Aside from reading a chapter or two of Sam Ligon's book every night, and sometimes in the morning during breakfast, I've been re-reading women who do too much: how to stop doing it all and start enjoying your life...an inspirational book by Patricia Sprinkle, published by Zondervan. It's written from a Christian perspective, but it's not like the typical "Christian devotional book"....it's part memoir, part instructive, with just a few questions thrown in to for self-reflection...it's like getting wise advice from a mom or aunt. And Sprinkle has published mystery novels, even though Christians in her life disapproved, but it was her passion and she was loyal to it.
I haven't been loyal to my poetry lately. I have lines and phrases written on napkins and scratch paper, gathering near my desk. I haven't fully unpacked and set up my study after moving the last weekend of June. My Technical Writing job keeps me busy 30+ hrs a week, and when I'm not there I've been either walking Emerson, unpacking, spending time with friends, working on the last of the wedding plans, spending time with Judd (which usually ends up being more wedding planning or discussion about key items)...and my Subaru Outbook has been chugging and coughing, and after a new fuel filter, spark plug lines, a $200 mechanic bill, and a $10.99 bottle of fuel injector cleaner it's still running bad. This is the NOT the month for extra car expenses! But there's no way that car, a 2002 with over 84k miles, is going to make it to Seattle and back unless it gets fixed.
So Technical Writing pays these bills, and it is interesting and I'm learning more, and I like my co-workers...but I'm anticipating the time when I can get into the new poetry books I've been wanting to read, come back to some drafts saved on my computer, put some new lines into Word, set up base camp at a coffee shop table for a few hours and feel like I'm really devoting time and energy into my craft. Life right now is just such a different pace than it was during grad school, especially the quarters preceding the last one which heavily-focused on thesis compilation, revision, and oral defense preparation.
Aside from work, the new house is cute...an old early 1940's looking house, close to Manito Park and Rockwood Bakery...Emerson loves lounging in the yard which offers shade, dirt to dig in, and grass to sleep in, plenty of sunshine, a concrete slab for his kennel, and a back door with a window for looking in. He loves to sit outside of it and look inside, or just nap outside the door with the big windchime that hangs above and plays the most beautiful tones. Raspberry bushes grow along one fence and the berries are starting to ripen this week. Last weekend I thought one was a salmon berry, and realized it had been way too long since I ate fresh raspberries off the vein--I was forgetting what they looked like! My parents have huge rows of raspberry bushes in their garden and my Fourth of July memories are filled with picking bowls and bowls of raspberries, my parents making jam, my dad's homemade raspberry pie, raspberries on vanilla ice cream, raspberries on cereal... For now, Judd and I enjoy them with French Vanilla ice cream. Judd wants to make jam. I've tasted his homemade jam before--not too bad. Another impressive quality in my fiance. And moving showed me he's great with tools, spacial conception (which I already knew, but it was strongly reinforced), disassembling and reassembling Emerson's kennel, putting up Emerson's zipline run, doing yardwork (edging, hedge-trimming, mowing--anything having to do with power tools).
This past week we went sailing on Lake Pend Orielle in northern Idaho and watched a fireworks show with our good friends who today moved back to Colorado (Ft. Collins/Boulder area), we also took swing dance lessons with them, drank margaritas, drank "Duck Farts" another night, enjoyed an enchilada dinner and went with them on a last walk to Manito Park. But they'll be back to Spokane, to visit family and us! And we're excited to visit them.
Also this week, my friend Teri gave birth to her twin boys (July 5) just as she was approaching the 36 week mark.
In other news, the bridesmaid dresses are stuck in customs in New York, RSVP numbers are lower than expected, meeting with our cool photojournalist wedding photographer tomorrow, and I leave in a little over a week for San Francisco for a business trip (which I hope to combine with some fun since I have some good college friends who live there!).
And tomorrow will be exactly 4 weeks before my wedding.
* * *
an excerpt from Patricia Sprinkle's book:
"...writing mysteries and other fiction is my call from God. Saying yes to that calling in spite of what others think released God to open doors in amazing ways. It has also been a major means of reducing stress and providing energy in my life.
Think for a moment about women who focus most of their time and attention on things they love. Aren't they women who smile and laugh a lot, women who have lots of energy, who have time to spend an hour or two with a friend without guilt that they ought to be doing something else? Those women are cooperating with the design Goid is weaving in their lives, functioning as God intends us all to funciton: energized by and enjoying what we do and living with enthusiasm, laughter, and leisure."
- from Chapter 4, Wise Up Before You Burn Out
Friday, July 08, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
lillian hellman and body odors
I'm not sure about this previous statement, but that is a phrase that someone put into google and then found my blog.
I did think of Lillian yesterday, because I ate a "Dash Ham Melt" sandwich--named after Lillian's longtime partner--at the Liberty Cafe next to Auntie's Bookstore. It was okay...ham was a little too salty.
At night before going to bed, I've been reading Safe in Heaven Dead, by Samuel Ligon and really like it...and not just because Sam is an EWU professor and the advisor for "Willow Springs"...or because I moved into his neighborhood. (Just a few nights ago, him and his two kids were coming down the sidewalk and we chatted for a few minutes.) The details about the union and political organization is a bit confusing at times, and I think I shouldn't read it so late at night...but the character development is compelling. And I enjoy the quick pace of the action.
I have two new poetry books I've been wanting to start reading--one is by Ruth Stone. I'm also set to begin Donald Hall and William Stafford's prose books on poetry. And there are some new poem drafts that need some attention again.
The post-MFA mission: how to figure out a schedule that allows for the creative process and production to occur, while maintaining a work and personal schedule that pays the bills and provides a meaningful, fulfilling life that imbeds purpose into my daily experiences.
Maybe I'm being too idealistic and asking too much. Maybe not.
Any suggestions from others who work at one job and then write at home in the evenings/mornings/weekends?
I did think of Lillian yesterday, because I ate a "Dash Ham Melt" sandwich--named after Lillian's longtime partner--at the Liberty Cafe next to Auntie's Bookstore. It was okay...ham was a little too salty.
At night before going to bed, I've been reading Safe in Heaven Dead, by Samuel Ligon and really like it...and not just because Sam is an EWU professor and the advisor for "Willow Springs"...or because I moved into his neighborhood. (Just a few nights ago, him and his two kids were coming down the sidewalk and we chatted for a few minutes.) The details about the union and political organization is a bit confusing at times, and I think I shouldn't read it so late at night...but the character development is compelling. And I enjoy the quick pace of the action.
I have two new poetry books I've been wanting to start reading--one is by Ruth Stone. I'm also set to begin Donald Hall and William Stafford's prose books on poetry. And there are some new poem drafts that need some attention again.
The post-MFA mission: how to figure out a schedule that allows for the creative process and production to occur, while maintaining a work and personal schedule that pays the bills and provides a meaningful, fulfilling life that imbeds purpose into my daily experiences.
Maybe I'm being too idealistic and asking too much. Maybe not.
Any suggestions from others who work at one job and then write at home in the evenings/mornings/weekends?
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Photos from Memorial Day weekend trip
These are long overdue, but still beautiful to share. We traveled to Idaho and Montana over the course of 5 days. I had all my thesis books with me to read again and take notes. The fly-fishing wasn't too great, but the weather was very nice and we found a great (and free) campsite in MT.
(The pictures are in reverse chronological order from that weekend.)
Emerson wading in the north fork of the Bull River.
(The pictures are in reverse chronological order from that weekend.)
Emerson wading in the north fork of the Bull River.
Near Harrison Lake (and Harrison Peak), somewhere outside of Bonners Ferry, Idaho. We were surprised to find so much snow still around at 6,000' at the end of May, especially after such an abnormally dry winter and early spring.
A beautiful moose ran by our tent in the morning and right by Emerson (we discovered later by the tracks). Emerson was more intrigued than intimidated (maybe he thought it was a type of horse), which is lucky for all of us.
A beautiful moose ran by our tent in the morning and right by Emerson (we discovered later by the tracks). Emerson was more intrigued than intimidated (maybe he thought it was a type of horse), which is lucky for all of us.
Friday, June 17, 2005
so many changes
...MFA graduation, a new job position, new writing projects on, new house to rent, bridal shower in Seattle...i write this from my sister's house, looking out into her backyard at a small red barn that houses their family's chickens...soon I'll be playing Nintendo with my 11-year-old nephew who will challenge and humble my computer game driving skills once again.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
My emulation of Lillian Hellman's memoir style
Stiff blue carpet and dark, wooden pews stretched across the expanse of the large church. My parents always chose to sit near the front on the right side. Even when we arrived almost late for ten o’clock Mass, my mother would rush my father, siblings and me up the aisle to squeeze into the last remaining spaces in the pew and crowd those already waiting there. Sometimes, when there was obvious space for a family of five, my mother would show a smug smile indicating how she perceived our invisibly reserved section, as if the other families knew not to sit there because we would eventually be coming.
What I also remember is the smooth-looking skin of the young, handsome priest and his brown eyes that resembled slightly melted M & M candies. He is the one standing next to me in the photograph which commemorates that rite of passage ordained for every second-grade child at St. Stephen’s the Martyr Catholic Church—the sacrament of Holy Communion, the First Eucharist.
I vaguely recall there were a few catechism lessons and practice sessions (how to place our hands—palms up, left one resting in the right like an oval candy dish), all of which were organized by a few religious education leaders and some parents. But how much could a group of seven and eight-year-olds really understand in regards to centuries old tradition and doctrinal teaching? It would be many years later until I finally started to understand the complicated theology of the Catholic Church. We were polite, though, as much as a group of white, suburban church kids are expected to be. Though I’m sure we shifted in our seats and picked our noses more than listened to the elementary-simplified explanations of this very important sacrament.
One thing I do remember well is the dress. I can still feel its crinkly pleated skirt and chiffon sleeves. Though I preferred sundresses and saltwater sandals, I knew this pristine white dress meant I was ready to receive the host—a small flat circle of processed bread-like ingredients, imprinted with a cross. This dress was like wearing an invisible palm over my mouth, I was such a good girl. To make my transformation as the “bride of Christ” complete, I also wore a small white plastic crown with an attached veil. But I didn’t feel holy or pious. Instead, I felt scratchy and confined. I submitted to my fate in the J.C.Penney department store girls’ fitting room. (Though I would realize that day of the sacramental Mass that I was merely playing the role, while inside I knew I perceived the divinity of Jesus in a more personal, relevant way.) At that moment in front of the three-way mirror, with my mother gushing over how beautiful I looked, I really did feel like a pre-pubescent bride. But it was all just a costume. This early veil-wearing experience would eventually ruin my desire to wear a wedding veil. Now all I can think of is how I already wore one and walked down the aisle, though I didn’t want to marry God; I just wanted him to love me.
It would be over ten years later, when I moved away for college, that I started to really define my own spirituality. Even though I would make more conscious decisions of the heart in junior high in regards to God, faith, and Creation, I didn’t have courage to change religious affiliations until I was eighteen. Even then, it was a fairly silent transition. I just didn’t go to Mass anymore. But I didn’t turn away from God; I simply started going with my college friends to the Presbyterian church that was within walking distance from our dorm. (None of us had a car, and it was the only church close enough to walk to, but they also warmly reached out to the college students.) I also joined “The INN”—a college ministry that met on Tuesday evenings. Their gatherings featured a worship band, overhead transparencies with the song lyrics, and intellectual, application-based teaching by a pastor named Mike. I embraced this new mode of religion, of grace and spirituality, because at age 7, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a choice. I realized even at the time that the rituals, especially that processional of small brides and grooms, was more for our parents, as evidence they were raising good Catholic children and keeping a good Catholic home.
At age seven, I didn’t even know about fractions yet, how could I understand the Holy Trinity and the metaphysical transformation of bread to flesh, wine to blood? I didn’t revere the sacrament. I remember feeling more nervous and slightly scared, actually. I only cared about no longer being left behind in the pew while my parents and older siblings took Communion every Sunday at Mass. I wanted to swallow wine. I wanted to place God on my tongue and digest his body.
Though I understood the implied mystery of this ritual and the significance of my initiation into the sacrament, I didn’t learn to appreciate the symbolism of it until much later. It was at “The INN” one night before spring break with candles, acoustic guitar music, and surrounded by my closest friends. Pastor Mike ripped a sourdough mound of bread in half, like the round loaf found in the grocery store bakery section, and he said the same words of Jesus and the handsome priest. Then Mike placed the bread on the large wooden table at the front of the church sanctuary, next to two cups—one labeled wine, the other grape juice. Then in reverent fashion, we walked individually to the front to have our own moment with God. That night I walked to Him, tore off a wispy piece of bread, dipped one corner into the cup of wine and ate it. Rather than being compelled by tradition and family expectation, this moment was an act of love.
When I look back on the photographs from that First Eucharist Mass in the spring of 1982, I see the distinct discomfort on my face. I’m not smiling with my teeth showing like I normally do. Instead, my lower lip is biting my upper lip on one side. My hands are clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white, and one foot and ankle is rolled outward, so the sole of my shoe stares at its mate. The handsome priest has his right arm gently resting around me with his hand on my shoulder. He has a slow smile, like an awkward too-tall groom. He was maybe thirty-years-old and did not realize how many years away I was from really being married.
What I also remember is the smooth-looking skin of the young, handsome priest and his brown eyes that resembled slightly melted M & M candies. He is the one standing next to me in the photograph which commemorates that rite of passage ordained for every second-grade child at St. Stephen’s the Martyr Catholic Church—the sacrament of Holy Communion, the First Eucharist.
I vaguely recall there were a few catechism lessons and practice sessions (how to place our hands—palms up, left one resting in the right like an oval candy dish), all of which were organized by a few religious education leaders and some parents. But how much could a group of seven and eight-year-olds really understand in regards to centuries old tradition and doctrinal teaching? It would be many years later until I finally started to understand the complicated theology of the Catholic Church. We were polite, though, as much as a group of white, suburban church kids are expected to be. Though I’m sure we shifted in our seats and picked our noses more than listened to the elementary-simplified explanations of this very important sacrament.
One thing I do remember well is the dress. I can still feel its crinkly pleated skirt and chiffon sleeves. Though I preferred sundresses and saltwater sandals, I knew this pristine white dress meant I was ready to receive the host—a small flat circle of processed bread-like ingredients, imprinted with a cross. This dress was like wearing an invisible palm over my mouth, I was such a good girl. To make my transformation as the “bride of Christ” complete, I also wore a small white plastic crown with an attached veil. But I didn’t feel holy or pious. Instead, I felt scratchy and confined. I submitted to my fate in the J.C.Penney department store girls’ fitting room. (Though I would realize that day of the sacramental Mass that I was merely playing the role, while inside I knew I perceived the divinity of Jesus in a more personal, relevant way.) At that moment in front of the three-way mirror, with my mother gushing over how beautiful I looked, I really did feel like a pre-pubescent bride. But it was all just a costume. This early veil-wearing experience would eventually ruin my desire to wear a wedding veil. Now all I can think of is how I already wore one and walked down the aisle, though I didn’t want to marry God; I just wanted him to love me.
It would be over ten years later, when I moved away for college, that I started to really define my own spirituality. Even though I would make more conscious decisions of the heart in junior high in regards to God, faith, and Creation, I didn’t have courage to change religious affiliations until I was eighteen. Even then, it was a fairly silent transition. I just didn’t go to Mass anymore. But I didn’t turn away from God; I simply started going with my college friends to the Presbyterian church that was within walking distance from our dorm. (None of us had a car, and it was the only church close enough to walk to, but they also warmly reached out to the college students.) I also joined “The INN”—a college ministry that met on Tuesday evenings. Their gatherings featured a worship band, overhead transparencies with the song lyrics, and intellectual, application-based teaching by a pastor named Mike. I embraced this new mode of religion, of grace and spirituality, because at age 7, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a choice. I realized even at the time that the rituals, especially that processional of small brides and grooms, was more for our parents, as evidence they were raising good Catholic children and keeping a good Catholic home.
At age seven, I didn’t even know about fractions yet, how could I understand the Holy Trinity and the metaphysical transformation of bread to flesh, wine to blood? I didn’t revere the sacrament. I remember feeling more nervous and slightly scared, actually. I only cared about no longer being left behind in the pew while my parents and older siblings took Communion every Sunday at Mass. I wanted to swallow wine. I wanted to place God on my tongue and digest his body.
Though I understood the implied mystery of this ritual and the significance of my initiation into the sacrament, I didn’t learn to appreciate the symbolism of it until much later. It was at “The INN” one night before spring break with candles, acoustic guitar music, and surrounded by my closest friends. Pastor Mike ripped a sourdough mound of bread in half, like the round loaf found in the grocery store bakery section, and he said the same words of Jesus and the handsome priest. Then Mike placed the bread on the large wooden table at the front of the church sanctuary, next to two cups—one labeled wine, the other grape juice. Then in reverent fashion, we walked individually to the front to have our own moment with God. That night I walked to Him, tore off a wispy piece of bread, dipped one corner into the cup of wine and ate it. Rather than being compelled by tradition and family expectation, this moment was an act of love.
When I look back on the photographs from that First Eucharist Mass in the spring of 1982, I see the distinct discomfort on my face. I’m not smiling with my teeth showing like I normally do. Instead, my lower lip is biting my upper lip on one side. My hands are clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white, and one foot and ankle is rolled outward, so the sole of my shoe stares at its mate. The handsome priest has his right arm gently resting around me with his hand on my shoulder. He has a slow smile, like an awkward too-tall groom. He was maybe thirty-years-old and did not realize how many years away I was from really being married.
**Note on Form: use of flash-forwards, treatment of authorial self vs. narrative self, and tone is meant to emulate what Hellman does in her first memoir, An Unfinished Woman. This was turned in as a three-page, double-spaced essay for Nonfiction II final, along with a five-page essay analyzing Hellman's nonfiction technique and style.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
comments, please?
...if you're stopping by...won't you? You don't have to...but I see my stats and kind of wonder who actually stops and reads (since there are 311 unique visitors so far)...what do you think about what you read here? Would you come back again? (Some of you do.)
So, if you are not too shy, please comment on something you like, offer some insight or advice, book recommendations, etc. Since I'll soon be a post-MFA student, the content will be changing slightly...if you are a fellow writer, please tell me what you do to keep yourself accountable, motivated, inspired...what works and doesn't work for you; what are your favorite literary websites and journals; what are you reading; where are you submitting work; where are you being published, and so on...
After I find a new place to live, I'm going to start sending out poems (or at least get the submission packets ready to send out in the fall) to literary magazines. First on my list are: Prairie Schooner, Artful Dodge, Denver Colorado, and Colorado Review. (subject to change, of course)
Today I made final changes to my thesis manuscript. Rearranged the order of contents a little bit, revised a line here and there, took out 2 poems that I feel need more revision still and feel disconnected from the rest of the manuscript because of their need to be polished just a bit more. I'm heading out soon to the Spokane Center's computer lab to use their laser printer, then will take my required 4 copies (for binding) to the Graduate Studies Office in Cheney tomorrow morning.
Then...I have some Willow Springs submissions to read and turn into the editors. Then...I will be completely done with all of the requirements for the completion of my Masters of Fine Arts degree. Whoo-hoo!
This weekend:
* MFA graduate reading this Friday night at Center Stage
* Graduate Commencement, Saturday afternoon in Cheney . . . Jonathan is "hooding us"
So, if you are not too shy, please comment on something you like, offer some insight or advice, book recommendations, etc. Since I'll soon be a post-MFA student, the content will be changing slightly...if you are a fellow writer, please tell me what you do to keep yourself accountable, motivated, inspired...what works and doesn't work for you; what are your favorite literary websites and journals; what are you reading; where are you submitting work; where are you being published, and so on...
After I find a new place to live, I'm going to start sending out poems (or at least get the submission packets ready to send out in the fall) to literary magazines. First on my list are: Prairie Schooner, Artful Dodge, Denver Colorado, and Colorado Review. (subject to change, of course)
Today I made final changes to my thesis manuscript. Rearranged the order of contents a little bit, revised a line here and there, took out 2 poems that I feel need more revision still and feel disconnected from the rest of the manuscript because of their need to be polished just a bit more. I'm heading out soon to the Spokane Center's computer lab to use their laser printer, then will take my required 4 copies (for binding) to the Graduate Studies Office in Cheney tomorrow morning.
Then...I have some Willow Springs submissions to read and turn into the editors. Then...I will be completely done with all of the requirements for the completion of my Masters of Fine Arts degree. Whoo-hoo!
This weekend:
* MFA graduate reading this Friday night at Center Stage
* Graduate Commencement, Saturday afternoon in Cheney . . . Jonathan is "hooding us"
Friday, June 03, 2005
what we look for
I find it funny and fascinating that people have found my blog when they typed these phrases into search engines:
- ralph waldo emerson and ladybugs
- poetry is a passion not a habit
- clip art husky head
These three have been the most interesting by far. Fun!
And I'm currently procrastinating from finishing my very, very last final paper for my graduate school career. It's a bit sad, though it's more exciting to feel the celebratory feelings that comes with accomplishing this 2 year commitment that has consumed my life both emotionally, financially, and creatively.
Last night, before my last class session ended the teacher had some parting words to say to commorate the end...(unfortunately, we haven't had our regular professor for quite a few weeks due to illness and surgery...sure missed learning from her this quarter, but oh well...just praying that her health improves)...anyway, Kristen warned/encouraged (who's only 25 with a first book out...got her MA in Creative Writing at UC-Davis) us that our writing life will be definitely be different once we are separated from "the program"...and that (well, at least this was true for her) we would have to learn to write again...meaning, without the crutch of workshop, an advisor, the creative stimulation of our classmates/fellow writers, deadlines, and structured writing, well...we have to kind of figure it out again, that is, answer: "Well, what do I do now?"
For me, that means...how do I figure out a writing schedule while I work a 30-40 hour/week job that pays the bills. Who will be my post-MFA workshop comrades?...those poet friends who will be the ones we share poems with (for response and critique, either by email/mail or phone). And now that I have a manuscript, what will I do with it? (the plan now: submit poems to literary magazines, something I just did not have time for this school year...continue revising and working them). I also have some poems that I did not include in my thesis because they were not revised enough, and I needed more space from them...so I look forward to working on those. Plus, I have a bunch of new ideas that I'd like to get some drafts started. And now that I studied all my thesis books with such depth, I want to work on some of my poems while paying attention to some of those craft ideas that I admired in others' work (keeping Halliday, Kasdorf, and Morling in mind, especially).
And I want to write more non-fiction essays and learn more about that craft.
And Jonathan is teaching a fun course in the fall (which hasn't been offered in 3 years), "Literature of the Pacific Northwest"...so I hope to sit in on that class a time or two, get the syllabus, and possibly go on the "field trip" (a literary journey to Montana to visit Richard Hugo's towns and bars from his poems).
Anyway, for now...one more final...the last one. Due Monday by noon.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I passed!
A successful oral examination (thesis defense) was completed yesterday...in the hot seat from 3:00-4:00 p.m. Celebrated with friends afterwards at The Steam Plant Grill. I've been overloaded with reading, skimming, and reviewing my thesis list of poetry books, making notecard notes (which I didn't even really refer to during my defense). I used tons of little post-it flags to mark poems in each book that I would discuss, as needed during the course of the discussion. I definitely over-prepared in ways that weren't necessary, ultimately...but there was no way to know what I would be asked to recall, respond to, etc. I was hoping to talk more about Richard Hugo and James Wright, but ended up focusing on Halliday (his sincerity), Kasdorf (her subject matter, and construction of her book), with some Franz Wright (his sincerity vs. Halliday's) and Jack Gilbert (one of his lyric poems, vs. his narrative)...and then finally, some Malena Morling and discussion of her as a lyric poet.
Now that the major part is finished, I just have to polish up the manuscript, make a few changes (one title change, some possible rearranging of the order of poems), a few typos to fix (mainly hyphen additions and spacing issues)--then copy a nice laser-printed draft onto the thesis paper and take those 4 copies into the EWU Graduate Studies office in Cheney by 5pm on June 10th.
But until then...I still have a final for my nonfiction form/theory class to complete. Then, THEN...the blissful feeling of MFA completion will fully come!
P.S. Best part of preparing for my defense: reading Richard Hugo along the East Fork of the Bull River in Montana while camping with Emerson and my fiance for a few days over Memorial Weekend. A lovely time!
Now that the major part is finished, I just have to polish up the manuscript, make a few changes (one title change, some possible rearranging of the order of poems), a few typos to fix (mainly hyphen additions and spacing issues)--then copy a nice laser-printed draft onto the thesis paper and take those 4 copies into the EWU Graduate Studies office in Cheney by 5pm on June 10th.
But until then...I still have a final for my nonfiction form/theory class to complete. Then, THEN...the blissful feeling of MFA completion will fully come!
P.S. Best part of preparing for my defense: reading Richard Hugo along the East Fork of the Bull River in Montana while camping with Emerson and my fiance for a few days over Memorial Weekend. A lovely time!
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
Emerson's husky hair, soft as cotton when his undercoat sheds, the birds snatch it from the grass to make their nests, his springtime "blow out" and the subsequent big brush-out filled a entire bucket with airy, fluffy fur...I set the bucket on top of the fence next to a tree branch as an all-you-can-get buffet for the birds
Sunday, May 22, 2005
that collective 15% Midwest is from North Dakota
Your Linguistic Profile: |
80% General American English |
10% Upper Midwestern |
5% Midwestern |
5% Yankee |
0% Dixie |
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Rib Space
Now I want to be whoever I was at that moment
when I discovered my own breathing . . . .
— Malena Mörling, Ocean Avenue
. . . the soul
is nailed to us like lentils and fatty bacon lodged
under the ribs.
— Jack Gilbert, The Great Fires
. . . let me learn for myself all the desires
a body can hold, how they grow stronger
and wilder with age, tugging in every direction
until it feels my sternum might split
like Adam’s when Eve stepped out,
sloughing off ribs.
— Julia Kasdorf, Eve’s Striptease
(epigraphs used to intro my thesis poems)
when I discovered my own breathing . . . .
— Malena Mörling, Ocean Avenue
. . . the soul
is nailed to us like lentils and fatty bacon lodged
under the ribs.
— Jack Gilbert, The Great Fires
. . . let me learn for myself all the desires
a body can hold, how they grow stronger
and wilder with age, tugging in every direction
until it feels my sternum might split
like Adam’s when Eve stepped out,
sloughing off ribs.
— Julia Kasdorf, Eve’s Striptease
(epigraphs used to intro my thesis poems)
cool
http://www.openpoetrybooks.com/calendar/
Sunday, June 05, 2005 at 04:00 PM EASTERN WA. MFA STUDENTS
For some years now, representatives from EWU's graduating class of MFA students have made the trek over the mountains to share their work with those of us on the wet (well, it used to be) side of the state. Charmingly and insightfully presented by their professor Jonathan Johnson, the readers this afternoon will be Amy Silbernagel, Jeff Dodd, Shannon Amidon, Agatha Beins, Elise Gregory, and Emily Benson.
Sunday, June 05, 2005 at 04:00 PM EASTERN WA. MFA STUDENTS
For some years now, representatives from EWU's graduating class of MFA students have made the trek over the mountains to share their work with those of us on the wet (well, it used to be) side of the state. Charmingly and insightfully presented by their professor Jonathan Johnson, the readers this afternoon will be Amy Silbernagel, Jeff Dodd, Shannon Amidon, Agatha Beins, Elise Gregory, and Emily Benson.
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