taking a break at work. 11:00 AM - 11:15 AM.

could be worse.
source: christopher david ryan

I am standing outside of a beige office building. The building houses the company I work for, the cubicle I sit in, the colleagues I work with to produce writing I am not too proud of… with every line of text I edit I surrender some soul. Not because I am dramatic, or a drama queen, and yes, the thought has crossed my mind. But because I contribute to the defilement of the every day. Ad text. Ad title. Small bursts of bore mined by search engines, the hated and the loved king Google.

Everything is popping and sudden and quick, nothing takes it's time, slowly grows warmer, like a whitman poem.

Occasionally I let my mind wander to thoughts of next year, my next life. The term “entry level” withering in my memory.

But for now I keep editing and changing and conversing with the middle man. So many middle men that I don’t recognize people at the ends. Are they even there?

from an interview with hempel.

RH: In a recent interview with The Believer, you spoke about the lyrical, poetic quality of your work. Can you tell us what importance poetry has played in your writing career, and what can be taken from it? I get the sense a lot of younger writers don't spend a lot of time with poetry. Is that to their detriment?

AH: Poetry is the biggest help in writing stories that I know. You learn so much about rhythm and acoustics and compression and selectivity. No wasted words, no "furniture moving." I read and re-read certain contemporary poets all the time. Look at John Rybicki out in Michigan, someone I quote often. The passion is palpable, the heartbreak--you have to read his new book, WE BED DOWN INTO WATER, to see what a strong man does with soul-shattering grief. I find I bring more poetry into my writing classes than fiction.

this is what I think, too! i'm feeling validated!

new author: amy hempel.

my friend sandra tipped me off to this incredible author, Amy Hempel... I bought her book of short stories, The Collected Stories (2006), and I can't put it down.

I hardly ever find writing this close to perfect. Her sentences are stripped of all excess & extra, she skins each thought to the bone. What's left is essential, honest, and necessary. A vague review, guilty as charged, but to understand my thoughts you will have to experience her work for yourself.

excerpt taken from npr website.


In a Tub.

My heart -- I thought it stopped. So I got in my car and headed for God. I passed two churches with cars parked in front. Then I stopped at the third because no one else had. It was early afternoon, the middle of the week. I chose a pew in the center of the rows. Episcopal or Methodist, it didn’t make any difference. It was as quiet as a church. I thought about the feeling of the long missed beat, and the tumble of the next ones as they rushed to fill the space. I sat there -- in the high brace of quiet and stained glass -- and I listened.

At the back of my house I can stand in the light from the sliding glass door and look out onto the deck. The deck is planted with marguerites and succulents in red clay pots. One of the pots is empty. It is shallow and broad, and filled with water like a birdbath.

My cat takes naps in the windowbox. Her gray chin is powdered with the iridescent dust from butterfly wings. If I tap on the glass, the cat will not look up. The sound that I make is not food.

When I was a girl I sneaked out at night. I pressed myself to hedges and fitted the shadows of trees. I went to a construction site near the lake. I took a concrete-mixing tub, slid it to the shore, and sat down inside it like a saucer. I would push off from the sand with one stolen oar and float, hearing nothing, for hours.

The birdbath is shaped like that tub.

I look at my nails in the harsh bathroom light. The scare will appear as a ripple at the base. It will take a couple of weeks to see.

I lock the door and run a tub of water.

Most of the time you don’t really hear it. A pulse is a thing that you feel. Even if you are somewhat quiet. Sometimes you hear it through the pillow at night. But I know that there is a place where you can hear it even better than that. Here is what you do. You ease yourself into a tub of water, you ease yourself down. You lie back and wait for the ripples to smooth away. Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart.

julia rothman.

julia rothman's patterns

brave new

I am so excited to blog again! For the past six months I have been pretend-posting… writing entries without actually publishing for fear of the stalker. I have been hesitant to make this blog private because I don’t like the idea of changing my life to accommodate said stalker’s feelings & actions. But after some friendly coaxing, and a few unsettling emails, I reconsidered. And now I don’ t have to be vague!

Current crisis: deciding where to go to art school.

My two options:

Art Center College of Design in Pasadena

California College of the Arts in San Francisco.

It's Friday!

::::

so I am making my blog private. lately I have felt unsafe posting, and that lack of security spoils any artistic or creative outlet blogging might afford me... so please, if you would like to continue reading, please send me an email/ leave a comment with your email address so that I can add you to my "can see" list.

enjoy your thursday :)

catch up.

happy monday.

dawg.

I am listening to NPR Fresh Air w/Terry Gross interviewing Michael Schaffer.... about his book about dogs. I'm reminded of an article I wrote ages ago:

This weekend I attended a blow out birthday celebration for a seven year old… dog. My friend Wendy threw a class-act party, complete with a cake, ice cream, pin the tail on the human – the works. Her dog is a seven pound Maltese named Bella. Bella, like many American dogs, has a sweet life. For one thing she has a better wardrobe than I do –diamond collars, Gucci carrying cases, dozens of sequined tops, mini UGG boots... This particular evening she sported a pin k tiara and a tutu to match. After she blew out the candle on Bella’s birthday bone, Wendy wanted to go around the table and have every guest tell his or her favorite “Bella” story. I looked over at her – she sat there beaming, tears shining in her eyes.

So I got home, still shaking my head. I looked at my dog – a mutt who looks like a mini sheepdog– and felt… well, guilty. Now I look at my Sir Sampson and see not him, but all the opportunities he will miss by being my pet. He will never herd sheep – or snap the necks of waterfowl, as he was allegedly meant to…. He will never lie on the couch of a pet analyst and unload his many worries…. You know, about his terrible owner, and how she doesn’t buy him gold food dishes or a Chuck-It or… dare I say it? Neuticles.

Am I a bad pet owner? Does the fact that I use the word “owner” instead of “Mommy” make that statement more answer, less question?

.... citing facts about the steep rise of pet ownership in america....

Naturally I have questions regarding this situation. Why now? Why America? Are we, US citizens, really so lonely that we need these mute, submissive “companions”? And if we are, why don’t we step outside and meet a neighbor? Why resort to animals?

& so on & so forth. I post this excerpt to bolster my claim that this guy stole my book idea. I wish we had 48 hours in every day, and we were able see through all the grandiose and radical ideas floating through our brains. Maybe when I retire I can patent my various fledgling inventions between golf rounds and adult diaper changes. But for now... back to work.


:::: good thought pushing me : tomorrow is Friday : )

next year.

San Francisco or LA?

I received my acceptance letters,
and now I must decide
between two locations.

Anyone want to weigh in?

I belong in:

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern. A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock. A unique soul like you needs a city that offers everything. No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

::::

mm....

love.

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne AS virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." So let us melt, and make no noise, 5 No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ; Men reckon what it did, and meant ; 10 But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit Of absence, 'cause it doth remove 15 The thing which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assurèd of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. 20 Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to aery thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so 25 As stiff twin compasses are two ; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, 30 It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; Thy firmness makes my circle just, 35 And makes me end where I begun.

missing my family.

beach boys nostalgia.

from andy j miller.