I have been reading Howard Zinn's "A People's History of American Empire" a sort of companion to his People's History. It is in graphic novel form. Jeannine got it for me for Christmas. It cronicles America's conquests and rise to global superpower via the massacre and destruction of all in its path. It starts, of course, with the beginning of the American Empire at home, the Massacre at Wounded Knee. Today was the day the battle happened, in 1890. I dare you to go here to learn more.
Also, check out americanempireproject.com for more information about the series this Zinn comic is a part of. For some reason (and try not to read too much into this) the site is down right now, But check back periodically to see if it's up and running.
Monday, December 29, 2008
An Eore Day
Sometimes, oh, say for the last week or so for example, I get a bit blue because I feel what could amount to as post "I went to a top five grad school for my discipline and I now work part time in a grocery store" depression. I feel like I'm not on the right track, like I'm a disappointment to my community, inferior to my peers, and generally not good enough to convert oxygen to carbon dioxide.
During these times I have to remind myself that since the cancer I have had the realization that all that matters is that I make a difference in others' lives. That my day makes someone else's life better, easier, because life is generally so hard for most of us to bear is what should be the point of my life. This is true, I believe, since when I got the cancer all of a sudden little else mattered to me than making good in the world. Sometimes I get tangled in my post "iwtfgsmdinwptgs" depression and I forget what is important. I forget the world around me and become surrounded in my own pity. It is a deep well to trudge out of.
Poetry makes me happy. Making others happy or more comfortable makes me feel like I belong. Like I deserve to be here. Like converting oxygen to carbon dioxide is the least of my talents. Buddhism is a good avenue to walk down when trying to remember the important things in life: that this is all temporary, that everything you need is right here, in this moment, that to help others is the greatest achievement. We all live until one day we die. It sounds easy and sad but it's not: its hard to remember and so relieving when you believe it. I am here right now, if I, everyday, do something to make someone else's life easier to bear, happier, worth living, then everyday's passing is not something to mourn, it is a miracle, it is a place to exist in, the present, a place to be thankful for the recognition of. I spend too much time worrying about the future and regretting the past, those places don't exist. Just right now is real. It is the hardest thing to remember, to believe, especially when I live in the make-believe world of poetry. Maybe it isn't make-believe. If it isn't make-believe, what is it? I am asking you-my poets, what is it poetry to you? What is important and real?
This post is all loose ends and beginnings, don't try to tie it up, but I do wonder what you guys think of these things, of life and death and poetry and what makes waking up worth it to you.
During these times I have to remind myself that since the cancer I have had the realization that all that matters is that I make a difference in others' lives. That my day makes someone else's life better, easier, because life is generally so hard for most of us to bear is what should be the point of my life. This is true, I believe, since when I got the cancer all of a sudden little else mattered to me than making good in the world. Sometimes I get tangled in my post "iwtfgsmdinwptgs" depression and I forget what is important. I forget the world around me and become surrounded in my own pity. It is a deep well to trudge out of.
Poetry makes me happy. Making others happy or more comfortable makes me feel like I belong. Like I deserve to be here. Like converting oxygen to carbon dioxide is the least of my talents. Buddhism is a good avenue to walk down when trying to remember the important things in life: that this is all temporary, that everything you need is right here, in this moment, that to help others is the greatest achievement. We all live until one day we die. It sounds easy and sad but it's not: its hard to remember and so relieving when you believe it. I am here right now, if I, everyday, do something to make someone else's life easier to bear, happier, worth living, then everyday's passing is not something to mourn, it is a miracle, it is a place to exist in, the present, a place to be thankful for the recognition of. I spend too much time worrying about the future and regretting the past, those places don't exist. Just right now is real. It is the hardest thing to remember, to believe, especially when I live in the make-believe world of poetry. Maybe it isn't make-believe. If it isn't make-believe, what is it? I am asking you-my poets, what is it poetry to you? What is important and real?
This post is all loose ends and beginnings, don't try to tie it up, but I do wonder what you guys think of these things, of life and death and poetry and what makes waking up worth it to you.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Mr. Obama, What the Fuck?
I'm sure many of you by now have heard the rumblings about Obama's pick of Rick Warren to preform the invocation at the inaguration. Rick Warren isn't just the pastor at mega church Saddleback Church in southern California. He wrote the bestseller "The Purpose Driven Life." He's also a hateful prick.
Sure, it's very easy for me to be disappointed by Obama's choice, but I'm even more disappointed by his defense of his choice. Fisrt, for those of you uncertain of my problem with Rick Warren, some highlights of Warren's ideology and practice:
-Warren believes my marriage to Jeannine would be akin to my marriage to my father, or my 3 year old niece's marriage to my father.
-He claimed Prop 8 was important and good because if gays can get married Christians would have to endure hate speech and hate crimes.
-Saddleback Church prohibits gays from becoming members.
There are the obvious beefs:
--the irony of a Christian claiming hate crimes and speech against them by the very people the term was invented for. Boo fucking hoo, tell it to Matthew Shepard. However this presupposes that Warren is correct, that Christians would be attacked by wedded gays: are you out of your ever-loving mind? I would be too busy filing for joint health insurance and sending wedding invitations to Fred Phelp's website to set crosses on fire on Rick Warren's lawn.
--the lack of Christian compassion: aren't you supposed to welcome into the flock those who need you most, and in your estimation, Pastor Warren, wouldn't that be the godless gays?
--I'm not a fan of people who think I should burn in hell for all of eternity for loving my partner, who has the same genitals as me. No people in the history of civilization, nay, the history of bipedal existance have ever had so much gential interest as the gays. My vagina, I guarantee, looks very similar to straight women's vaginas. I should know, I've slept with straight women and the 'ginas look nearly identical, sans some hairstyle differences. I presume gay dudes would say the same. So can we stop talking about what's in my pants already. Christians are the perverts here, not the gays. I have never once discussed or been interested in or written pamphlets about or stated websites on or given public orations concerning Christian sex practices or genetalia.
But this isn't about the bigot Warren, this is about the savior of our people, the optimist, the sage, the one true and noble and mighty and fair and everything else his campaign overtly or covertly, explicitly or implicitly claimed: Obama is fair, sane, morally sound.
I do love Obama, but the pick of Warren is a slap in the face to the disenfranchised, the oppressed, the gay* minority who helped put him into office. I have to agree with Dan Savege here: you don't see an any anti-semites in Obama's cabinet, and there is no out and proud racist performing any function for him either. Why is it that the only people who are expected to "agree to disagree," to shut up and take it, to make nice with those who openly hate them, are the gays?
Consider for a moment, dear reader, someone who outwardly hated an intrinsic aspect of your identity, something immutible and ingrained. Who would that person be? Are they, and others like them, constantly given the benefit of the doubt by our leaders and society in general? Are they heralded for all their other good qualities, and is their hatred of you ignored or downplayed at every turn? What if they were then chosen by the president as someone to perform a sacred and historical ritual in front of the entire country, as an example of morality and good character?
Consistantly the hateful, bigoted, ignorant Christian pastors in America are praised by our political leaders for their intelligence, their kindness, their temperance, their good nature and will despite their open and proud hatred of a prominent minority group. On the same night the first black man was elected president of the United States, Prop 8 passed in California (Warren had a big hand in that, too). While that night will be remembered by many people as the night that equality finally prevailed in America, my memories of it will be very different. Where were all those equality-lovin' straight people who voted Obama in California when Prop 8 won? If you are straight, or god help you gay, and you voted for Obama and also for Prop 8, all I can muster at this moment is fuck you, equality for some is inherently unequal.
I know you're not perfect, Barack, and I'm not asking for it: I'm asking for follow through on that hope you banked on, that change you promised. I'm asking for some of that consistancy you're known for: if you're so smart, your plans and politics so transparent, why make such an ignorant and calculated choice as Warren? Mr. Obama you claim it was to bring people together, but you have only driven me further from you, and many of the other gays that fought so hard for you, believe in you, wrote four figure checks to you, further into the margins. It's the wrong foot to start on, it's a mistake, and for the first time you look like a politican to me. John Leo on the Huffington Post claims that "Prop. 8 and its aftermath are the first time in the four decades since Stonewall that the gay movement has started to look like an organized tantrum" and God willing he's right. Again, to reference Dan Savage, no more Mr. Nice Gay. We have had it, and are no longer interested in pretending bigotry is permissible, inequality is warranted, or that we're cool with you despite the fact that you wish we would just keep our mouths shut and play nice.
*I'm purposely ignoring the rest of the acronym, and just discussing the G and L in LGBT. I am not transgendered and therefore cannot speak to their needs or opinions. Nor am I bisexual, and the bisexuals can at least marry 50% of their dating pool. This issue is too complex to discuss all facets in one wee blog entry, so I have willingly chosen just the parts I am capable of discussing at least semi-coherently.
Sure, it's very easy for me to be disappointed by Obama's choice, but I'm even more disappointed by his defense of his choice. Fisrt, for those of you uncertain of my problem with Rick Warren, some highlights of Warren's ideology and practice:
-Warren believes my marriage to Jeannine would be akin to my marriage to my father, or my 3 year old niece's marriage to my father.
-He claimed Prop 8 was important and good because if gays can get married Christians would have to endure hate speech and hate crimes.
-Saddleback Church prohibits gays from becoming members.
There are the obvious beefs:
--the irony of a Christian claiming hate crimes and speech against them by the very people the term was invented for. Boo fucking hoo, tell it to Matthew Shepard. However this presupposes that Warren is correct, that Christians would be attacked by wedded gays: are you out of your ever-loving mind? I would be too busy filing for joint health insurance and sending wedding invitations to Fred Phelp's website to set crosses on fire on Rick Warren's lawn.
--the lack of Christian compassion: aren't you supposed to welcome into the flock those who need you most, and in your estimation, Pastor Warren, wouldn't that be the godless gays?
--I'm not a fan of people who think I should burn in hell for all of eternity for loving my partner, who has the same genitals as me. No people in the history of civilization, nay, the history of bipedal existance have ever had so much gential interest as the gays. My vagina, I guarantee, looks very similar to straight women's vaginas. I should know, I've slept with straight women and the 'ginas look nearly identical, sans some hairstyle differences. I presume gay dudes would say the same. So can we stop talking about what's in my pants already. Christians are the perverts here, not the gays. I have never once discussed or been interested in or written pamphlets about or stated websites on or given public orations concerning Christian sex practices or genetalia.
But this isn't about the bigot Warren, this is about the savior of our people, the optimist, the sage, the one true and noble and mighty and fair and everything else his campaign overtly or covertly, explicitly or implicitly claimed: Obama is fair, sane, morally sound.
I do love Obama, but the pick of Warren is a slap in the face to the disenfranchised, the oppressed, the gay* minority who helped put him into office. I have to agree with Dan Savege here: you don't see an any anti-semites in Obama's cabinet, and there is no out and proud racist performing any function for him either. Why is it that the only people who are expected to "agree to disagree," to shut up and take it, to make nice with those who openly hate them, are the gays?
Consider for a moment, dear reader, someone who outwardly hated an intrinsic aspect of your identity, something immutible and ingrained. Who would that person be? Are they, and others like them, constantly given the benefit of the doubt by our leaders and society in general? Are they heralded for all their other good qualities, and is their hatred of you ignored or downplayed at every turn? What if they were then chosen by the president as someone to perform a sacred and historical ritual in front of the entire country, as an example of morality and good character?
Consistantly the hateful, bigoted, ignorant Christian pastors in America are praised by our political leaders for their intelligence, their kindness, their temperance, their good nature and will despite their open and proud hatred of a prominent minority group. On the same night the first black man was elected president of the United States, Prop 8 passed in California (Warren had a big hand in that, too). While that night will be remembered by many people as the night that equality finally prevailed in America, my memories of it will be very different. Where were all those equality-lovin' straight people who voted Obama in California when Prop 8 won? If you are straight, or god help you gay, and you voted for Obama and also for Prop 8, all I can muster at this moment is fuck you, equality for some is inherently unequal.
I know you're not perfect, Barack, and I'm not asking for it: I'm asking for follow through on that hope you banked on, that change you promised. I'm asking for some of that consistancy you're known for: if you're so smart, your plans and politics so transparent, why make such an ignorant and calculated choice as Warren? Mr. Obama you claim it was to bring people together, but you have only driven me further from you, and many of the other gays that fought so hard for you, believe in you, wrote four figure checks to you, further into the margins. It's the wrong foot to start on, it's a mistake, and for the first time you look like a politican to me. John Leo on the Huffington Post claims that "Prop. 8 and its aftermath are the first time in the four decades since Stonewall that the gay movement has started to look like an organized tantrum" and God willing he's right. Again, to reference Dan Savage, no more Mr. Nice Gay. We have had it, and are no longer interested in pretending bigotry is permissible, inequality is warranted, or that we're cool with you despite the fact that you wish we would just keep our mouths shut and play nice.
*I'm purposely ignoring the rest of the acronym, and just discussing the G and L in LGBT. I am not transgendered and therefore cannot speak to their needs or opinions. Nor am I bisexual, and the bisexuals can at least marry 50% of their dating pool. This issue is too complex to discuss all facets in one wee blog entry, so I have willingly chosen just the parts I am capable of discussing at least semi-coherently.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
I've been busy
and surrounded myself with snakes and birds and all the things I missed about writing. I was on the train the other day and this really beautiful woman was sitting across from me. I couldn't stop looking at her, so before I got off at my stop I wrote a note to her, something to the effect of "you're beautiful, someone should tell you that today. So I will do it." I dropped it in her lap as I was leaving the train. I want to live in a world where strangers are honest and kind. Auden said "Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another." Was my moment on the train profound? No. But it was genuine, and genuine is a start. We have to make our own magic, you know.
Public Transit
A pauper’s burial insures you never have to be alone again.
Is that what you want? To spend you life unfettered by the problems
Of others, only in death to be surrounded by the naked stranger,
One thousand strong and unflinching?
ER
Public Transit
A pauper’s burial insures you never have to be alone again.
Is that what you want? To spend you life unfettered by the problems
Of others, only in death to be surrounded by the naked stranger,
One thousand strong and unflinching?
ER
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Lark Swooping and Swift
Lithe and cut the air, wind tatters
Swirled around and hung on themselves,
Dissolved and dissipated back to
A roving sea of the particles we breathe.
Then, her wing feathers cupped this breeze,
She glided to a stop, perched on the bookcase
And considered my upturned palm. I called
To her with your name, my tone tempered
by loss. I wanted to know this bird was you.
I shut the door, locked us in, the sheer curtains
Beckoned and you watched them ripple around
The breeze. I called to you again, wanted to see
You see me but the body just flinched, in the bird’s eyes
There was no recognition. Its little head ticked,
Registered the waning pleas from this world
For you to come back to it, my lowering outstretched arm,
Cresting waves outside, loud knocking from the other
Side of the door, a bird inside the house finding its way out.
ER
Swirled around and hung on themselves,
Dissolved and dissipated back to
A roving sea of the particles we breathe.
Then, her wing feathers cupped this breeze,
She glided to a stop, perched on the bookcase
And considered my upturned palm. I called
To her with your name, my tone tempered
by loss. I wanted to know this bird was you.
I shut the door, locked us in, the sheer curtains
Beckoned and you watched them ripple around
The breeze. I called to you again, wanted to see
You see me but the body just flinched, in the bird’s eyes
There was no recognition. Its little head ticked,
Registered the waning pleas from this world
For you to come back to it, my lowering outstretched arm,
Cresting waves outside, loud knocking from the other
Side of the door, a bird inside the house finding its way out.
ER
Sunday, December 7, 2008
I am coming back
I have been meaning to write on here for quite some time. I've had lots of ideas: I spend a lot of time on the train to work writing down bits of language I see that's evocative for me of one thing or another, strange connections we all make from a subway sign to something from a relationship we had years ago and then to the emotions that relationship brings up now, how it's different from then, how it reminds us of a season, or we wonder how that person is doing. A word misread opens up an idea for a poem, a reprise, something in an NPR podcast makes me think of how birds are all that matter, really.
I am done teaching and I am glad I am done. I will work at Trader Joe's four days a week, write the other three. Jeannine makes enough to support my habit.
I am all ideas and no follow through. I talked to a friend today, she said maybe it's ok to just have beginnings right now. I think she's on to something. I have been beating myself up about not writing: I start a poem, never finish it, I can't, it's like I've forgotten how. I have written three poems in almost a year and only one of them is done. And that one is not very good. Please don't leave comments of encouragement. I am not looking for sympathy. I'm not looking to be reprimanded either.
Now that I have time to devote to writing, I will write something really great. I know it is still in me, to take myself seriously. I don't know that I took myself seriously in grad school. I think I wrote funny poems because I didn't believe I could write good ones, ones that deserved to be serious. I wanted to believe I could be serious and funny. I couldn't. Or at least I wasn't.
It's time for me to take my writing seriously again, as though my life depends on it. I think it does. I see now that it does. If I'm not a writer, which I am, then what am I? A fucking grocery store clerk? A payment to my loan company? I am an oxygen converter. A cat feeder. An energy consumer. I am something to worry about or be indifferent to. That can't be all, that's not what I thought when I started writing 15 years ago. I was a writer then, even when I didn't know shit. I knew I was a writer. If I can't do that, I'm nothing.
It feels self-involved and pretentious because I keep listening to everyone else. I am going to stop doing that. I have to write for myself again. When I do that, I love it. When I do that, I'm good at it. I am really fucking good at it.
I am going to go write now, but I am back, and will be on more frequently, like before my absence. Let me know how you are, if you drop by.
I am done teaching and I am glad I am done. I will work at Trader Joe's four days a week, write the other three. Jeannine makes enough to support my habit.
I am all ideas and no follow through. I talked to a friend today, she said maybe it's ok to just have beginnings right now. I think she's on to something. I have been beating myself up about not writing: I start a poem, never finish it, I can't, it's like I've forgotten how. I have written three poems in almost a year and only one of them is done. And that one is not very good. Please don't leave comments of encouragement. I am not looking for sympathy. I'm not looking to be reprimanded either.
Now that I have time to devote to writing, I will write something really great. I know it is still in me, to take myself seriously. I don't know that I took myself seriously in grad school. I think I wrote funny poems because I didn't believe I could write good ones, ones that deserved to be serious. I wanted to believe I could be serious and funny. I couldn't. Or at least I wasn't.
It's time for me to take my writing seriously again, as though my life depends on it. I think it does. I see now that it does. If I'm not a writer, which I am, then what am I? A fucking grocery store clerk? A payment to my loan company? I am an oxygen converter. A cat feeder. An energy consumer. I am something to worry about or be indifferent to. That can't be all, that's not what I thought when I started writing 15 years ago. I was a writer then, even when I didn't know shit. I knew I was a writer. If I can't do that, I'm nothing.
It feels self-involved and pretentious because I keep listening to everyone else. I am going to stop doing that. I have to write for myself again. When I do that, I love it. When I do that, I'm good at it. I am really fucking good at it.
I am going to go write now, but I am back, and will be on more frequently, like before my absence. Let me know how you are, if you drop by.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)