Not an Obligation, But a Challenge

Like a crazy woman, I signed up for NaBloPoMo this year. (By the way, I hate this abbreviation. It's so difficult to pronounce.) I signed up about a week ago, and I am of two minds about it.

My initial reaction is dread and fear. What if I run out of things to say? Will I be forced to wax poetic about my pajamas? Or the few TV shows I like? Or the time my dad had us sell Monoracers at Venice Beach? Wait... I better stop now, I might want to use these next month.

But the more I think about it, the more excited I get. Initially, I started this blog as a way to reconnect with my writing. And it has worked marvelously. I'm writing every week, I've connected with other writers across the world, and I'm much happier in my creative life. So, if this blog is an extension of and a commitment to my writing life, then posting once every day is just a once a day commitment to my writing life. The more I post, the more I commit to writing. Plus I can stretch my writing muscles by having to write every day. It's challenging and disciplined. Music to a Capricorn's ears.

Besides, even if I wake up one night in a cold sweat (despite my pirate pajamas) and realize I need to post an entry, it only takes five minutes or so. Right?

Once More With Feeling: PBC Discussion of The Pajamaist

Note: Here's the *real* Poetry Book Club discussion post, after my silly initial posting 5 days early. I guess I was just too excited to discuss this book. Enjoy!




Discussion Questions

Overall, did you like the book? What about it did you like?

Were there specific poems that spoke to you? Which ones? Why?

Was there anything that confused you about the overall book? What was it?

Were there any individual poems that confused you?

How would you describe the author's style? How did he use language to convey images, ideas, or voice?

How would you describe the structure of the book? Did you see any sense of movement or progression from one poem to the next?

Would you choose to read this author again? Why or why not?

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.

Weekly Word Count, Oct 22-Oct 28

This was an awesome writing week. I wrote my scary story for the annual Halloween party last night, which was 1461 words, and a poem for Totally Optional Prompts. All told, I wrote 1961 this week, which brings my total to 28461 for the year.

I'm trucking along...

If You Claim the Name of Poet...

...you should run to the bookstore to buy Donald Revell's book, The Art of Attention. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I picked this up at the Twin Cities Book Festival, a lollapalooza of local presses. I thought it looked interesting. I just finished the first section and I am floored by how good it is.

In this book, Revell examines the lyric eye, probably the most important quality of a modern poet. He contrasts the poetry of cleverness or wit against the poetry of rapture and focus, favoring the later. In Revell's view, a poem is a tangible product of our fierce attention to the world, rather than our shaping of the world. We don't invent the world when we write, we notice it in its glory. The poetry of attention as he calls is it is intimate, peaceful, unagressive and watchful. As he says, "the poet reads the world with writing."

This is pretty revelatory writing. I find myself underlining every third sentence. When I read it back now to isolate a few quotes, his sentences are so intertwined that I cannot excerpt it to give a good representation of its breadth and depth. Needless to say, if you write poetry or want to write poetry, this is the book to read.

Master of My Domains

Whew! It's finally working. After a little drama with the conversion, both this blog and Asphalt Sky have switched over into www land. So, the new address for this blog is www.9to5poet.com and the new address for Asphalt Sky is www.asphaltsky.com. Please update your bookmarks. Thanks!