VCCA post

I've been here for four days and I haven't posted -- but I've been having a great time and getting a lot done. Right now, I'm sitting around, post dinner, post ping pong, with Eduardo Corral and Deborah Ager.

I'm going to post some photos:

What's on Your Desk?

Here are some of the things on my desk:

1) A glass paperweight that used to belong to my mother, weird but unique
2) No fewer than five notebook / journals hardly written in
3) Squiggly dry seaweed driftwood
4) Two pieces of other driftwood
5) Two fabric lizards, lounging
6) Files and paid bills and letters held up by a pair of spherical wooden bookends that belonged to my father.
7) A black Santa Clara pottery bowl filled with shells and stones
8) A metal candy box filled with same
9) A small black plastic dog -- were two, one has gone missing
10) A glass jar filled with batteries to be recycled
11) Stationery boxes
12) Stapler, pens, pencils, and assorted crap

If you want to enumerate what is on your desk, consider yourself tagged.

Forgot a title

So much has happened in the days since my last post, but not much has happened to me. I resist posting here the same news everyone posts. And my own life is boring. So what does that leave? Good luck, every last bit of it, to our new leader. I have faith in you and know you will work hard for us.

Work has been very busy, and I struggle to stay awake on my long drive home, often waking with a jerk after I've swerved out of my lane. (Yeah, I know that's awful. I'm working on it!)

I look forward to leaving (on the red eye) for VCCA in less than a month. I've been through Virginia but never to Virginia, so I can't visualize it, don't know what to expect. I plan to shape a bunch of poems into BookNext (which also needs a real title) and make some decisions about Conjugated Visits. For two and a half weeks, I will answer only to myself.

Self Centered

This post is fairly selfish. That is, it's more pertinent to myself than the rest of the group. Bear with me, please.

I'm going to VCCA in about a month's time. I'm excited about having 18 days or thereabouts to do my writing and not be required to go to work or cook or clean or socialize if I don't want to. They're giving me the residency for practically nothing, and by using my Discover card I can whittle down much of the plane fare.

But I will be missing twelve days of work that I can ill afford to miss. Other people I know who have gone hither or thither have gotten fellowships to help them cover expenses. I don't know the first thing about this -- well, I know about it but I don't know how to apply that knowledge specifically to my case.

Does anyone know of any grants or fellowships I can apply to. How do I go about doing this?

New Year's Day, Some Assembly Required, Resolutions Included

Happy New Year to anyone out there reading this, though I very much wonder if anybody is. I am having a lovely afternoon after a hectic holiday. John and I are sitting in the living room. Sun is pouring in on us and on the dog, the kind of winter light that feels redemptive, perfect for the first day of the New Year. We are drinking tea and eating cheese and crackers, dried fruit and nuts, and biscotti and listening to a new Sonny Rollins CD, "Road Shows" -- thanks Robert and Cheryl!

Here are some of my New Year's resolutions, in the order that they come to me, to be refined, I'm sure:

1) (Verily paradoxical), I resolve to spend less time on the computer, more reading, exercising body and mind.
2) Get my book taken this year, and if there are no takers, take stock of its worth, whether it is meant to be or not, possibly making revolutionary changes.
3) Finish the prose memoirs (essays) that I've talked about more than written.
4) Be less of a hermit and keep in touch with those who are close to my heart but may be far away.
5) Try not to make resolutions for anyone else.
6) Try not to worry, at least late at night when I should be sleeping.

That's all for now. Namaste!

Small pleasures

Nothing much happening. Our weather is cold (for us) -- in the low 40s, but despite fierce rain and wind overnight, the forecasted weekend of storm hasn't arrived -- or hasn't yet. I woke up last night when the rain stopped with the image of Pinocchio's burned feet in my mind.

John had to attend a function this afternoon and evening (an opera recital where he is exhibiting and possibly selling some of his opera portraits), and I really wasn't looking forward to the evening alone. But I took care of some errands and walked the dog and came home determined to neither do nothing nor do too much. I fed the pooch, put away groceries, poured myself a large glass of red wine. For dinner I cooked nahit (hot, dry, seasoned garbanzo beans) and winter squash, which I ate with butter, salt and pepper, and I had a piece of naan bread. I'm sure most people would think this a bizarre, disgusting dinner, and John for sure would not have approved -- nor of the fact that I ate all this walking about in the kitchen. But I found it delicious and satisfying and just right.

Then I messed around with putting together a wreath. We have a grapevine wreath that we bought decades ago, and I stick pieces of the fir tree in it (the pieces they cut off from the bottom to put the tree into the stand) and I tied on a red/green plaid ribbon from somewhere. I was listening to Garrison Keillor's show, and it was appropriately shmaltzy.

The dog is asleep on the couch. I've got a poem for tomorrow's workshop. Maybe I'll revise it another time.

Pop Quiz Answers

Here are my answers to the currently circulating meme:

1. When was the last time you wrote a poem?
Yesterday afternoon.

2. What was its title?
"Robyn, Love You Buckets Miss You—Eric" -- but dunno, it might change slightly.

3. What was one image from the poem (if applicable)?
Graffiti on a lampost that marks the spot of a fatal accident.

4. Do you currently have a poem percolating in your brain?
Just the usual peat bog where who knows what is buried. I'm actually trying to write a memoir/essay.

5. If you answered "yes" to number four, what is one image from that poem?
The guiding image from the memoir/essay is EK walking around my husband's flat in nothing but bikini underwear with "Home of the Wopper" on the fly and also an Italian Beretta in a shoulder holster.

Bit to be thankful for

Apparently, the Pushcart Prize has given my poem "Conjugated Visits" (published by Field and Poetry Daily) a "special mention" at the back of the book.

They publish 30 poems of the approx. 4,000 poetry nominations they get each year and give "special mention" to 30 others. And I'm there, along with John Ashbery, Jane Hirshfield, and so forth.

This makes me very happy. That, and the fact that I have been accepted to VCCA for 2 1/2 weeks in February-March.

And four days off! Four days in which I can sleep in!

Quick now, here, now, always—

I really liked this piece about TS Eliot by Jeanette Winterson.

So when people say that poetry is merely a luxury for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn't be read much at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language - and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers - a language powerful enough to say how it is.

Let's not confuse this with realism. The power does not lie directly with the choice of subject or its social relevance - if it did, then everything not about our own contemporary situation would be academic to us, and all the art of the past would be a mental museum. Art lasts because it gives us a language for our inner reality, and that is not a private hieroglyph; it is a connection across time to all those others who have suffered and failed, found happiness, lost it, faced death, ruin, struggled, survived, known the night-hours of inconsolable pain.

Also, couldn't agree more with Cathy Park Hong of Harriet Blog about serious unproductivity during the days (weeks, months) leading up to the election.

Gray Saturday

It's a quiet, gray day here. Although I hear City College's marching band playing, it looks like rain. John has already gone downtown to work on a reshoot and won't be back until maybe 5:00. Greta is patiently waiting for me to finish with this post and take her for a walk. (Would be good idea to get out there before the rain starts.)

The house is a bit worse for wear -- everything stopped this week as we obsessed over the election. Now, change will come in Washington, but I still better wash the kitchen floor!

In the office, I have papers spread all over the floor. I'm going through my big wicker picnic basket full of old poems, printouts, old versions of my manuscript. I don't really know what I'm looking for.

One Day

After all this time. One day.

Three More Days

I am obsessed. I can't think of anything else except the election -- even though John and I already voted today. We stood in the rain and we voted early. For Obama, of course. Is there any doubt? And against California Proposition 8 and against Proposition 4. Talk about the audacity of hope. If President Obama can accomplish even a small fraction of what this country needs, it will be wonderful. It will be a start.

The thing is: I had been obsessed with my manuscript, how close it's come so many times, the totally specious reasons for which it has been rejected, the less worthy books that have been published… But this election, this campaign has really made me understand how trivial my concerns about the manuscript are in comparison -- in comparison with the bigger cause that has involved us.

It's Saturday night and it's raining. I've been soaked twice today. John is out finishing some prints he owes people. I've had a large glass of red wine, so forgive me. The wine: free, Argentinean, "tannat," 2005 vintage. John is a photographer -- you know, if he shoots it, we drink it.

So, we're going to win, aren't we? In 1968, when I graduated high school, I was named "most idealistic." But even I could not have imagined the possibility of a win on Tuesday. Not just a win -- a landslide.

Please.

This ain't no fooling around…

This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, it's work I'm posting from -- but I don't want to come down yet from the high of last night's concert -- David Byrne at Davies Hall in San Francisco. (And speaking of high, though we weren't partaking, it seems that Davies Hall ushers are not quite used to doing liquor-and-other-assorted-other-stuff searches, because, well, let's just say that this was not your typical Symphony crowd). But it was an awesome concert -- the new stuff ("Everything That Happens Will Happen Today" music by Brian Eno, lyrics by Byrne) and the old Talking Heads stuff.

We had good seats -- second tier, but right in front with a clear view to the stage. And the acoustics were terrific. Byrne, his backup band, backup singers, and three athletic quirky dancers were all wearing white. The show was as good as the music. There were two encores, standing ovations, and at the end of the second encore, Byrne invited the "San Francisco Marching Band" -- maybe they were leftover from the Love Parade the last week? -- to come to the stage and then the Byrne band joined them (that's what this picture captures, though it doesn't really capture anything, but you can see the excitement) for the finale of "Burning Down the House."

Roses on a rainy day

It rained last night here. First rain since, what, April? I lay in bed trying to figure out what the noise was.

Not much news in this corner lately, but I'm embarrassed by the dearth of posts in this blog. I hardly know what the point is, but anyway, today I'll post. It gives me the opportunity to show off my beautiful roses. They've opened out since Thursday, and their colors are the whole spectrum of apricot, from pink and creamy to nearly orange to hints of brown, like a sunset in a flower. This picture doesn't do any justice -- but there's only one photographer in this family and right now, he's still asleep.

We didn't do much for our anniversary (32!), but then we're going out on Monday to hear David Byrne and Brian Eno at Symphony Hall, and that was a bit of a splurge, so that will be enough. Besides, there was all that other entertainment on Thursday. (But I'm telling you, I'm going to bite my fingernails entirely off before this election's over.)

And I'm already biting them for other reasons. But I wasn't going to get into that again, until/when/if.

Dream job

New Pages has posted the following announcement
ZYZZYVA Seeks a New Editor
In the Editor's Note of the most recent ZYZZYVA, Howard Junker announces his intent to retire from the magazine, which is now seeking his successor, someone who "will have to be different, will have to take a new direction, because the times have changed." The informal job description Junker gives draws upon a response he once gave to a Paris Review Questionnaire about "the key ingredients needed to keep a literary magazine afloat." Junker writes: "Taking its editor George Plimpton as my model, I declared: An independent income is the basic flotation device. Having the office in the editor's basement reduces rent and the editor's commute. Also helpful because, even if the budget remains modest, attracting money is key: good looks, charm, guts, a thick skin, a sense of humor, a good work ethic, luck, and the ability to spot and nurture talent." Sound like anybody you know? If so, Junker closes his editorial: "If you have someone in mind, please let me know.

Ah yes, that would be cool. But an independent income? Uh, no.

In other news: nice party at work today for two people who just became citizens and also for one who was getting married. He had lived 15 years with his boyfriend and they are getting married this weekend. Very cool celebration -- about a dozen pizzas, three cakes, ice cream, champagne. I work in a cool place.

Not what it was quacked up to be

On Tuesday, we're getting the 78 year old furnace in our house replaced with a more energy-efficient one. The following phone call really happened: (John is a photographer and has done a lot of weird jobs in his time -- or that's his excuse.)


Woman: I'm calling to remind you of the job on Monday.
John: Uh, could you remind me what job this is?
Woman: You know, the ducks in the basement.
John: Ducks in the basement?
Woman: Yeah, the ducks?
John: Can you give me a few more details?
Woman: You know, the asbestos removal? The ducts?
John: Oh, the ducts!

Staring into the sun at whales

Yesterday evening we droveagain to Funston, the cliffs overlooking the Pacific that are about 10 minutes away from our house, with the dog. I said, offhand, that since the fog was gone, it would be nice to see the sunset and whales. It's amazing how fast you can get used to something extraordinary!

Well, they were out there again! Lest you think I'm making this up or having flashbacks to an earlier more innocent time, here's corroboration.

You probably associate whale watching with wind and cold and sea spray and possibly getting seasick. Sitting on a nice warm sand dune with your dog beside you is a much more fun way to watch whales. And hang gliders. And pelicans.

View from here ....

I feel thoroughly put down and bested by the I-Can-Do-Anything-You-Can Do-Better barrage. I'm so not good at debate. It shoots me right back into my childhood and my father and brother ganging up to belittle me and make me unnerved by calling me "emotional." 

All I wanted to say was don't blame the victim in the Cider Press thing -- and sure, she should have been more careful early on, but hey, does this mean no competitions are legitimate? Yeah, they cost money (so do a good many of the "open" submissions -- and there are fewer and fewer of them, even so), but when people pay $4 for a Starbucks, is a $20 fee for a book contest so awful? I don't buy Starbucks and I brown-bag my lunch. So I enter some competitions -- not every damn one, but some.

All I said is self publishing smacks of desperation -- to me, for me. Yeah, a lot of crap gets published every which way, no argument there.

I'd like to publish a magazine, maybe, someday. But right now I spend my day working and driving to work. There's not a lot of time left for being human, let alone writing. That said, I'd better get back to my work.

Thar She Blows!

Whales! We were out at Funston with poochie, and there — so close you could almost touch 'em — were whales! Lots of 'em, breaching and blowing. We watched for about an hour. It was hard to tear ourselves away!

We've never seen whales from there or anywhere in San Francisco. We've recently seen dolphins from there, but these were definitely whales (John carries his binoculars, of course.) And it's not even migratory season.

I was pretty depressed this morning about stuff, but this helped take me out of myself.

Whoo-hoo! Yowza! Hurray!

Last night was the second opening of John's photography show, of characters in the San Francisco Opera. Last week was for the Bravo Club only; this week for everyone else. So the show has been up for eight (count 'em) days -- and he has sold eight prints! If you don't know how amazing that is, let me tell you: it is very amazing! But everyone has loved the work!

John has worked so long and hard for this, and I'm so happy for my sweetie! If you're in the neighborhood (Gallery 645, at Michael Thompson Framing, 647 & 645 7th Street, San Francisco CA, 94103), go see it! It will be up until September 25.