On Writing Poetry

Ross [who has stayed home from school to complete his poetry project]: Mom, what's a couplet?

Me: Two lines. You know how some poems are written in groups of two line stanzas?

Ross: What's a stanza?

Me: You know, like paragraphs.

Ross: Oh yeah. So, like, how do you start writing a poem?

Me: Well, I love the explanation that a poem is never about what it's about.

Ross: What do you mean?

Me: You know, like a metaphor. A poem about the fall might really be about aging, for example.

Ross: Oh. Hmmm. So, how do you get started?

Me: Sometimes I get inspired from reading, or listening to someone else. They'll approach an idea I like, and it will give me my own idea, or maybe I want to do the same idea, but my way.

Ross: I don't have time for that.

Me: You could meditate. That's one of my favorite ways of writing poetry. Listen to what lines come to you.

Ross: Nah. I don't really have time for that, and it's weird.

Me: Then just write down a whole lot of crap. Anything. Everything that comes to you. And then, about halfway down, you might notice that some of it starts getting good. Cut the beginning off, and polish it up.

Ross: OK. I can do that.

[Later--]

Ross: This poetry stuff is pretty easy...

Ha ha ha ha ha.

How To Be, Part II

I wanted to share part of my A Course In Miracles Lesson for today, as it's so apt:

Lesson 135 If I defend myself I am attacked

v. 24 All your defenses have been aimed at not receiving what you will receive today. And in the light and joy of simple trust, you will but wonder why you ever thought that you must be defended from release. Heaven asks nothing. It is hell that makes extravagant demands for sacrifice. You give up nothing in these times today when, undefended, you present yourself to your Creator as you really are.

I think this is why I keep dreaming I'm moving around the world naked lately. Ha.

I will not defend myself.

Birthday Recap

We had an alright time last night at the Cheesecake Factory, but Ross, the birthday boy, felt sick. He barely ate anything and said he was exhausted and his head hurt. He didn't even eat his free birthday dessert.

That sort of put a damper on the whole thing. I think he's fine; it's the pressure of a big creative writing school project that's due, which he had left to the last moment: Poetry! He's got 14 poems to do in different forms-one a Sestina--that he left himself only a couple hours to do.

"Ross, Sestinas aren't easy! I've only written two and each took me at least a whole day!" I said.

He had this notion he could do it fast. I have been begging him to ask me for help and to show me what he's doing.

"Honestly, Mom," he said, "It's so bad, I wouldn't want to show anyone."

Well, of course it is, if you're doing it that fast with no interest at all!

Because it's his birthday, because he really did seem sick (if only with worry), I let him go right to bed early last night and he's going to work on it all morning and go to school late. I know that I shouldn't let him do that, but frankly, he needs to pass. I do want to strangle him, though.

I pondered over trying to teach him some quick meditative tricks, so he could receive a good poem from elsewhere, but he isn't open to that right now. For all his miracles, he's decided he's atheist now (Fine, I say, understanding it's more about religion and church than God. He'll figure it out).

It was great to spend so much time with my oldest son, Sam. He is looking good. He's let his hair grow a little (I hate that buzz cut). He wears his new glasses all the time, which suit him, and he is always well-dressed in a nice sweater or shirt and vest. Sam is such a great conversationalist, although it's quite eerie how he's picking up so many mannerisms of his father. I noticed their laugh is the same, and certain expressions. You can't teach that stuff. Sam is doing well, and I was careful, despite his captivating, lively manner, not to let him totally dominate the birthday boy. Ross is quieter, and will fade out if he's ignored. I kept shifting things back to Ross.

"Ross is getting a lot of shows lined up," I said. "When's your first one, honey?"

"Monday," he said.

"How much are you making for those shows?" Sam asked.

The rest of us laughed. Sam is not a musician or an artist. He doesn't understand.

"Sometimes some gas money," Ross said. "But I'd do it for free. People always ask me about the money. They don't get it. I love music."

"I don't even get that much for my poetry," I said. "But it's the greatest feeling in the world to know that people care about your art enough to even show up. Isn't it?"

We talked a little bit about art--just the two of us. That was kind of nice.

As we left, Tom and I walked behind these great, lumbering young men. Who would have believed my sweet little boys would be so tall and broad and handsome?

"Ross would be even taller if he stood up straight," Tom said. Ha.

Another college staff meeting this morning. Sigh. How I wish I could get back to the Plath stuff. There is just no time right now. After that, I must pick up K from UMSL and bring him back here to make some music with Tom. I'm supposed to go to a reading tonight as well, in part as a favor to Prof S (to discuss the Plath stuff), and in part as a favor to M (to meet beforehand and clean his carpet). Tomorrow I've got two Tarot jobs, but I'm hoping to get some serious work done around them. Never a dull moment.

Have a great day!

Another Traveling Dream

I'll write what I can remember of the dream.

I was in a city I didn't recognize, staying in an apartment that overlooked a busy street and rows of shops. It was the 1960s, the hippie-era, and the shop directly across from me sold superballs. Yes, the bouncing, colorful things. I feel like the city had a Latin flavor.

"Just see how long that shop lasts," someone told me, clearly expecting the business' quick demise. It was a female friend I was traveling with, but not anyone I recognize from real life. We were in my (our?) hotel room, looking out my window. I had the impression that we were going to flash through time, to see all the changes that would happen with this place. I had the inner knowledge that the superball store would last it out.

There was a spa nearby, and I was taking advantage of it. I remember the bliss of just getting naked and having these warm towels laid over me. I remember a massage, and the hot stones on my back.

There were these pier-type walkways that went over the city streets for our use. We could move above the hub-bub and never be bothered with it. We never really interacted with the city people, either. The weather was hot and sunny. I moved about naked a lot, even in the city. It was no problem at all.

And then we were back to traveling. I was in the back seat--or one of the back seats--of a van jammed with people. The woman who didn't think the superball store would last was in the passenger seat up front, and the van was crammed with stuff. I was still naked, I think, but quite casual and comfortable about it. I was asking this woman if I should return the spa towels. We didn't have time, we had to get moving, the spa was rich enough, she said. We had moved through time, and this lively, colorful city was now pretty much a ghetto. But the superball store was still there.

How To Be. Ramblings on self-confidence, judgment, men and friendship.

Sometimes I beat myself up, wondering about my own presentation. That's such a Matthew concept. I'm always telling him that there are no mistakes, and yet I sometimes fall into the same fear of making my own.

I wonder, when I write FP reply emails, and I let myself slip into silliness, is that appropriate? I became quite giddy in a response today. I was having fun. Is that a mistake? Perhaps he might think me too much of a goon, and change his mind about publishing me. Most would advise me to keep it professional. Oh, but professional is so dull, and so cold, so not me, and there is just no life in it, is there?

Once, I wrote X, an important local editor, and for fun, because I always do this for most everyone, and because I felt fondly for him in that moment, I put an xo at the end. That was probably a mistake. If there really are such things as mistakes.

Oh, but I tell myself that there aren't mistakes! There can't be! Look at my life, and the divine order in which everything has happened!

And yet, I fear that first impression. After all, I am this strange creation of energy and goofiness, affection and weirdness. What's a person to think of me? The corporate misfit. The mom whose kids roll their eyes and tell her how to behave. The late-bloomer. The person who gave up a successful career to become a poet. The grownup who thinks she's still 20. The one with the cat hair on her clothes; the one who wears her son's outgrown skateboarding jacket over a silk shirt; the one who falls a little bit in love with everybody. The one who reads Tarot cards and talks incessantly about dead poets and mysticism. Sure, I could try not to be these things. I have tried, and the fact is, I was miserable. I have to be this way. I've never been happier than now. Sure, I fear judgment, like anybody else. Which, when you boil it down, is really just a wanting to be loved.

That wanting always comes back to bite me in the ass. You see, I have other problems with be-ing. Sometimes I'm scared of when I do feel loved, or when I feel too much affection for someone. I'm afraid it'll spin into something out of control and disastrous, like with B. Everything and everyone in my whole life suffered from that one! That feels like a BIG MISTAKE (even though I know it's not; even though I learned so much; even though it healed my marriage; even though I got some great poems out of it). And so, I pull away, even just as a friend, and try and figure it all out on my own, in my own head.

I want to love my friends passionately and intensely, but not in a sexualized way. I wonder if that's possible? I think it is. I go for it all the time, and send mixed signals, I suppose, and leave the recipient of my feelings looking quite confused. I'm talking about men friends, of course. Certainly it's easy to be nonsexual with women because I am totally straight, without even the slightest hint of gayness. Ha.

Tom, and my other male friends, have said that men only want to be friends with me because they're hoping to sleep with me. Tom says this is true from age 12 and up. But then, some of these others have become close male friends, and I say, "Well what about you?" Most of them tell me they did want to sleep with me, they just outgrew it and started seeing me in more of a sister or mother sense. Men crack me up.

I suppose we women are just as bad, just not as blatant. There are always fantasies and wonderings. There will always be those you have physical chemistry with. That's only natural. But what's acceptable? What's appropriate? I try to live by this: if it would hurt the one I love (Tom), it's not acceptable. I think that's a pretty good barometer.

For a long time, I worried about how to be with regard to my writing. I was trying to give the people what they wanted. In advertising and marketing, of course, I had to do this, to keep my job (and I began to develop a real chip on my shoulder and a lethal compulsion for poetry in the margins of staff meeting notes).

As I got more serious about poetry, I realize now that I had hoped to please a crowd: the Writers Guild open mic crowd, the MySpace blogging crowd, teachers at school, workshop participants, publishers. Everyone but me, it seemed like. I confess, I'm still a little bit of a sucker for publication. I have to admit that one. But I'm working on being true to myself. Being me. Whoever the hell that is.

***

Tonight the family is taking Ross out for his 18th birthday. Not sure if I'll be writing again this evening or not, as I didn't sleep much last night (although I dreamed like crazy, didn't I?). We're off to the Cheesecake Factory soon. Mmmmmmm...

Love ya, but don't take that to mean you can sleep with me~

Julia

more dreams

The skin on my back was irritated, and I looked in the mirror. I was covered with yellow jackets and ladybugs both. I wanted to brush off the ladybugs and save them, but every time I reached around, I was stung by a yellow jacket. I went to a woman I knew for help (who was she?). I took off my shirt and revealed my predicament. "They will all have to die," she said, getting ready to spray insecticide on my back.

Next, I was in a car with B, who used to write for me with Night Times. He was driving and we were in the parking lot of Riverport Amphitheater (whatever it's called today). He was driving very crazy, super fast, and I was certain we'd be pulled over, if not killed. I was afraid and only just had time to click on my seatbelt. Our journey was going to be long.

Next, I was on a long journey again, but this was a different one. It was by foot and I was walking to New England with J. She was encouraging me that, through our work with ACIM, we could do hundreds of miles in no time at all. I was concerned that there would be nowhere to shower and clean up. I remember stepping on the earth and it giving in--like when moles get in my yard--but in this case it was a badger and we chased him out of his hole.

Then, I dreamed I had an email back from FP. In real life, I gave him some dates to potentially meet in December. He wrote back and said he was thinking that February would be better. Ha.

Must hurry up and get ready for work. Have a good day!

sleepwriting

My side aches. It is a pressure along with my pulse. The dull thump of it against my skin. It is almost like a baby kicking, but not that sweet, and I think of the cover of LD's new book of poems and I think of my son Ross, my baby who is 18 today, and I think of Plath's "A Birthday Present", that killer last line (if I'm remembering it right in my sleepy haze): And the universe slides from my side.

This damned kitten that I love so much is driving me mad. He continues to walk in front of the monitor, on my keyboard, deleting my words, telling me back to bed, back to bed, you don't belong here, the night is my world. The moon is new and the room has an eerie light. It is some other place, between day and night.

I've been dreaming about teaching English again. I do that, when grading papers right until the last moment of consciousness. I wonder how to teach thinking. They aren't putting together the idea of using the things they are learning. Tomorrow, our coursework will be about thinking. Who teaches such things? I'm going to design a curriculum that will do it. I wonder if V will feel shame over his paper he gave me, the paper he didn't do on his own, printed and handed to me with the hyperlinks still in it, glowing blue. I could be insulted. Instead, I'm just sad, because he is the second smartest in the class, but the first laziest.

I am figuring it all out, because I am a genius in my sleep. That's when Plath and Hughes explain the answers. That's when I see things how they are. That's when I understand my dreams. That's when I see all the connections.

I need to check in on HS since his stroke. I need to talk to him about Kafka. I feel that he needs this, if only to help him feel good.

Someone at a festival I was reading Tarot for, a Summer Solstice, I believe, he once called me "a frustrated healer" and I know he was right.

I am not so good at healing myself. I know that I injured my side accidentally on purpose, if you know what I mean. These are the things we do. I needed to slow down. I am functioning just halfway and already going too fast again. I have not been writing, save for blogs, in two days and I'm screaming. Voices in my head are keeping me up at night, calling me here. The Homunculus kicks at my side. The words must come out! The babies must be born. The universe must slide.

Back to bed, or I will be worth nothing tomorrow.