This n' That

So we're going to have snow — maybe — this Friday or Saturday. Exciting to speculate about, but I'll believe it when I see it. I've seen actual snow, that is, not hail, once since we moved here 35 years ago. I was working on Sansome, downtown, the 19th floor or something like that. Standing at the window, I could see fat flakes, big and moist as kisses go by the plate glass, but their love was gone before they hit the ground.

Funny writing here. I'm beginning to believe I have no readers, or almost none. Ever since Robert stopped posting, all his fans stopped coming by. I know I'm not as erudite as he is. I see things from my own narrow view. But not having to worry about people reading this is also a sort of freedom. Who cares what I say here?

So here goes: Why do people crow about Pushcart nominations? They're nice, but unless they actually turn into a prize, who cares? Don't most of us get nominated year after year?

This is a photo of my Valentine's Day roses. I took it  a day or so ago, but they are still lovely and give me a lot of pleasure.

Yes, I am running out of steam. Maybe I'll write more later.

Late Night Thoughts

It's no secret that I've been reading a lot of fiction lately, finding genre fiction (detective stories) freeing in a way that television fails at, and good fiction, the likes of Munroe, Stroud, Baker, Moore, to be almost as skin-tinglingy perfect as poetry. I read mostly at night. Though I'm unemployed and my day is embarrassingly free, I try to fill it with purposeful actions: looking at job postings, sending out résumés and submissions — okay, and Facebook. But reading in bed has its drawbacks. Sometimes I'm so excited by what I read, I enter into a mental conversation with the writer that keeps me awake. The conversation may take the form of phrases to post here. At least three times lately, I've written volumes of such pillowtalk in my head.

Last night, reading the Birds of America story by Lorrie Moore called "Agnes of Iowa," I came upon this: "Every arrangement in life carried with it the sadness, the sentimental shadow, of its not being something else …" and I thought, that's why she writes stories, that's the reason to be a writer! To not have to choose — or anyway, to have, in some measure the arrangement and the something else as well. Maybe that isn't what she meant, but it works for me.

Oh yes: found a newspaper cutout — not even a coupon, just a picture — of BumbleBee Chunk Light Tuna In Water — stuck in my Lorrie Moore book, from the library. How perfect!

Not really new

Connotation Press republished the interview they did and pieces they took last year. I thought I'd seen them before, and I had. Of course, that makes the bio of me one year old, but that's okay. It's good to maybe get a few more people to read these.

Loving Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist. It's so much fun, I'm forcing John to listen to bits read aloud.

BTW, walking more than a mile, with a steep uphill finish, then hot bath and a glass of port before bed = a very good night's sleep. That and the great weather (yeah I know you Back Easterners are suffering, but it's positively spring here), has impelled me into a decent mood, for a change. But it's tenuous. Okay, I expected that rejection, but still.

Something good needed here, poetry gods. Small, but good.

Did yoga this morning and will tackle the back yard jungle this afternoon. It's very funny to do upward dog face to face with my doggie.

Interim post

Okay, this isn't a real post, just an interim post to say that I know it's about time I write something here, and I plan to real soon. I've been on a reading binge, reading actual novels, some good stuff (Lorrie Moore: wow!), some jes' plain escapism (mystery novels). I haven't been able to read like this in years, and it's no doubt a measure of how much I need to escape my life that this means of travel is open to me once more. Well, it's better than booze and dope, no?

Though many would drool over my present situation: gorgeous weather, sunny and 60s, no bloomin' work, no prospect of any. Will do more revision tomorrow and work in the garden. Looks like hell back there. And read some more.

Not being objective

Again, I don't know what I'm going to blog about, will just go for it.  Last night, I could not sleep. I thought, my bones feel like lead, heavy and poisonous. I was not dead tired, rather, alive. I felt the weight of gravity. Life sitting on my chest.

I've been thinking of my post below, on Art, and how stupid it must sound — earnest and trying, but stupid still. I'm terrible at argument. It always seemed to me outrageous that debates would be scored on how well the persons argued, not on merit, who was right.

When I was a girl, my brother and father used to goad me into argument. They would say such things as "no woman was ever a great artist."  I would lose my argument (they said) by getting emotional. It was fun for them, watching me turn red and stomp away in tears (always tears).

In any case, if I really held to what I say, I would post a link to the blog post below on Facebook, so people would read the damn thing, and we could have a conversation. But I don't know. I'm afraid to.

Do you think that all art is subjective? A friend posts he is surprised when his work is turned down, because he likes it. I'm rather surprised when mine is picked up. I like mine too. A book catalog arrived in today's mail. Nicely done. One could definitely do worse than be in their stable. Do I think the samples they printed therein were heavenly, way out of reach? Not at all. They were okay.

Art or Not

In this first post of the year, I want to respond to two recent conversations about Art. I've been thinking of doing this for a while, but have not really planned what I'm going to say, because the subject is so overwhelming. I'm no expert, no scholar. But I want to discuss this here because I find myself unable to, in conversation; the only way I know how to think this out is by writing it.


Both conversations, basically, argue for Art that is easy — not easy to create, oh no, but easy to comprehend, to understand. In one, the person making the claim said that what Jackson Pollock did is not Art. In the second conversation (we were talking about the pretensions of much of the art world and of a fun movie called "(Untitled)" that pokes fun at those pretensions) the claim was made that what Andy Warhol did is not Art. [Sidenote: for Robert Thomas's take on this subject and comparisons with poetry and its pretensions, see his post on an earlier incarnation of this blog at http://dianekmartin.blogspot.com/2005/05/jackson-pollock-vs-andy-warhol.html.]


I am, for the sake of this post, including, in my definition of Art, poetry and other literary genres, music, dance, photography, film, and so forth. It is my opinion that Art is nurtured in the thin air of the mountain at the tree line. Below this line, all the trees are green; the Art that everyone likes grows here. And above, the air is so thin that maybe only the gallery owners, the publishers, the gatekeepers asseverate that Art can live there. But at the tree line, well, it's where the strange twisted thoughts take root, some to live and some to perish. Beethoven's work was once considered abominable. The Impressionists, with their lovely light-enfused happily mass produced canvasses that are now dwell over the couch in your in-laws' living room — they were once considered ugly and strange, Not Art.


But I think by the time that piece is selected to match the color scheme of the in-laws' couch and walls, it's gone from Not Art through Art and back to Not Art again. It's pretty. It's decorative. It doesn't bother anyone. It's not Art.


Roberta Smith, discussing her favorite paintings in the NY Times the other day (December 30, 2010) said it well: "Paintings, like poetry or music, are essential nutrients that help people sustain healthy lives. They’re not recreational pleasures or sidelines. They are tools that help us grasp the diversity of the world and its history, and explore the emotional capacities with which we navigate that world. They illuminate, they humble, they nurture, they inspire. They teach us to use our eyes and to know ourselves by knowing others." Well, I agree with this. I agree with Picasso who said (paraphrased)  that the artist must rouse you from your waking sleep.


It's the same with poetry, with music. I do not get quite a lot, most, in fact, contemporary classical music or, on the other end of the spectrum, the work that's called hip-hop. But I know it can be Art. Does that mean I have to like it or listen to it? Or, in the case of poetry, practice Erasures or Flarf? As Matisse said (paraphrased) that is a country where I cannot go. But all the same, it is there.


Do you trust your emotions? If it brings a tear, does that tell you it's the real thing? You're better than I, then, because the Olympic torch brings a tear to my eye and a lump to the throat. That doesn't make it Art. 


I guess I'm willing to give the artist the benefit of the doubt. I know that that which grows on the tree line may be, eventually, the classic, the piece that will make someone nod and know, finally see or hear or understand. The Emperor's new clothes? Perhaps. But there is a difference between being close minded and being sheep. 


I will have my opinions. But I know I've learned to like — to love — what I once turned my nose up at before.


BTW, I hope to get some comments here. Let's have a conversation!

Last post of 2010

I should have a plan for this last post of the year. Maybe a resolution or two. Okay: Write poems, get more exercise. That's enough. Maybe a summation of the year: a good one, from a personal perspective. Each of us got a book out. Stayed well. Traveled. Plans for the new year: each of us has another book to get out. John is excited about his class. Hopes for the new year: a job? a solution to our money problems? Dog to stay with us a little bit longer.

I don't know where this blog fits in with the new year. I met a few who read it, this year. But I'm not sure it's contributing much to the universe or even this small planet.

Magpie Beauty

This morning we packed up all the Xmas candy and put it in the kitchen cabinets. That doesn't mean I haven't visited those cabinets today, but at least one is less likely to grab handfuls.

This poem was in Poetry Daily, the poem from last year.  I love the "magpie beauty" and the first stanza, especially. Gonna use that for a title. I'm going to try, anyway. Here's the poem, by Frank Bidart:

For an Unwritten Opera

Once you had a secret love: seeing
even his photo, a window is flung open
high in the airless edifice that is you.

Though everything looks as if it is continuing
just as before, it is not, it is continuing
in a new way (sweet lingo O'Hara and Ashbery

teach). That's not how you naturally speak:
you tell yourself, first, that he is not the air
you need; second, that you loathe air.

As a boy you despised the world for replacing
God with another addiction, love.
Despised yourself. Was there no third thing?

But every blue moon the skeptical, the adamantly
disabused find themselves, like you,
returned to life by a secret: like him, in you.

Now you understand Janácek at
seventy, in love with a much younger
married woman, chastely writing her.

As in Mozart song remains no matter how
ordinary, how flawed the personae. For us poor
mortals: private accommodations. Magpie beauty.

Frank Bidart 
The Threepenny Review 

The Latest Adventure

I suddenly (as in a few days ago) woke up to the concept of entering my book — and asking my publisher to enter my book in various contests for best poetry books of 2010. It's not that I really think I stand a chance (and I missed a lot of the biggies anyway), but why not try? You gotta be in it to win it, as my mother-in-law says, though she is probably talking about the lottery.

Most of the contests I hadn't already missed had end-of-year or even end-of-January deadlines, so here I was entering information in an online form for one of them, not really pressed. And then I got stuck when they wanted my publisher's phone number, which I'd never used. So I emailed him, John and I had dinner, and we settled into our respective laptops in the living room. Not having that much else to do, I looked through old email and found my publisher's phone number, and entered it in the form and hit Send. At which point, I got a reply that the form went through and I should now see to it that six copies of my book were sent by a midnight December 17 postmark. This was at around 8:30 in the evening on December 17! I uttered a few choice words and thought that was that. But then I got an idea. Lo, Google told me that there was a San Francisco post office near the airport open until midnight.

It was pouring rain. I don't drive at night, definitely don't drive at night in the rain (unless someone's life depends on it) and I'd had a glass and a half of 2-buck Chuck to boot. But thanks to John and our GPS, we made it. Hurray and then some! Not that it matters in the least, as I said, but small victories count for something in this dice-loaded-against-you world.

Yes, and I'm happy to celebrate the repeal of DADT from this "liberal bastion," though it seems to me that the right to fight in a war is a strange right indeed. On the personal side, yay for unemployment benefits extension, though I applied for a wonderful job the other day, and would like very much to be working again in 2011.

Hollow days

Okay, despite my cute and totally gloomy title here, things could be worse. We're hoping the extension of unemployment benefits doesn't get lost in the arguments about what should or should not be under the rich folks' Christmas trees. And a few job possibilities exist for me, of which the less said, the better.

Some bank business to take care of today. Other than that, I hope we'll spend some quality, if damp, time with the pooch. She's been so pathetic each time we've left her lately. Last night, she wasn't hoarsely barking when we got back, as she was Saturday, just looking reproachful and putting her head up for a scritch. Greta is on her way to 16 now, and pretty blind, we think, and sad, and she can't get up without us. We walk her with the old red wagon, and when she stops and is totally outta gas, we plunk her in the wagon and give her a roll around the block. She still looks beautiful, her fur still lovely.

It's been a very good year for acceptances for me — for individual poems — though one is never satisfied and I'd love to bring the grand total up to 25 before the year's end. As for Hue and Cry, it's out there, but I need to continue to work on it, make it better.

Crumbs

Oh, I'll take them. The fact that Congress has not voted to re-up Unemployment Benefits and we will probably be forced to sell our house is uppermost in my mind — things we counted on happening just haven't.

In the meantime, I'm working on revamping our second "bedroom," our office, to fit John's workstation and printers, so he won't have to work in the cold basement. See, I still hope for miracles.

And other crumbs: an acceptance of three more poems, bringing my unbelievable total for 2010 to 24! And a nomination for the Pushcart from Smartish Pace. You know, I'll take these small pieces of hope. An old friend was shot dead the other day. How is such a thing possible? But we're still alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
N. helped us network the printers so that they can stay downstairs (one is large and the other is huge). We're still working things out so that we can continue here, continue working. Do we have our heads in the sand? Possibly.

Simple

Having experienced the amazing phenomenon of a full-night's sleep, I was a domestic whirlwind today. I made pumpkin muffins. I made lentil soup. The storm comes and goes: dark clouds, rain, and wind, then clearing, with a horizon that stretches out forever, blueish shadows in the underside of the clouds, and pink highlights above the cold, distant hills.


It is peaceful here, post holiday. It is warm enough inside. We are hunkering down. It will be a simple Christmas here, simply because there is no money. We are hanging on by a thread. If the banks restructure our loans, we will be able to hang on longer, maybe, but we simply need more income: jobs, grants, miracles. Let us know if you hear of any.

Onward

Rough night last night. Between the dog's tribulations and our financial worries, sleep just wouldn't arrive, no matter how tired I was. But I was also thinking about Hue and Cry. The first book took way too long to come out, with too goddamn many finalist notices. And the longer it took, the more problematic publishing became. I don't want this to happen with number two. But already, almost half the book has been taken by journals, and I'm confident that this time it will get some recognition (and money; I could really use some money!).

So when the rejection came this morning, I was ready for it, and not all that upset. I'm thinking this book has better things in store for it.

Words into Air

Yesterday, I finished Words Into Air, the Complete Correspondence Between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. A fascinating book, with more plot and suspense and more of history's pageant than any recently read novel. Beyond the history, the elections and coups and assassinations and protests, are the portraits of the writers of their day, from "that Catholic girl fiction writer," Flannery O'Conner, to Randall Jarrell, Marianne Moore, Robert Frost, Ezra Pound, WC Williams, Allen Tate, Dylan Thomas, Mary McCarthy, Auden, Plath, Sexton, Bidart, Rexroth … and more. For shoptalk alone (criticism of each other's work) the book was wonderful. Okay, I didn't buy it; I have it from the library and renewed it three times — it's 800 pages! But well worth the time.

In other news: dreamed last night I went downtown for a haircut and encountered a lingerie fashion show for brides — you know, all that naughty stuff. And I couldn't get the haircut because all the men who were there for the show were getting shaves and haircuts (2 bits) and nose hairs trimmed as well.

Texas is big, but California is GIANTS!

Heh heh, stole that from a poster photographed at the Giants' celebration and parade today and posted at SFGate.com. Rather concentrate on this win than the election (but hey, goodbye Meg Whitman) and the rather negative subject of my recent job search.

Someone else pointed out on FB that it's rather standard for the party in power to lose the house in mid-term elections, but unusual to keep the Senate as we did. But that's as much politics as I want to offer.

Getting motivated (or trying to ) for my LA reading on Friday. If you are in the area, come hear me and Rick Bursky and Millicent Accardi. I think it will be fun.

Been reading the rather voluminous complete correspondence of Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. It seems the whole of the literary world passes in front of them. It is amusing that the names we consider rock solid today were fresh faces then.

Back to California / normal

I am quite happy to be home and back in California. Since I grew up in the New York area and also spent some time in my youth in Boston, I couldn't help making comparisons, during my visit, wondering what it would be like to be living in those places. I liked my friend Dennis's neighborhood in Brooklyn as well as Manhattan, and I liked Belmont, Cambridge, Wellesley, Arlington, Somerville, and downtown Boston — all places I'm sure where I could live happily. But San Francisco definitely feels like home. Even on miserable wet days like today, the light is different; there's a sense of openness from the Pacific being out there. And people are more diverse here than anywhere, living more or less amicably, with some sense that we're all in this life business together.

Maybe I'm crazy and imagining all this … But anyway, GO GIANTS! During yesterday's SF Opera dress rehearsal (standing room only because of the presence of Placido Domingo), there was an undercurrent of excitement about the game, and, during the intermission, people turning on their phones frantically to find out the score. Of course, the Giants did not clinch last last, but that's just typical Giants. Winning in a clean sweep would be too easy. They have to drag it out and make us sweat!

I should say the readings in NYC and Boston went well. Attendance was a little underwhelming, but then I'm hardly a headliner. Those who did come seemed to like what they heard.

Next reading is Beyond Baroque, Friday, November 5th, at 7:30 PM. We are more than broke right now; we are in deep debt, definitely up a creek though perhaps not yet without a paddle. But I'm flying down for this reading, because it was planned in the hopeful days of early summer. I'm reading with two fabulous poets, Millicent Accardi and Rick Bursky. So come on out!

Uh oh

Was innocently walking Greta on Ocean by Miramar, one of our old hangouts (yes, Greta is now somewhat — 4-blocks — ambient), when we passed by a small poster for the Friends of the San Francisco Library Book Sale. Now, we're talking about a household that should be selling, not buying books. And I'm unemployed! But, because I'm unemployed, I can go early. And often.



See you there!

Gonna concentrate on the poetry books. And I'll look at the photography books for John. Hey, it's September. It's almost Christmas.

Now, I don't know why the link didn't come through, showed like a big hole in this post. I've re-inserted it, but with no confidence.

Anyway, scored big at the sale, so big that I had an agonizing walk back to my car with several large heavy bags. Had to park up the street on my hill all day because of PG&E shenanigans. It's not been fun carrying a 40-pound dog, and I couldn't deal with the books. Hence they were still in the car until this morning, when I got them here.

Let's see: several photo books for John, a large Blake-illustrated version of Dante, and poems by: A. Sexton, J. Ashbery, C. Dennis, T. Lux, N. Flynn, E. Montale, M. Peacock, D. Baker, R. Dove., Y. Komunyakaa, P. Neruda, W. Stevens, R.M., Rilke, C. Twichell, L. Gluck, A. Rich, C.P. Cavafy, B. Collins, M. O'Rourke, O. De La Paz, C. Marvin, the Vintage anthology, ed. by McClatchey, and The Metaphysical Poets, ed. by Helen Gardner.

I'm sure I could get more today, only I'm not going back, unless someone else is carrying!

Saw Lisa and Erich.

[Link does not show. If someone knows why, tell me!]

Mixed Blessings

[photo of Greta on a happier day]

First, in the you never know department … My entire section of Picasso women poems has been taken. Details to come, as I haven't signed a contract yet and an approval is involved. But I'm very thrilled. I sent out four of these as part of a 15-page query to a poetry publisher, in hopes of placing HUE AND CRY, and the book wasn't taken but these were. Probably the best rejection I've got, if not ever, in a long time.

Meanwhile, John is away at VCCA (and I haven't told him this yet, but I doubt he reads my blog), and Greta Garbo, our 15-year-old dog, is sick. She has an ear infection that is apparently giving her vertigo and makes her tilt. Poor little baby! I'm leaving in about an hour to attend Melissa Stein's reading, but then I have to rush home to wash Greta's ear with an earwash and give her some pills. (She hasn't eaten anything all day, and her favorite treat, a strip of dried chicken, sits untouched by her left foot. It's very sad.)

N&J helped me enormously last night, confirming that Greta wasn't just being weird 'cause John was gone, and drove and carried her into the all-night pet hospital for me. This ain't an Academy Award-type thank you: I could not have done it without them.

More later …

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Update on the above: I've signed an agreement with Narrative Magazine to publish all 12 of my "Picasso Women" poems, an entire section of my new manuscript (and they pay!). This brings my acceptance rate for 2010 to 19 poems! This is unbelievable! I'm so thrilled.

Greta is doing a bit better. The problem is an old-dog vestibular ailment rather than an ear infection per se. Yesterday we even tried a slight walk at 6:00-ish. Then she woke in the middle of the night for what seemed like no reason but was this morning revealed to be a raccoon intruder in the basement. Muddy paw prints and water bowl, not from G., as she's been upstairs. Good for Greta, my old watchdog, but unfortunately, not easy to get back to sleep. As a result, I now feel like shit.

Following up

It's been almost three weeks since the fabulous events at Diesel Books and at Robert and Cheryl's. Everything went well, though I woke during the night after (did I actually sleep?) to realize I hadn't thanked Poetry Flash or Diesel Books aloud, during the reading. I hope they know how grateful I was …

I did thank Robert and Cheryl, at least on Facebook, though I can't really ever thank them enough. What a party! What a house! What a view! What a lucky person I am to have had all those people share the occasion of my book launch with me.

And now, moving on. The list of upcoming events is at right.

Can I say I wish I could move on. I'm ready to be living in my new book, Hue and Cry. Sure, there's more work to do before it's published, but I'm ready.

And I've been hard at work on a short story, a piece of fiction, set the summer of 1969.

Event-tually

I've been slow to record the latest events. With less than two weeks remaining to the big launch of Conjugated Visits at Diesel Books in Oakland and then the party at Robert's house, more readings have begun to pile up. That sounds like they just happened, while the truth is, multiple emails, phone calls, and other pestering has been involved with each of them. So now, in addition to Diesel and the group reading at Pegasus, September 18, I will be reading at:

Poetry Club at the Bowery in NYC on October 10, with Kyle McCord, Keith Montesano, and Amy Holman

Third Life, in Somerville, MA with Mary Alexandra Agner on October 16

Beyond Baroque in Venice CA with Rick Bursky and Millicent Accardi, November 5

Bird & Beckett Books in San Francisco with Robert Thomas, November 15

A multi-poet event in Corte Madera sometime in November/December

Poetry Santa Cruz, CA March 19th, 2011

Moonday in the Village, Pacific Palisades CA April 11th, 2011

I will eventually put all this in a neat list, with more accurate information. Do not fear. Right now, I'm just delaying getting back to a story I started writing. Yes! A short story!

You see, last Saturday, I went to Jon Carroll's workshop at Book Passages on writing the personal essay. I learned a lot (I think), not even counting my extra lesson on not to make a U-turn in a "business district." But Jon thought the idea I had for the essay was more suited to a short story. So I am trying. But it is haaaaard!