over & out

When I signed on for this class, the only goal I had in mind was to unblock myself and find my creativity again...I accomplished that and so much more. PF, personally, has been a real inspiration and has provided a lot of new ways to find inspiration when it eludes me. I'm happy with the work I've turned in and have been touched by the work of others. There is a vulnerability to this class that I did not expect, and I suspect that shows in my hesitancy to blog about how I feel or comment on the posts of my peers. But, in the classroom (and on Open Mic Night) we've all shared some pretty intense stuff - funny,sad and a lot of in-between.

I'm committed to writing more in my personal time and have begun to do just that, (often to the neglect of other classes). I'll be minding my commas much more, thanks to PF's feedback and armed with new tools for a stronger style.

I couldn't have imagined how many things would change in my life this semester. Finding my birthmother has been a fantastic distraction and a 42 year old dream come true. New inspiration...

Thanks to all my classmates & PF. Namaste!

Ueli Gegenschatz & Vik Munik

Well, wow. Both these video presentations left me slack-jawed and inspired. Thinking about things in the "bigger picture" besides how amazing each individual is, I started drifting off and thinking how restricted our creativity is and how society is often to blame for that. Tell anyone you're an artist or writer and so often their faces glaze over. We're more comfortable in roles - banker, nurse, cashier, etc. There's a human tendency to categorize things (and people) and guys like Ueli & Vik stretch the boundaries, or more aptly put, refuse(d) to be reigned in by them.

I struggle to find this kind of unrestricted creativity within myself, even though I feel much more creative than conventional.
Not only freedom to create a particular product or feat, but to tap into my creativity in order to form a more authentic sense of self. And, in this way, beyond the obvious, I find Munik & Gegenschatz to be excellent sources of inspiration.

Klosterman Crit

Killing Yourself to Live is a misleading title for Klosterman's masterpiece. While I originally had hoped for a more open-ended philosophy of journey, what was delivered was more of a stream-of-consciousness diary. While Klosterman has a gift for rants, and a savant-like talent for bending music to suit each thought and scenario, ultimately, the reader must find charm in his snarky narcissism and be a music lover as well in order to enjoy the ride. I'd only recommend this book to someone who's a big fan of back story, glimpsing other's thoughts and is familiar with a large depth & breadth of music. Otherwise, I'm afraid Klosterman's dorky appeal just doesn't stretch far enough to cover the title or 200+ pages of randomness.

though 'Klosterman' sounds like a medical condition, I'm still glad to have experienced it

Rarely do I have the patience for such a narcissistic, self-aggrandizing ass, but Chuck Klosterman somehow made it work in his favor. Not only did I enjoy the book, but found myself torturing my partner by reading aloud some of my favorite(his) rants. His particular slant on Led Zeppelin was amazing (even though it excluded women experiencing Led Zep in the same psycho-sexual-cool-rocking way as men/boys do) "We all still meet at the same vortex: For whatever the reason, there is a point in the male maturation process when the music of Led Zeppelin sounds like the perfect actualization of the perfectly cool you." (p.200) His reasoning behind hailing the Beatles, Stones and Zeppelin as the ultimate triumvirate is remarkable, not only for it's simple truth but for his dissection of why it is so. Klosterman's frustration/fascination with Montana also resonated with me. I've been there; it is huge, it is mysterious, it is in some ways ridiculous...much like Klosterman's ego.

the gift of a Mother

After 42 years of wondering and 14 years of searching, I've finally found the woman who gave birth to me. A close friend delivered my letter and my mother called 48 hours later. Two weeks ago, I met her for the first time. I was halfway up the walk to her door when she rushed out and we gently collided in a hug that felt like no other. She asked me to take off my sunglasses. I did, and when we looked into each others eyes, I could feel both our souls shift. Breathlessly and with tears welling, she simply said "yeah." We've talked or emailed every day since. Life seems brighter, all happiness amplified. My life has changed profoundly and will never be the same.

An life-long quest fulfilled, a new journey begun.

thoughts on Basho

I found the Basho piece profoundly moving in its simplicity and eloquence. Travels in haiku, and the celebration of life and nature intertwined. Our modern world knows no such appreciation. We walk little, drive more and now do so with GPS on our dashboards. We don't get lost - we don't "have time" to notice a piece of butterfly wing or a bee's hesitation to leave a flower. The idea of wandering with purpose and truly open heart and eyes is quite foreign to our modern experiences. So I loved this piece - loved it for taking me on a journey to a simpler, yet in some ways, more profound time.

Post Secret Image & Thoughts

This is profoundly moving. Two strangers connect through a common joy or sorrow neither knew they shared until the author/artist was bold enough to ask and tell someone random - on a bus. How much do we really know about each other? How much difference might it make if each of us smiled at a stranger? Rather than looking straight ahead or burying our face in a newspaper while on public transit or public spaces, what if we looked into the eyes of others? What if we really listened when we ask someone how they're doing? I think these small gestures have huge transformative power. This "Post Secret" is a beautiful reminder to remain open, do talk with strangers and practice random acts of kindness.

Poetry in Motion

An Afternoon Elegy in Free-form

I lay in bed listening
to the water run
through the pipes
between the walls
while you showered.

After a silence,
I strode out of the bedroom
and was stopped in my tracks
at the sight of you.
On the Salvation Army gold couch
white towel, whiter skin, hair slicked
and your face
which did not turn
arrested my step

The unnatural aura
lit that corner
from the palette of sofa and skin
And your face
Post-coital, post-crying
was focused on something
beyond my realm

reluctantly I withdrew
to the shower
I brought my towel
and your face

And when I emerged
the change in you
was complete.

Impromptu Haiku

Frost ices the window
Warm breath rises in steam -exhale.
Enjoy this moment.

Henri Matisse's Le Bonheur de Vivre

Full of colors and grace, this painting is one of my all time favorites (and the poem it inspired is below -enjoy!)


Dear Henri

I’d like to live here
in pleasure
in love
just nature
no judgment
from god up above

swimming in colours
defying what’s real
enjoying our bodies
redefining “ideal”

celebrating the skin
each other
our curves
like children
just playing
no high purpose served

laughing and dancing
we’ll swing hand in hand
no boombox required
we’ll make our own band

and when the night comes
we’ll drink wine from full cups
with smiles on our faces
we’ll sleep huddled like pups

and await the sun rising
a fresh, beautiful day
no voicemails, no deadlines
no e-bills to pay

in this magic garden
there’s not much to say
but if anyone asks
I’m extending my stay.

C. Cavalle
-inspired by Matisse’s Le bonheur de vivre

4 New Poems, 4 New Poets

Following the poetryfoundation.org listing, I found some really engaging voices and poems:

Night Drive by J. Allyn Rosser
The author managed to capture the specific allure of driving at night while letting unsettling thoughts roam free. She entwines the almost hypnotic state of the play of light on pavement, her forever unborn child and then, somewhat surprisingly, turns the act of driving into running away from life, afraid of love, afraid of being afraid. I really liked her honesty, but didn't see it coming at the beginning - thought her style was clever and incredibly sad.

Margaret by Spencer Reese
I've always been fascinated by the strength of the human spirit and each individual's capacity for grief. In this poem, the author presents us with a woman living in a rented room who's been unloved, left and swindled at every turn. How she displays no photographs, only playbills and prefers theatre to real life which has been unbelievably devastating to her, yet she persists. The poem is the author's ode to her, her "slow waltz" smile, and guides his reader: "As you leave Margaret behind and turn the page, listen as the page falls back and your hand gently buries her. This is what the past sounds like." A stunning closure to a life lived largely alone and quietly and which cleverly creates an anonymous moment of respect for Margaret, from each reader, before moving on.

Song in my heart by Diane Suess
A short piece of brilliance about the banality of every day and living alone. Boldly comparing herself to god (without a "Mrs. god") -which is another piece of writing brilliance (who considers god's marital status?) I found this poem thoughtful, provocative, and irresistibly ugly in the author's few lines.

The Mother's Loathing of Balloons by A.E. Stallings
Going against everything a woman is "supposed" to feel about motherhood and her children, A.E. Stallings gives us a character who is appalled and drained by kids and leaves. No remorse, no planning - just running at gut level stream-of-consciousness through the whole piece: sickened, annoyed, tired, free and done. Though I'm sure most would be off-put by this poem, I absolutely loved it's honesty, rarity and sparseness of prose.

visual inspiration

Georgia O'Keefe's ability to capture the nuances of nature never fails to amaze me. Nature, itself is a constant source of inspiration to me, but I'm not a talented painter. O'Keefe's skill of drawing the viewer right in to the heart of a flower or cruciferous plant, opens a secret world of perfect complexity and meditation.

My life and this semester, seem to be trending toward change. And like the folks at Dorito's say: "change is good." I haven't had Dorito's in a long time, but I'll trust their logic.
For the past 12 years, I've worked as a massage therapist. An amazing job at times, being part of an individual's personal journey, injury recovery, or simply putting that person back in touch with their body and at ease for a while in this hectic world of ours. But, whenever I discuss what I do for a living with others, they usually get googley-eyed about it and believe it to be something sexual. I almost hate to spoil their fantasy...

Jess & Her Boo: Goldilocks Redux

I’m sure you’ve heard of Goldilocks, but no one really asks why I was in the woods alone nor where I went when the bears kicked me out. Well, allow me to fill in the blanks – this is my story.

First off, my name isn’t Goldilocks, that was just a nickname that my parents came up with one night when they were drunk. They both had light brown hair and despised my blonde, joking with each other about the mailman being my dad, but when they got ripped, that joke wasn’t funny anymore and my locks weren’t so cute either. My name is Jess – let’s get that straight first. I’m embarrassed to tell you my folks were living in a shit-shack, drunks on the dole…not that they stood out much, our town was a little burned out place that time had forgotten about. Not much opportunity for anyone really, and you could smell dead dreams and old industry hanging in the air. I guess in some ways fighting and drinking were something to do, but when they turned their wrath on me, I had a hard time justifying their ways and any reason to stick around.

So I just started walking, simple as that – no plan, no route, just wanted o-u-t and into the woods I went. Aimlessly and soundlessly, except the sounds of leaves and twigs under my feet, birds talking among the trees, I purposely took a new path just to see where it led. After a while, in a small clearing, I came upon a little cabin. It looked calm and inviting so I crept around the windows trying to see if there was anyone home. Tidy it was, and apparently the owners were out. I tried the door and it opened soundlessly onto a neat little dining nook with bowls already set out. What luck! Hot porridge! Though it did raise suspicion that someone would be returning soon, I couldn’t resist having a bowl. It was creamy, delicious and comforting. I knew I was pushing my luck, but the serenity of the cottage had me in its spell and I tried each bed ‘til I found the most comfortable one. Just a few moments of a peaceful nap and I’d be recharged and ready to go again, though I knew not where.

I must have fallen into a pretty deep sleep, because the next thing I remember was an angry Mama and Papa Bear roaring in my face to get out of their house. Their cub seemed mystified by the whole situation, but those big bears scared the crap out of me and I was out and running back the way I came as fast as my legs could carry me. I didn’t stop until the sound of their carrying on had faded in the distance. Man, was I mad! I hadn’t done them any harm, just wanted some peace and quiet for once. Fuming and frustrated, I walked back toward that nasty place called home and by the time I got there, I had a plan.

Of course my dad had a few guns, and, of course, I knew where he kept them. Assuming my folks were at the bar, but knowing they didn’t keep any regular hours, I grabbed a small handgun, a handful of bullets, and packed a bag with a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts and hoodies. I scrambled around dressers and drawers looking for a few stray bucks and any spare change I could find. The whole deal only took about 20 minutes. I thought about leaving a note but I was too fed up to write anything nice and too amped up at the thought of being caught. I gave one last glance around, and walked out the door – just like that. I felt tall and right for the first time in a long time.

When I got near the bear’s cabin, it was nearing evening. A soft light filtered out through the windows giving the place a peaceful yellow gold glow. For a moment, I hesitated to disturb this serene picture, but then I remembered my plan and the lack of alternatives and was again confident of what must be done. I turned the handle on the door and found the adults reading in chairs, their backs turned to me. The cub looked up at me in wonderment and his parents gaze followed. Before they could begin their tirade, I pulled out the gun.

“Sorry about the porridge, but I meant you no harm then and I mean you no harm now.” The Papa bear stood up and put one big paw forward. “Stop right there. There’s no room for negotiation, I want your cub.” Momma bear’s book slid to the floor and she burst into tears, pleading with me not to take her baby, while Papa bears face seemed to go blank. I tried to keep things factual: “look, he’s getting big enough to leave soon and fend for himself, you want your son to be independent, don’t you? – and, anyway, I need a companion. I promise to take good care of him, but he’s leaving with me, and we’re leaving now.” Making a sweeping motion toward me, I urged the cub to come on while keeping the gun focused on the biggest bear in the room. Bewildered and unsure, the cub came into the kitchen though continuing to look from Papa to Mama and back again, like watching a tennis match. I felt tense and kind of bad, we needed to get out of there while the bear’s grief and disbelief kept time suspended for a few moments. “I promise to keep him safe” and I said it with all the confidence I could muster, when in all actuality my hope was that he’d keep me safe. “We’ll send a postcard, now c’mon” and with one swift motion I grabbed the cubs paw, turned and jogged clumsily on nervous legs with a gun in one hand, a paw in the other and the bag slung over my shoulder banging on my back.

Once in the woods and sure no one was following us, the realization of what I’d just done made me light-headed and giddy. I started nattering on to my captive pal about what a fun adventure we were going to have and how many cool things we were going to see. He seemed sullen and doubtful at first, but the more I talked, the more lively his step became. At least that’s what I convinced myself. There was a train that went through our town though it didn’t stop, so our only option was hitching. By the time we reached the highway, I was dog-tired and the cub was lagging too. We lay at the forest edge between the ditch at the road and awkwardly tried to negotiate our space. Eventually, the cub cuddled up to me not because he was cold, but because he was frightened. It didn’t matter either way, his soft fur was comforting to me and together, in this strange mutual need, we napped. We awoke in the dark before dawn and trotted up next to the highway. I told bear to stand behind me a bit, shook my locks and stuck out my thumb. Blonde hair looks even brighter in headlights so we had a truck pull over in no time at all. I opened the door, threw my bag on the seat and climbed in, I motioned cub to the floor between my feet and we began to roll on.

The truck was bound for San Francisco which was perfectly fine with me. The driver and I were making chit-chat when the bear began to get restless, so I pulled him up onto my lap. The trucker nearly had a heart attack. His reaction made me laugh. After a light frenzy of swearing and shock, he calmed down and said San Fran was definitely the destination for us, a city where eccentricities are the norm and a girl and her bear ought to do just fine. I hadn’t thought of the bear as being “mine” but it sounded nice. I liked his weight in my lap, the leathery feel of the pads on his paws and now I had nothing to do but admire his face; funny nose where his fur was a bit lighter, his soulful dark eyes and his ears where the fur looked like velvet. I stroked his snout and rubbed the inside and outside of his ear between my fingers. I believe he was smiling. I kept right on petting him and fell asleep. I feared no advances from the trucker who was trying to play it cool, but was keeping his peripheral vision locked on “my bear.” It took us another day and a half to get there and when I saw the city open up before us, I think my heart skipped a few beats.

I had made no further plans beyond leaving that crummy hometown and now that a destination was upon us, I floundered when our driver asked if we had someplace to stay. “Umm, I hadn’t really thought of that, I guess…” trailing off at the end and trying not to sound stupid. “Tell you what, I’ll get you to Golden Gate Park, it’s pretty and there’s a lot of, uh, kids like you there. Maybe you can connect with somebody there.” he said. Sounded like a plan to me. I assumed he didn’t want to call me a runaway, but I got the message.

Golden Gate Park was indeed beautiful, and huge! By the time we pulled up next to it, evening was descending, and the place was filled with a hazy light leftover from sunset. We clambered out of the truck, I offered my thanks and our driver wished us luck. Bear and I walked over to a park bench under a tree and just took in the fresh air and the scenery around us. My mind was blank, but I felt relaxed, my friend seemed to be in sync with me, and so we sat in silence while the sky grew dark. After a while we heard voices and laughing and we began moving in that direction. We came upon a group of teenagers, some smoking, some drinking, some eating, but all seemed easy in each others company. I said hello somewhat tentatively and was welcomed over. I was eyeing their food and drinks when they made out the shape of my companion. “Dude, it’s a freakin’ bear!” “…no way!” but instead of being frightened, they were amused. The cub was my ice-breaker and instant cred. They invited us to share their food and beer and the conversation turned to best places to sleep, to pan-handle, to dumpster dive, etc. Fortified with nourishment and new friends, they invited us to hang with them for the night and we did. Bear and I were used to being physically close now, and it brought us both great comfort. Before I fell asleep, I whispered in his ear: “can I call you Boo?” and in response he flexed his nails on my back, much like a cat might, and I knew he approved.

Boo and I were a hit in SF, man! We would go to major tourist spots and people would snap pictures, ask Boo to give ‘em five and in return, they literally threw cash at us. A few crumpled singles, a fiver, sometimes more. I was astonished and pleased. We didn’t have to live on scraps much, we had cash. At the end of the day, I’d make sure Boo was in a safe place or with some street friends and I’d hit the Safeway, buying bear a piece of fresh fish and enough groceries to share with the group. We slept with pods of friends, it was safer that way they said, ‘cause some of the homeless are crazy and would mess with someone they found alone. We rotated where we went, hung out and slept. The police in San Francisco are mostly kind, inured to runaways, prostitutes and the like, but they could hassle you in the name of keeping the streets safe. A few times they’d ask me to move on from where Boo & I were “performing” not totally sure if he was a real bear or a really elaborate costume with a kid inside, and not wanting to get too close to check, just asked us to keep moving, which we did. This went on for just short of a year, the weather was always perfect, the place always busy and our pockets always full. But the constant moving around was getting old, and soaping up in fountains or public baths left me feeling not quite clean enough. Boo was starting to develop a larger appetite, though he didn’t grow too much in height. He began to eat the ducks in the park, and though the good people of SF were accepting of just about everything, finding piles of feathers and carcasses was truly upsetting for them. It was only a matter of time before they put two and two together and might realize what our friends knew from the start. Boo was a real bear and though he wouldn’t harm a human, I doubted anyone would take my word for it.

The runaway/hobo network is a strong one. We were a diverse group from all over the map, we kept each other informed, alerted and watched each other’s backs. I began to inquire about other places that Boo and I might go where we could be relatively safe. My friends casually spread my inquiry around town and a week or so later I got the reply of my dreams. Dolly Parton was buying up properties around Dollywood and building small cabins for rent. While she wanted to provide a “true” nature experience for her guests, she couldn’t afford or bear the thought of anyone getting mauled or attacked. So, she was looking for dogs that looked like wolves or coyotes and, naturally, bears. Anyone possessing such a companion was welcome to apply for a small residence cottage in return for putting their animals to work on her grounds. I discussed this with Boo and we decided to head out once again.

Same gig leaving Cali as getting there: hitchhike, trucker, introduce Boo, wait for freak-out to subside, naps, grungy truck stop food and finally Dollywood.

We were hired on the spot. I was to work in the amusement park, Boo was to roam the woods at appropriate times and scuttle away right after he was pretty sure someone got a “surprise” photo of a real bear in the woods. Win-win-win! Dolly was clever, our cabin was small and cozy with tunnels leading to the amusement park and different parts of the woods so no one saw us coming or going. The windows were frosted except for the ones near the roofline so it appeared to all as just another occupied cabin. It was home – we were safe and happy. I trimmed the ends of Boo’s nails so he didn’t tear up the floors or the bedding and I bathed him so his coat always looked shiny and full. The streams in Tennessee were stocked with trout and salmon, Boo would eat some on the spot and bring some home. We cooked together, read books and told funny stories of tourists we encountered. At the end of each night, we’d climb into bed and snuggle contentedly, wake up the next day and do it all over again. I loved it, he loved it, we loved each other and the beauty and peace surrounding us.

favorite folktale

My favorite folktale is Goldilocks and the Three Bears. I've always been entranced by bears, not sure why, they just seem like gentle giants. It always surprised and amused me that they were so mad at Goldilocks and ran her off. She seemed like a nice girl and judging from the bears cozy home, they seemed like nice bears. The story is most often told in third person, but I thought I'd pick it up where it left off and give Goldilocks the opportunity to speak in a first person narrative and give us her own story. So, here goes...

Hey, y'all

This is the first post for this class.
My creative edges have accumulated a lot of rust.
I have no idea what to write, but am looking forward to writing it - soon.
The idea of a muse book is of major appeal...I didn't realize how much I disliked the word "journal" until PF presented an alternative.
I believe this is going to be a wonderful semester.