Pleasure Delayer

Have you ever had a book that you were so psyched to read that you forced yourself to do a dozen other things in order to permit yourself the pleasure of reading it?
Well, all of my to-do list is crossed off and Jericho Brown, here I come.

I saw Jericho read with Terrance Hayes exactly two weeks ago at Cleveland State University. Having been a Terrance Hayes fan for years, the reading has been marked on my calender since Michael Dumanis told me about it many, many months ago.

Starstruck and thinking 99% about hearing Hayes read, I had no idea that Jericho Brown was going to deliver one of the best readings I have ever attended. You know, that sort of reading that makes you want to go home, lock your doors, and write for a month straight? I could list a bunch of adjectives describing the entire reading, but I don't think I could ever manage to do it justice.

The only word that comes to mind is duende.

Please, Jericho's debut book, has burned a hole in my bag. I have used this fire to motivate me to finish reading other books on my self-inflicted reading list. And now, I have finished a few novels that somehow escaped me in my education (Slaughterhouse-five, White Noise) as well as several poetry books that have been collecting dust on my shelf (not because they are bad, but because I buy more books than I can read).

Off to Jericho Brown reading heaven I go. I will post some highlights of the book as soon as time permits. Until then, I hope you have a new book to read that rocks your poetry world.

Thoughts on the Writing Life

Sometimes I feel really alone about my need and love for poetry. I have friends who are writers. And I teach so much good stuff. But still, you know what I mean? If I didn't have access to the computer on a daily basis I would barely get my daily poetry fix. I know I constantly pull this "I'm an only child"ranting and looking back over my recent blogs, it wouldn't take a psychologist to analyze my aesthetic loneliness. Is this just post-MFA? I hate to think I have to be in a workshop to feel as if I am a writer.

Much of the reason I pursued an MFA was to be part of a support system of writers. I loved every single assignment and class. I'm not saying I didn't learn anything, but being around writers who were consistently producing work and talking about it...well it was just what I needed and need.

On the back cover of APR's Jan/Feb issue is an excerpt from a speech Stanley Kunitz gave in 1994. I have read it over and over and will post some of the excerpt.

Poetry, I have insisted, is ultimately mythology, the telling of the stories of the soul. This would seem to be an introverted, even solipsistic, enterprise, if it were not that these stories recount the soul's passage, through the valley of this life-that is to say, its adventure in time, in history.

If we want to know what it felt like to be alive at any given moment in the long odyssey of the race, it is to poetry we must turn. The moment is dear to us, precisely because it is so fugitive, and it is somewhat of a paradox that poets should spend a lifetime hunting for the magic that will make the moment stay. Art is that chalice into which we pour the wine of transcendence. What is imagination but a reflection of our yearning to belong to eternity as well as to time?

Poets are always ready to talk about the difficulty of their art. I want to say something about its rewards and joys. The poem comes in form of a blessing-"like rapture breaking on the mind," as I tried to phrase in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining, life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of the life.

An excerpt from "Noir: Orpheus" from Terrance Hayes' first book

Love should be a tow truck-
What rescues our stalled, abandoned hearts;
What leads us back to repair.
Love should save us,
But it won't.

Small Talk and My Maudlin Head

I'm 31 and with each new social encounter I am realizing that I have no clue how to make small talk. I blogged a month ago about my lack of gym talk, but my lack of social grace stretches far beyond breaking a sweat with a bunch of ladies who only ask yes/no questions about the weather.

I am great at talking to teenagers or the elderly. Teenagers appreciate my randomness. I think I am good with the elderly because some sort of melancholy respect surfaces inside of me and I want to know about their lives. Other than that, I can only really establish a sense of social elegance when I am talking to writers, readers, animal lovers, snowboarders, and my neighbors.

Am I just that selfish and limited? I know that the word normal is a stereotypical concept, but recently I have been around so many people that I would suppose to be considered normal. These people are good people: people who work hard, pay their bills, genuinely love their families, watch Cavs games, drink water...and I do these things too (not so much the Cavs games but perhaps during the play-offs), so why am I at a loss of words?

I think I hate that the majority of people I spend my time with never ask questions or if they do, they are questions like, "Did you have a good day?" What am I supposed to say to that? I want someone to say, "What was the absolute most beautiful moment of your day? The funniest? The ugliest?"

The sad part is that I sometimes don't ask these sorts of questions that I crave because people think I am strange...or they can't answer them.

On the positive side, I am blessed with many writer friends who will talk shop with me as well as a few select friends who understand my only child/poet sensibilities. And I have a best friend who is a poet even though she doesn't write and only reads biographies about rock stars. She listens. She also probably thinks I am strange, but she appreciates it, just like I appreciate it when she uses gorgeous imagery to describe the members of Motley Crue's former drug problems.

Thank you to those people...and to everyone else (who would never be reading this), I am sorry that I sometimes pull my maudlin head back in like a turtle. It's not you.

Bukowski and Cleaning

My friend Kelly always teases me that she will never ever help me move again unless I get rid of some books. I don't know that I will be moving any time soon, but I have been attempting to downsize some of my belongings. Books are close to impossible to part with. If I do manage to find one I don't want (from one of my four bookshelves), I end up rationalizing buying four more.

I spend more time on Amazon than I do at the library. This weekend I decided that one entire bookshelf had to go. The shelf itself was an eyesore. It took an entire day. I managed to rid myself of about 3 whole books. But I took some baby steps. I reshuffled and decided that some books could be stacked neatly in one of my closets. I mean seriously, what are the chances of me ever rereading Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics or Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morals? I majored in philosophy for a year or so in undergrad and for some reason, I seem to think that I need these books forever.

And Bukowski. I thought he was a god when I was much much younger. I must have 20 0r more of his books. I still admire his infinite drive to write every day. There is something to say about coming home from a night out and hammering out three poems. I used to do that. Truthfully, those poems of mine need burned. It was a satisfying experience but nothing came out of it. I suppose it was a necessary stage in my early writing life, but in the end I had to distance myself from his work. His line breaks...I won't even get started.

I will never be able to write three poems in one night again. I'm ecstatic if I write three poems in a month. I can think about one line for hours, even days. My process is slow and neurotic.

As for Bukowski, well, I am not quite ready to part with his books, but all of them, except for one, are stacked in a closet. I imagine some day I will let go.

Lonely Ohio Winters

I made it to Brandywine on Saturday and managed to ride for a few hours before I became bored. These pictures are from the parking lot. I have learned the hard way to not put a camera in my pocket while snowboarding.

Just the other day my boyfriend asked me why I don't snowboard with anyone. I used to snowboard with my friend Bryan, but he moved to Colorado so he could ride seven or eight months of the year.

I tried to explain to my boyfriend that snowboarding is about me, the board, and the mountain...or in Ohio's case, the hill. When I attempted to discuss this with him, I meant what I said. Snowboarding is a lot like writing. The act is sacred sometimes, and it's all mine. I don't team write.

But I must admit, after going down Grizzly a dozen times this past Saturday- tumbling, jumping, giggling...I started feeling this pull in my gut.



Loneliness.

I must be cracking up or something. I have always been, "Oh, I love spending time with myself." And now, as I get older, I realize how much companionship means to me. Writer Jen spends enough time alone; snowboarder Jen may need a snowboarding buddy.

Or at least I need some more challenging terrain than Brandywine so I can spend less time being lonely and more time worrying about the artistry of snowboarding.

P.S. Thanks goes to my loyal Jeep. Recently I had been thinking about purchasing a vehicle that would be easier on the gas and such...but I must admit, never once in eight years has the Jeep been stuck. It's small and incredible-perfect for winter snow driving and summer convertible cruising.

I'm heading out

The roads are a mess. I know I am crazy.

Still, what can an Ohio snowboarder do? I normally despise Brandywine because it takes three seconds to get down the hill. I refuse to get step-in bindings so it is rather annoying to unstrap and restrap constantly. But with this powder, I'll deal with it.

Happy snowstorm everyone. I now put my faith in one 2001 Jeep.