After a Long Absence...

...our sun has finally returned. I never thought that a long stretch of cold weather would affect me so much. But now that the sun is returning, I'm having some serious spring fever.

Which leads me to creating. I'm starting a new project, which I'm not quite ready to unveil yet. (I want to make sure I stick to it first.) I'm finishing up submissions for Asphalt Sky, so the new issue should be out by the end of April. And, I baked muffins for breakfast last weekend. Even though they came out of a box, they sure are pretty.

Still Life

Today was an unexpected day off. At the beginning of the week, I thought I was gearing up for a 6 day work week, with short days on all 6 days. But my boss gently encouraged me to take a day off, and work longer days, so that I didn't have to work 6 days in a row. This was a lovely surprise and I feel like I'm stealing free time today.

I've been both productive and relaxed, which is a blessing for me. I've cleaned the house, watched DVDs, taken an inspiration walk, posted fliers and bookmarks for Asphalt Sky, and obviously, taken pictures. I feel pretty lucky to have this time off, to recenter and be creative.

On my flickr site, I'll post the bigger versions of some of these pics, but until then, enjoy my still life collage.

Poet is a Verb: Renew

The more I write, the more I understand my inspiration to be cyclical. By that, I mean that there are high times and there are low times. Even looking back at my Weekly Word Counts, I can see that there have been fertile writing times and fallow writing times this year. These times have little rhyme or reason; some days I am inspired, and some days I'm not.

On rare days, I feel a physical itchy rush of energy which translates to getting a lot of work done. This week has been like this. I've sat at my computer or in front of my journal for hours and when I'm not writing, I want to be writing. Or reading. Or posting on my blog. I simultaneously love and loathe these high creative times. I love it because I feel productive and on top of the world, and I loathe them because I know the crash that follows.

So this weekend, I've been focusing on renewing my energies. Filling the well, as some of my grad teachers called it. Part of this is reading and writing, the two most important verbs that a poet can do, and part of this has been taking care of myself. I can be miserable at this last part -- I'd rather do do do than paint my nails or take a walk or meditate, or any of the other typical well filling activities.

However, yesterday, my husband and I went to Minnehaha Falls with the camera and a couple of bottles of water, and we walked. Many of the fall leaves had already fallen to the ground, and that's when I really realized that November happens this week. (Already.) Sometimes we talked, and other times we were silent, just listening to the rush of the falls and the crunch of the dry brush underfoot.

When we left, I felt both calm and overjoyed, as if I was spilling over inside. I think that's what serenity and true creativity feels like, not the panicky compulsion to complete more and more tasks.

Continuation of Stranger Danger...

Last night, I went to an awesome Halloween party, hosted by a friend from my last job. It was a costume party, of course, and I went as a haunted doll (hence the picture above) and my husband went as an apocalypse survivor. We all read scary stories, an annual tradition inspired by the famous party attended by Mary Shelley and Lord Byron where Shelley debuted Frankenstein. Yes, we're very nerdy.

Our scary story elocution is a contest. There were a lot of scary stories, including a murderous game of cat and mouse between Alice and the White Rabbit, a cabal of cannibalistic foster children, a librarian who unwittingly donates her soul to the devil, a creepy doll party (my husband's story) and a reverse chronological detail of a murder gone wrong. After 3 years, I won the coveted Raven Award with the story about Scotty that I posted a bit of for Writers Island, and I'm totally excited about it.

So as promised, here is the Scotty Potty story, in it's entirety. It is long... but it is officially award winning.

The Stranger

I loved waking him up in the morning. I wished I could still sleep as he slept. His body twisted in pretzel shapes, clutching his raggedy bunny doll. I could never sleep that soundly anymore, not since bills and mortgages and project deadlines, and waiting to hear if he would stir.

This morning though, he was awake when I walked in. The room was freezing; the window beside his bed was open halfway. He figured out the childproofing -- he's only 5. His face was turned away from me, towards the icy air.
“What’s going on, buddy? It’s freezing in here.” I reached toward the window to shut it; he turned on me. His face was gray ash, his blue eyes shining.

“Don’t shut it. I need to get used to it.”
“Get used to what?”
“Cold. It’s cold where I’m going.”

I wondered if he was still asleep, night terrors like some of his kids in play group get. “School? It’s not cold there – they have heaters in the classrooms.”

My son looked down at his hands. He looked like his mother whenever he looked down, the heavy-lidded eyes, the pink lips. This morning, his lips were almost blue. His hands were empty.

“Where’s Mr. Carrot?”

He looked out the open window and I followed his gaze. Mr. Carrot was 10 feet from the house, half buried in the morning snowfall.

“Why’d you do that kiddo? Mr. Carrot’s going to need a bath now.”
“I don’t need him anymore. He can’t help me.”

I read about this in all the child-psych books, security blanket type issues. He’s ahead of schedule, but that was nice for once. He was smaller than all the other boys in kindergarten.

“What’s Mr. Carrot supposed to help you with, pal?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He paused, slid to the edge of the bed.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, pal?”
“How come you never call me by my name anymore?”

Before I could answer, he padded to the bathroom and shut the door.

He was quiet at the table, we all were, the three of us chewing our cereal. Only the dog noisily snorted his approval of breakfast. As my son fished the final Cheerios out of the milk, I grabbed my keys and his book bag. Our daily routine.

“Alright pal – time for learning.” I used my post-caffeinated singsong voice. He stared at his cereal bowl.

“I don’t want to go,” he said as if to the milk.
“It’s Thursday, little man. Only two more days and then we can party on the weekend. We’ll do forts on Saturday. Promise.”
“I hate it there, Dad. They hate me.”
“Who hates you?”
“Everyone. They pick on me.”
“They don’t pick on you.” My wife shot me one of her looks. This was a lie. His kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Keely, had already phoned us on several occasions, because he couldn’t play at recess without being ridiculed. I know how hard it is to fit in, but I figured he had to learn to fit in. We all do.

“They call me Scotty Potty.” I bit the inside of my cheek -- it was so minor, so nothing, but that must be horrifying to a five year old kid. My five year old kid.

“Don’t let it eat at you, Scott. Ignore them or go play with someone else.” I walked towards him – put my hand on his shoulder. At that moment, he transformed into a whirring vehicle of rage. He screamed, kicked, windmilled his arms.

“I donwana donwana donwana donwana--” He screamed those words over and over, a stream of syllables.

I had never seen him like this, not in five years of baths, bed times, and vaccination shots. This was more. He was a stranger to me then, someone else’s child full of rage.

We did what we could. I grabbed him by the pants, she hoisted him beneath the armpits, until little by little his voice grew hoarse from screaming and we somehow managed to squeeze him into the car. He finally stopped.

The entire drive to school, he never looked up.

When we arrived, I pulled Mrs. Keely aside. Told her about the tantrum, the nickname, the favorite stuffed animal face down in the snow. She smiled one of her wan, kindergarten teacher smiles.

“Paul, it’s natural for a boy of his – sensitivities – to dislike school. To fear the large groups of kids. I’ll keep an eye of him today, I’ll call you if anything happens.”

I left the classroom, the peeling posters on the wall, the cliques of kids already forming around the plastic house play sets and coloring books. I waved to Scott from the window; his face was still flushed and red. A group of boys sat in a circle around him, surrounding him. He did nothing and I left for home.

I spent the morning as I usually do, cleaning up dried milk puddles off the kitchen table while chatting with clients. I looked at those stubborn white films as the evidence of our lives together. Our table is ringed with the ghosts of former mornings, because they never truly disappear, even when I scrub. This morning, Scotty’s stain was thin translucent white and it flaked off in one intact iridescent circle. I didn’t need to add water; it just lifted off, like it was never there in the first place.

It was then that I remembered Mr. Carrot, lying in the snow. I wonder what inspired him to send the stuffed animal sailing out of the window late last night. He loved this rabbit. It’s been with him as long as he’s been alive. I stepped into my snow boots, barefooted, still chatting with my client. He was yammering on about project synergy and inclusive cooperation, or some other corporate bullshit. This is why I like to work from home, to remove myself as far as possible from corporate identity annihilation.

Mr. Carrot was still face down in the snow; he seemed to be sinking. I picked him up, his fur was stiff from the ice and cold. As I turned him over, I dropped the phone and it was immediately swallowed by the snow. Somehow, Scott had gutted Mr. Carrot. Not just gutted. His stomach was ripped open from throat (if he had one) to crotch. All of his gray stuffing was spilling out of the wound. I looked closely and found chew marks along his center seam, as if Scott had used his teeth. His button eyes had been plucked off and were hanging by single threads from empty cotton sockets. At that moment, the house line rang its insistent cheerful tone.
I fished the office phone out of the snow bank, hung up on the client. Fuck him. I’ll pay for it later, I’m sure. I slid-ran inside, picked up the phone.

“Mr. Noonan? This is the Franklin Elementary Principal.”
“Yes, Mr--?”
“Dr. Batton. It’s your son. An incident has occurred. You need to come in. Immediately.”

I took Mr. Carrot with me, even in his sorry state. Scotty may need him if he’s okay. That was my only thought as I drove – 55 in a 25 – the mile and a half to the school. If he’s okay. I wasn’t even praying for him to be okay – I just let the if hang there.

When I arrived, there were ambulances, cop cars, a field of red and blue flashing lights. A small stretcher was being wheeled out of the school. A little four foot body, draped in a heavy white cloth lay motionless upon it. Blood soaked the sheet where the face should be.

Instinctively, I ran to the stretcher. Told them I was the father. I needed to see what they did to him for myself. I uncovered the body from the feet, noticed that these weren’t Scotty’s shoes. A hand grabbed my arm forcefully. Someone said, “You’re not the father of this one.”

I was led into an empty classroom. They were all empty, but this was his classroom. The room was dark, the peeling posters of circus clowns and cartoon characters glowered at me. Their faces took on gray shadows. Scott sat on the nap map. As soon as I walked in, he looked up at me. I ran to him. He was unscathed – no cuts, bruises, broken bones, as far as I could tell. But he was covered in blood. Blood on his hands, on his yellow Dora sweatshirt. Blood around his mouth.

“What happened, buddy?”
“They didn’t call me by my name, Daddy. They never called me by my real name.”

I hovered over him, not knowing what to do. All I knew is that I didn’t want to take this one home.

Two Fall Haiku (or Requiem for Summer)

Fall has already arrived in Minnesota with a loud cold *snap*. I woke this morning to frost on the neighbor's rooftops and a brisk chill in our building's hallways. With the season's early change, I've been writing (and reciting) these two haiku beneath my breath for the past two days.

This morning, I decided to take a quick walk and take some pictures to accompany them. I wore flip flops and my toes got so cold I had to run back inside. I miss summer already.



Becoming Dormant

Flowers don't sour
at summer's end, they reveal
their brittle brown husks.


* * *



Awakened

Haze evaporates
to crystalline blue skies. Clear
light breaks through thick clouds.

* * *
To see more pictures taken on this morning's inspiration walk, go to my flickr site!

Why I Love Minneapolis, Reason #156

I love Minneapolis because of our Art Car Parade. Every year, Intermedia Arts hosts a public art parade, where artists can enter their decorated cars into a juried contest and parade. The parade travels a route mere blocks from our condo, so my husband and I went this year. This was our first year sitting through the entire parade. (Since its our neighborhood, we normally just see the cars tooling around, which reminds us that the parade is happening.)

This year there were tons of creative cars, from one entirely covered in cork to another covered in fake teeth, toothpaste tubes and black and white diagrams of mouths and skulls. Our mayor was also there, riding a bike and encouraging people to shout "Peace Now." He was followed by someone in an over sized Dick Cheney suit, who was carrying a huge shotgun. The mayor kept shouting, "Look out! It's Dick Cheney carrying a gun!" Only in Minneapolis could this be considered a good PR move.

Some of my favorite entries are highlighted in this post, including the camera covered van, the guy driving his couch, the free speech car which urges viewers to Say Something, the Uncle Sam Jeep, and the car with a wind sock attached to it.

Kind of makes we want to decorate my "normal" car.

Today is a Good Day

My husband I took a picnic to Boom Island Park, where we hiked, ate, and took pictures. We also went to 3 bookstores and spent time reading and writing on our own.

This is the first weekend in a while when we haven't had specific plans, and I think we're doing a pretty good job of it.

#12 -- Sidewalk Garden

For the past couple of days, I've been posting haiku that are inspired by a recent walk I took in my neighborhood with my digital camera. I live about 4 blocks from downtown Minneapolis, so most of my neighborhood is comprised of apartment buildings and stores. However, in a hill above my house there are some really lovely city houses with gardens. This is where I took the majority of my pictures.

This has also helped me to get a jump start on my 100 Haiku project, because it had been pretty stalled. I've been trying to write 100 urban inspired haiku, with a focus on the seasons, as is traditional with haiku. However, it seemed like winter was a more evocative season for the city, until I found these flowers. Click on the 100 Haiku label to read the others. Enjoy!



Sidewalk Garden

In concrete confines,
a manufactured chorus,
voices singing spring.

#11 -- City Flowers

City Flowers

are like scarlet soldiers,
standing silent sentry at
our black gated homes.

#10-- Spring Flower

Spring Flower

Yellow petals curled,
beckoning fingers. Flower
whispers, Come closer.

I Heart Public Art!

This post is brought to you by the bridge linking Loring Park and the Walker Sculpture Garden, and the poet John Ashberry. Here is more information about the work I saw today.

A Spring Day, Finally

Today, we went to Minnehaha Falls in Minneapolis and hiked. (The falls, by the way, get their name from Longfellow's poem, Song of Hiawatha. The Minnehaha Falls are off of Hwy 55, Hiawatha Avenue.) I took my crappy digital camera with me and spent some time collecting images. I felt pretty blessed to be alive, holding hands with my husband, and watching nature wake up again.

As we squelched through the mud, I was reminded of e.e. cummings' poem In Just-- , when he calls spring mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful. No balloonmen at our park whistling wee, though. Just families with kids and couples with dogs.

It would have been nice.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow.

My husband and I took several walks during and after the snow storm yesterday and we got some pictures of the accumulation. I have this little $20 digital camera that I bought at Walmart that is a little hard to use, but it served it's purpose here.

I forgot how much I love taking pictures. In some ways, I get the same feeling of hyper-awareness as when I'm looking for images for haiku. I need to find that one fleeting image and when I find it, I need to be as steady and still as possible in order to capture on my cheap camera. The results aren't always perfect or what I expected, but they are a captured economy of image and time.