thought anything about that at all. (I will say I did not make fun of him, but neither did I come to his side and tell kids to stop, so I bear a load of guilt too). When he died, I was shocked beyond belief. We had no grief counselors coming to school, no one talked about it whatsoever. No teacher intervened. It was right there in front of us and we all did nothing. But he did. The most awful something was what he did.
This visual will never leave me: One day his desk was spilling over with papers, the next day it was REMOVED from the row and put in the back of the room until the janitor came at lunchtime and took it to the school basement. I remember going down there (it was where our bathrooms were) and sitting in his chair and crying. It was so sad. I never knew anyone who had died until then. It was life-altering for me. To this day, I can close my eyes and see his face, his sad little freckled face. I mourn for him. I am ashamed.
Later I would encounter two more suicides: after high school, one of my classmate's father shot himself between their house and the post office, and in high school a girl a year ahead of me came home one day to find her mother, dead from hanging. What kind of terror is that? But no one much talked about these deaths either. It was whispered about and tongues clicked about what kind of horrible people these were to have done this to their families. NO ONE spoke about what life was like for these two desperately sad people, nor did anyone see the signs and intervene. I struggled then as I do now to find words or to figure out the whole of it.
I have been depressed in my life. Deeply and drastically depressed. After my divorce, with four young children to raise alone in poverty, I spent weeks barely coping, staying in bed most of the day when the kids were at school, wishing I were not alive. I was barely dealing with the kids, though I managed to hold onto that part of life as a thread back. We ate, I oversaw homework, washed the clothes, etc. I credit my kids too with providing me with so much unconditional love that it kept a light on in my heart. (Many people with depression cannot find that light... not their fault, just how it is sometimes, so families ought not to think they failed if the depressed person cannot see their blessings there).
I did not die. Fortunately for me, I had ONE loyal friend who saw what was happening to me and did the best thing any adult can do: she was THERE. She never told me to "get over it" or to "snap out of it," nor did she make me feel guilty (I was doing a great job of that myself). She simply came and sat with me, offered to make food and did so. She took me out to breakfast once in awhile, or came over to help me with the kids, took over when I couldn't do one more thing... she talked to me about nothing and everything. She LISTENED to me cry and didn't accuse me of being a bad person for my inertia. She commiserated with me when I wanted to moan and groan about the sack of lemons I'd been handed. Slowly, but surely, with her hand in mine, I dragged myself out of the abyss, the pit I'd fallen into. I got counseling too, but it was NOT the professional help (the counselor actually told me that if I "became" a lesbian, I'd be happier because men are toxic. What???) Not that I think counseling is a wage for coping. Just was not what helped me. It was the FRIEND who helped the most by riding the terrible seas of my depression with me. I know she saved my life by being there for the worst parts of it. Thank you Maxine. Thank you.
We have lost a great guy in Robin Williams. Not a perfect guy of course; not one of those exists, but a great guy. He gave so much of his best self to all of us. He triumphed over and over again in his own darkness. Ultimately, the darkness came for him and he went with it. We do not, nor will we, know what that darkness was like for him. It is private, intimate, and powerful. We can only let his spirit be as free now as it could never be before by celebrating his life and being GRATEFUL for him and his beautiful place in our lives.
To put things into a form that comforts me, poetry, I have turned to a favorite passage from Whitman's Leaves of Grass and written this poem about the darkness that is depression. The form is a variation on a glosa, which employs the use of lines from another source as the foundation for the resultant poem. It is also a persona poem, written in the voice of another person, not my voice.
I sure hope you can hear me reading this heartfelt, but imperfect poem for you, Robin:
At the End, a glosa variation
— for Robin Williams
It’s hard to know who’s watching
so I stay in character until the weight
of the mask starts killing me, sucking my marrow.
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me.
I watch the others, the hawks in the audience
or on the streets, where brass stars
in the sidewalk make false promises about us
He complains of my gab and my loitering,
this one hawk, the one with poison
on his beak. He swoops to peck
at my neck, but today I manage to hide.
I too am untamed, I too am untranslatable
I tell him. We are alike, we are dark
and prone to loneliness, have pierced
hearts, exist on our own carrion. I sound
my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
But he persists, circling day after day, waiting
just waiting for me to relax, to let go
a little. His yellow eye sees everything I am.
His blood-tipped beak opens and closes for me.
8/11/14
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