coverlet

Modi's Monday

coverlet

            after Sotileza, Francis Picabia

if at once, I

(wear a crown and

a dress (you can)

color me blue)

lift pain like pretend

pulled deep from eyes (stayclose)

hand-heart, (mine

or yours,) breathe and save me (free as)

now your Queen, overlap

my sovereign stance with as

(rules, stated positions) Your will read

clearly poignant, orators voice

bouncing from (that oak barrister’s table

in brilliant evening light) Home we 

craft. Supreme, you lace mantilla

veil to cover my hair (keep safe

the secrets we share like) mantles of

truth and weighty promise

Cows Come Back Soon

I promise Ry and I are going to get our shit together and finish this riff story that we've been writing. Days are long for both of us right now!

In place of Sunday's Snippet, a short critical essay about an interlinked connection of stories by a faculty member of my program at Spalding. Julie Brickman's work is poignant, engaging, and thrilling. I sincerely appreciated exploring her collection through the eyes of a feminist writer. Enjoy!

Is She a Feminist?

            In Two Deserts, a gripping novel by Julie Brickman, a variety of independent character voices come together to present a cohesive and relatable story.  Through her effective use of imagery, Brickman is able to not only engage the reader in each of the independent story lines, but is also able to showcase her immense literary skills and ability.  Of particular note to the reader is the almost seamless ways in which Brickman presents details that might otherwise not be noted.

            Beginning with the contents of the novel, Brickman showcases her ability to appreciate intimate detail.  The chapter names of her work range from The Night at the Souk to The Lonely Priest.  For the reader, this is exciting, as it encourages further and deep exploration of the narrative.  

            In The Night at the Souk, the reader is immediately transported into a Middle Eastern market where an American woman is in search of traditional clothing that will obscure her blonde hair.  During her search, the woman waxes poetic on the position of women in Middle Eastern countries.  For the female reader, this sort of discourse is known and comfortable to read.  What is of particular note in Brickman’s work is the fact that she’s able to present a feminist perspective without the work reading as preachy.  For example, she writes, “Like dominance, clarity belongs to the men” (Brickman, 2013, pg3).   

With effortless description, Brickman is able to establish the narrator as an independent woman attempting to assume a role in a society in which women are not considered to be on the same social and intellectual levels as men.  The narrator goes on to observe women haggling over the prices of jewelry, “the asset they could always claim as their own” (Brickman, 2013, p4).  Surprisingly, for as staunch a feminist as the narrator appears to be, once she dons the traditional headscarf of the region, she notes that “as though by draping my form in black I had become enigmatic, ethereal” (Brickman, 2013, p7).  The duality of the feminist agenda, that is, the fine line that must be approached between being independent and still remaining a part of the society, is touched on with this line.  Brickman is able to showcase the struggle of countless generations of strong women who have fought for basic human rights for women, again without appearing as though she’s taking a particular stance.  Perhaps that is the brilliance of the voice of this narrator – she is factual, but has underlying principles that are clear and able to understand.  The reader, whether male or female, can certainly relate to this notion, though the female reader would likely be more akin to the struggle than the male.

The narrator, Emma, asks for a burqah in the shop where she has mounded fabric over her frame, attempting to blend in with the rest of the women in the region.  While the shopkeeper is at first hesitant to provide the garment for her, eventually he concedes.  Upon donning the burqah, Emma notes that, “Eventually, I could smell only myself, a decaying stuffy smell like the inside of a laundry bag” (Brickman, 2013, p9).  Perhaps Brickman is using this image to present the idea that we are all decaying in some way, as the novel’s underlying theme is loss.  Or maybe wearing a burqah really does smell like an old laundry bag.  Unless the reader has worn one, s/he doesn’t know what the experience might entail.  This further reinforces the brilliance of Brickman’s writing.  

The narrator, however, is not satisfied with just wearing a burqah, and demands from the proprietor of the shop a shaylah, a scarf that is wound around the face of women to further obscure them from view.  Emma vanishes into “black-specterdom” where she notes that no one on the street would dare meet her eyes, “… for they knew not to whom or what household they belonged” (Brickman, 2013, p11).  This is an interesting correlation, as the narrator is clearly a feminist given her internal dialogue, but respects and recognizes the fact that the shaylah does encourage, in some facet, a sense of power for the women who are forced to wear it.  After putting it on, the shopkeeper remarks on how “modest” Emma looks, “how nourishing to the empty flask of a man’s soul.  A real woman of God, he declared” (Brickman, 2013, p11).  Again, the dichotomy that Brickman creates for her narrator is effective and well presented for the reader.  The allegiance of the Western reader would surely be for Emma to walk the streets proudly ‘uncovered’ but Brickman’s presentation of details pulls on the sensibility of the morality of the reader.  

            The claim could be made that just as the woman is searching for her place in the world in which she is currently engaged, so too is the reader, as Brickman offers little to no backstory in the opening twelve pages of the narrative.  This is an effective literary tool, as it furthers interest in the rest of the work.  To that, the details that Brickman presents for the reader are simultaneously delightful and harrowing.  In few words, Brickman is able to spin the beginnings of a tale that have as much to do with location as with a search for personal identity.  Two Deserts is able to masterfully maneuver between worlds that seem on the surface to be so far apart.    

Round and Full

Saturday’s Summary

A writer friend referred to me as a ‘real life writer’ this week and wow-wow. I mean, I guess that’s the case, but it means something so different when I hear it from someone else.

This week marked the progression of a lot of MFA related items – procuring thesis readers, petitioning to graduate and thinking constructively about what the hell I’m going to do next. It’s a good thing the Spalding MFA office is so on top of things – I received an email gently asking if I was planning to attend Residency in November. Picture me staring at my computer screen with a look a befuddlement. Of course I’m attending … oh shit, I missed the deadline for registration by THREE weeks. Oops! All is well now and I’m officially registered. Whew!

This morning, a walk around the neighborhood revealed a quaint Farmer’s Market. There wasn’t too much to buy since we’re in between growing seasons, but it was such a nice reminder that folks are trying to do something more than just live in houses; that neighborhoods and collectives still mean something. It went a far way to help me remember this is a community and not just a street. Small moments like these make me grateful for where I am in this path, and where I hope to be. 

Today marks the start of Wedding Season in my world. Later this afternoon, I’ll be heading to see KJ marry her love and then tomorrow, I’ll be helping shower Willis with all sorts of gifts and joy. Huzzah for connections, near and far, that help bring us closer together. Even better, tonight is Full Moon. I hope that the energy of this evening helps to grace and bless those in my life I hold dear.

I’ve fallen in love all over again with this Cincinnati autumn. This week has been a treat; cool, crisp mornings, and evenings that fade into just the perfect kind of light. Weather like this makes me want to bunker down in my lab and write-write. I’m a winter girl, through and through, it seems. Or maybe I’m just feeling the pull toward being cozy and having an excuse to be sleeping by seven in the evening!

Inked!

Friday's Feature

Art, like writing, is largely open to the interpretation of the viewer (or reader, of course) and James Dryer’s work never falls short of inspiring viewers to marvel at his skill. His name bespeaks his work. I’ve written about my experiences sitting in the chair of this lovely artist, but I’ve never properly given his shop the proper attention it deserves!

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AsylumTattoo first opened in 2001. In 2005 James and his team moved to a larger location and his second satellite shop opened in 2013. With an affinity for details, and a love of illustrative and realism works, Dryer’s clients have come to expect a particular level of satisfaction and experience when they walk into Asylum.

His work can be seen on Asylum's page. Not only does it offer some wonderful examples of his inking abilities, but there are also a number of great examples of his painting as well. 

Recently, I asked him why he’s focused his talents on tattooing instead of traditional artistic mediums like painting and drawing. Dryer said that tattoo offers a means “to create art with instant gratification of the finished work.” As a writer who obsesses over her edits, and edits her edits, I can’t imagine this kind of pressure! That Dryer is able to consistently perform, and perform well, is a feat. His work stretches imagination, calls to light everything that a tattoo should be - a graceful representation of something that is dear to the wearer. I have spent so many hours in his chair and have seen first hand just how far his kindness and appreciation for humanity goes. He's become more than just the guy who puts ink into my skin. He's become a friend. Though my inking days are at a pause right now, I know I have found my forever artist. Keep at it James!

Coffee, Carrots and Eggs

Thursday’s Thought

I read an article recently on the interwebs that offered the following parable –

Carrots, eggs, and ground coffee beans are all placed into boiling water. Carrots started out strong and unrelenting, but after being boiled, were soft and weak. Eggs started out fragile; the thin outer shell was able to protect the liquid interior, but after the boiling water, the inside hardened. Coffee grounds were unique though – after they were in boiling water, they changed the water, not the other way around.

How lovely, right?

After I read this, I sat back and thought about which of these three items I resemble most closely. There have been plenty of times when I’ve been like a carrot, trudging along with full-force and strength, only to find my resolve weakened and my will softened. And of course there are plenty of times when my gooey liquid inside has turned hard for one reason or another.

I don’t know if I can say with real honesty that I’m even life the coffee ground all of the time. I like to think I change my world, or the world at large, but I don’t know if that’s all the way true.  Like the coffee bean though, when things are heating up, I change with the situation around me. I try my best to elevate my strategy and not my voice.

Maybe we’re all a bit of all three of these things. I don’t think I’d want to never go soft like the carrot or have a change of heart, like with the egg. I guess I just want enough happiness to make me sweet, trials to make me strong, challenges to keep me humble and enough hope to keep me going. 

More Philo-Speak

Wednesday’s Word

Determinism

            For every event, there exist conditions that could cause no other event

Whoa, right?

This is a heavy one.

In my philosophical studies this month, I’ve been giving all sorts of mind space to the idea of actions. I’ve discussed and examined prudence with regard to being virtuous and leading a disciplined life, and ontology, the state in which something comes into existence. Only natural that I start to think about causality with regard to actions.

I often wonder if the path that I’m on is as much because it’s been prescribed for me in this life, with these goals and intents, or if I’m on this path because of the particular set of choices I’ve made to lead me where I am. Of course, I’m all for the Universe taking most of the credit, because I believe in manifest destiny and the fact that every single thing happens for a reason. But lately, I’ve been trying to understand the thought behind that one – that is, if everything happens for a reason (because it does) then does that mean I really have no choice in anything at all?

Bear with me while I unravel this one.

If every single action within a given paradigm is bound by causality that’s been determined by something in the past, that means that at no point in my life am I actually deciding to do something. Rather, when I arrive at some particular decision, it’s because that’s the only decision that is essentially available to me. This emphatically goes against and is completely contrary to the ways I want to live my life. Even if everything happens for a reason, I still want to think that I have sort of say in all of it. But if I prescribe to this particular mode of thinking, then it seems I don’t have any choice at all. And that’s pretty much whack in my book. Much like the rest of the words I’ve written about this month, this one is going to take some further thought.

Unravelling this word is really a mind fuck, right?

Weighted Worth

Tuesday’s Truth

Like the rest of humanity, I’ve spent much of my days trying to live up to the expectations of others. Family and social pressures to perform, excel and achieve often leave me rife with a hollowed-out feeling, particularly when I have failed to do something to the caliber expected of me. As a result, I’ve developed this keen skill of being able to part and parcel my personal truths. I do this in feat that I might disappoint or push people away with my complete story, or that once the world realizes I’m not perfect, then my value as a human somehow diminishes. Let’s face it – my pedigree isn’t the most fantastic. But it’s also not the worst. In secret thoughts, I worry that the weight of one single experience will mark and define me and give the world reason to cast me out as being less than … insert whomever or whatever object to which I’m being compared.

In the logical parts of my brain, I know this is complete bullshit. One single event shouldn’t matter, and if it does, then the person defining me shouldn’t hold weight in my world … good luck convincing my brain of that truth!

Self-worth and being perfect are concepts with which I’ve long struggled. Blame the way I grew up. Blame the media. Blame me for wanting to always be perfect. I’ve long been captivated by the idea that if I’m not doing enough, then I’m not being enough. Total bullshit, I know. In between trying to live up to the standards of others, and the (somewhat and often) unrealistic expectations I set for myself, this mode of thinking has led me to the moon and back. It has imprinted in my subconscious the drive to gogogo. While I’ve found success in this constant high-efficiency lifestyle, I’ve made plenty of mistakes too.

What I’ve started to realize is that the quest for perfection should originate in the need for authenticity. Being authentic demands a human to wholeheartedly live and embrace each situation as it comes to her. Wrestling the scary stuff like shame and the fear of not being enough can be mitigated with ease and grace when one knows her worth. Letting go of the idea of what I think others want me to be and cultivating the courage to be imperfect, to set boundaries and to allow myself to be vulnerable and needy at times is the only way to truly value who I am and what I have to offer.

I’m not perfect. And I’m learning to be okay with that. 

multiplicative inverse

Modi's Monday

multiplicative inverse

            after Trice, Francis Picabia

mouthful of hellos reaching for a

pair to finally equal One

lifetimes apart, they learned to

stay even-bay-blue, dividing to

live, unending overlays of

pretend persona and shade-drawn truths

preparing for white Winter to

come cold with solo kisses

(another season of icy grasps

around the throat of a

snow maiden no longer keen to

kneel or seek)

his spring surprised her

fresh embrace colored her green

The Story Continues

Sunday Snippet returns! Since we skipped last week, here's the entire absurd story in it's entirety. 

Sometimes in summer, the air smells like wet cows.

Kim sighs, slams the car door and glances back at the house.

If it weren't for that damn cow that won't get off the roof, her life would be in order.

That's assuming that life as a mute insurance adjuster could ever be in order.  

But ever since Billy came back into her life, Kim has known no order.

Shit, Billy! She gunned the Impreza, shifting haphazardly while fishing her phone out of her pocket.

Two years ago, she'd left Billy in the care of Millie, thinking the poor alligator would be better off with someone besides her.

Now her aunt was the Yeyo Queen of Southern Indiana, and poor Billy was at risk of becoming a suitcase.

Taking one last look at the forlorn cow, Kim decides that she has to rescue Billy from Evansville and her half-coked out Great Aunt Millie.

She slides through her phone contacts as the RPMs rise, tapping Special Agent Blank's number and steeling herself for the next steps.

The Imprezia stalls at a red light. "Damn it," Kim thinks, "why don't I know how to drive a stick?"

Flustered, she checks the rear-view and stares directly at the government plates of a black Suburban.  "How the hell..." she mumbles, pulling the phone to her ear and turning to squint through the smoked glass at the driver's familiar silhouette.

Agent Blank and his annoying smirk are in the Suburban behind her. Kim has been dodging him – and the rest of the agency – after the Miami fiasco last month. Her report showed that the drug-runners hadn’t been responsible for the ocean fire, but Blank didn’t want to believe her. 

She watched him laugh deeply and heard him as well, her body tensing at the sound. "You rang, my dear?" his syrupy voice crept from the phone's speaker.  His eyes maintained their lock on her as he commanded, "Get in the truck."

"I'm driving," Kim snipped. "So pull over then." Her body obeyed before her mind had a chance to react.

The drive was quiet. Blank focused on the road, hypnotically weaving between semis and minivans on eastbound I-64. The mile sign read 15 to Evansville before he spoke. "It's time you knew Billy's whole story," he said, nodding to the glove compartment.  "Open it."

Kim cut a glance at Blank. Reaching for the knob, she knew that whatever was inside would change the way she looked at Blank, Billy, and the world. "Blank, listen," she started, holding up a small glass vial. The vial was unlabeled and would have seemed at home in a late-night science fiction flick. Kim instinctively reached for it, the contents seeming to glow as her fingers neared. "Don't touch it!" screamed Blank as he wrenched the SUV to the berm.  He reached over her, closing the compartment gently. Blank slammed n the brakes, causing Kim’s head to pound against the dash.

Darkness. Kim's vision slowly returned as if looking through a keyhole into a bright room. Her senses were shocked, her ears ringing and limbs sluggish. She willed herself to focus and determine what had happened but was immediately drawn to an object that had fallen into her lap.

Shaking her head to clear the sound, it felt like her arm was moving through sludge as she lifted up the delicate necklace. She'd seed it somewhere, years ago, but her mind was too foggy to recall where. From somewhere off in the distance, she heard Blank ask if she remembered it. Kim turned to him and could barely make out his silhouette in the cloud. 

"Where did you get this," she asked as the memory started to return. A beach in Florida, she couldn't have been more than eight. 

"So you remember the dead man," Blank gently prodded.

Kim nodded yes.

She drifted deep in memory, trying to recall the sand. She could almost feel the roaring tide. No, she did feel it... "Get down!" screamed Blank, violently pushing her head into her lap. The approaching helicopter opened fire on the Suburban, rounds splattering against the truck's bulletproof armor.

Only when the sound faded to a dull roar did she open her eyes. That's when the memory came back full force. It had been Blank there that day on the beach. Trying to turn her head, she realized she couldn’t move.

Dreaming Big

Saturday's Summary

Lab sitting today after a fruitful and eventful week finds my heart full of joy, humility and gratitude.

I spend so much time tapping. Writing and editing. Dreaming about my characters, plot lines and dialogue tags. Pagination and order for chapbooks and my longer works.
This week, I reached a pinnacle as a writer. I'm being published! My first full length work has been accepted for publication. learn to find, a chapbook about my mother and her struggles with all things real and imagined, will be released later this year.
I received the email in the middle of my work day in Dental World. I pretended like I didn't read it, and tried to go about whatever it was I was doing ... which lasted all of five seconds. I opened the email again, savoring each word like a delicious protein cookie and just sat back, mystified. Someone not only read my work, but liked it enough to publish it! On pages, with ink and a cover and a bio and even a cool brooding writer photo. Immediately I dashed for my phone, and messaged Double U, Ghost and Efed. I looked around and realized that Dental World must continue, so I kept in my glorious news for most of the day. Chatting with Double U at lunch, I couldn't keep the joy from my voice. Validation, finally! Listening to Double U extol my success was as much a treat as it was expanding on it on my own.

Earlier today, I spent some time at Gerena's studio while I posed for him for a new piece of art that he's anxious to paint. I was there for about three hours, and while I could have been doing many things writer and Jess-world related, I knew it was important to him that I sit as his muse. So I did, and I found a quiet sort of peace in the hours I was there. My feet ended up super dirty from walking around barefoot, but I guess that's what happens when the granola girls visits the artist's studio. The lesson I learned was that it's not always about me. In fact, one could argue that it shouldn't be about me most of the time. I find a great joy when I live for others; when I can displace what I think I need to help advance the dreams of those who are near and dear.
Gerena gifted me this most amazing typewriter as a congrats gift for my first publication. I am honored and humbled to have it, and I promised him that I'll be restoring it to proper condition. It works as shows with D's message here. I guess this means I'm officially a writer, since I have a published book and a fancy typewriter.

I'm sure there are other things that happened this week of equal import. But these are the two moments of my week that really stuck out as being impacting, fruitful and ultimately, teaching moments.

Pickle Inspiration

Friday's Feature

Long before the thought of writing a daily blog entered my mind, and before I dared to call myself a writer in the true and pure sense of the word, Anya was busy tapping out her own truths, and living a writer's life.
I've written already about the ways in which this lovely lady came to be in my life, and I think it's possible that I could write and write about her. It seems every day there is something new I discover that leads me back to something she said, or rather, something she taught.
As a woman who takes on the challenge of teaching in urban and failing schools as her own personal crusade, Anya has found a way to touch not just my life, but countless lives of other students. She calls us her Pickles, and I know many a Withrow kid will know just what I mean by that.

Recently, Anya has returned to the classroom! Lucky students at a school in Kentucky are now able to learn from this brilliant woman. Ever vigilant about practicing what she preaches, she has been writing a blog about her experiences. Though i am not a classroom teacher (yet) and I don't intend on teaching in a secondary school, I love to read her words for inspiration, perspective and as validation that the outlook one chooses to keep on life shapes one's days.
Check it out and pass it along. Her words are valuable and her insight is clear.

Seeking Validation

Thursday’s Truth

Today I’ve been giving considerable thought to validation and what it means for me in my life. There are certain things I repeatedly do, over and over again in the hopes that I am validated for my efforts – either through self-progress or by way of others acknowledging and appreciating whatever it is I’m doing.

Because I’m constantly reevaluating myself and wondering how I can be better, how I can do more, how I can be more, validation is something that is very real for me. And something that I need pretty much all the time. I used to think that this tenant of my personality made me weak, that needing something other than what comes from me is a sure sign of one who does not have her shit together. Turns out that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Validation isn’t so much about winning a shiny trophy, or having a bank balance with five digits. It has less to do with the quantity of anything and more to do with the quality. If I want something badly enough, and I work hard enough for it, then it is likely to come to me. It might not be in the original form, or in the manner in which I originally sought, but it does come. While that’s surely validation enough to keep me going, it’s also nice when my fortitude is recognized in other ways. Today, I received some really fantastic writerly news that I am eager to share when the time is right. It proved to me that what I’m doing is what I’m supposed to be doing, that the validation I can find in the end result is just as brilliant as it is in the process.

My favorite philosopher love Aristotle is quoted as saying, “We are what we repeatedly do; excellence then, is not an act but a habit.” Damn that dude was smart!

Philosophy Continues

Wednesday’s Word

Ontology

            A philosophical study into the nature of being, becoming, or reality

            Directly linked with the categories of being

Last week, Wednesday’s word was prudence. I established the fact that I have no idea what the root of that word really means – not linguistically of course, but from a moral and ethical understanding, I’m still sorting out specifically how it applies and relates to my life.

It’s only nature that in my examination of prudence I delved into the world of ontology which relates to the study of being. As a writer and a linguist, I tend to be hyper aware of intended versus implied meanings of words, which is one of the reasons that Wednesday’s editions are always the most painfully joyous posts to write. Right, so … ontology studies becoming, the reality and awareness the self offers to existence.

Ontology can’t be described without understanding the root categories of being. Simply, categories of being attempt to understand and define the highest classes under which all elements of being can be classified. I know, it’s a bunch of big words that don’t make sense. Basically, it means that in order for something to exist, it has to belong to a particular classification. Ontology takes that one step further and attempts to examine the ways in which something actually comes into existence.

It’s all fascinating stuff, really. It takes the most obscure sort of thought and gives it credence because it helps to divide it into smaller and smaller units of measure. I like this way of approaching my thinking and understanding of words and language. Not only does it offer me compartmentalization for these terms, but it also gives me a nice practical use for the knowledge.

Since ontology is the study of being, and I write narratives that examine the characters from an ontological perspective, then I can make the assertion that I am an ontological novelist. It sounds so official! 

Malas and City Walks

Tuesday’s Truth

I juggle so much. Like all the time. I’m not saying this to toot my own horn, but just as an honest admission. There’s a lot that I try to cram into every single day. I consistently strive to make revisions to my character, my fortitude, my determination and my drive. Regular and routine self-assessment offer me the kind of benchmarks that I need to ensure that what I’m doing is effective, worthwhile, and ultimately will lead me to the goals I seek. Dedication to my writing and my personal goals often usurp other interests and my attention span is often fleeting. Terrible, right? I know.

While I go through phases with laser focus and can accomplish many of the tasks that I set out to do, there are times when I just feel like it’s all too much. I think this is probably a universal human condition. But when I experience it, I go through an entire cycle of self-bashing, when I review every reason why I suck and none of the reasons why I’m a pretty decent human.

Over the weekend, I was in Chicago. The trip was interesting, fruitful and offered me introspection, truth and pause. On Saturday, I spent some time writing, working on my novel and some poetry. It was heavenly for a good few hours. And then I started to look around.

Everyone who passed by me seemed so content, so thoroughly pleased with themselves and their lives. It was fucking frustrating. Surely I can’t be the only one who wants more, who wants to supersede her boundaries and push for something greater. Or am I really alone in this? How is it possible that everyone who passed looked so full when I’m routinely left feeling as if there is something else to achieve, something new to master, some greater goal to seek?

Feeling pretty bummy, I returned to my hotel. I thought a quiet afternoon in would be what I needed to process emotions and emerge a better human. I was chatting with a dear friend who reminded me that I should get out, see the city, breathe the air. In essence, the reminder was to stop wallowing and live a bit. I hemmed and hawed, but ultimately gave in to the suggestion, donned a fresh dress and set out for a walk.

On my walk, I met a Buddhist monk. Over all of my traipsing in Chicago, I saw no monks. And yet, there he was standing on the sidewalk as if he had been waiting for me all along. Benevolently, he smiled and we started chatting. He reminded me that it’s just as easy to be compassionate as it is to be bitter. Both emotions come from the same root. I marveled at the brevity and truth in his proclamation, and just stood there grinning. #wordygirl had no words. The monk pressed a prayer card in my hand and gifted me a bracelet that is so close to being a mala, I have to believe it was a divine gift. I accepted the gifts graciously, and he told me he would pray for my peace before ushering me along my way.

Renewed, I resumed my walk, fingers the beads of this bracelet, listening to good tunes and feeling the renewal of sun on my skin. The combination of the urging of my friend and the visit from the monk impacted me so greatly inasmuch because each independent action fed into the other as because without that guidance and introspection, I never would have had such a beautiful and impacting experience. Namaste.

looped

Modi's Monday

looped

            after Lady’s Figure Francis Picabia

spatial displacement faces

sad eyes looking for the

in-between flashing neon

newness pairs the two with

layered promises and a far off

horizon, that California dream

position moves them like

rock face sliding slowly into

sometimes painful suggestions

his resolve to gift her

contemporary declarations

pledges reflect in broken snapshots

imaged pixels of her puzzle

assembled and dressed with

care, the oath that binds

a low-body bow, knees flared and

her back upright, their truth contracted

when obligation waves swelled

mountain peaks force her hand

Is this Love?

Sunday's Snippet will be back next week! Ry's been busy fighting against the injustices of humanity and I've been busy working on other words.

In the meantime, an academic sort of musing about a work that is familiar to most.

Is this Love?

“They don’t make memories like that anymore,” so ends the first section of Book Two in Kurt Vonnegut’s masterpiece, Galapagos. Set in a post-modern world, where human beings have evolved from having hands and feet to flippers and fins, Vonnegut’s work makes the claim that the collective consciousness of humanity is one that is ultimately instilled with love. Through the careful craftsmanship of memorable characters such as Mary “Kaplan” Hepburn, James Waite, and Selena MacIntosh among others, all denoted by impending death through the use of a star next to their names, Vonnegut has been able to create a plausible world of post land evolution. The claim could be made that the underlying theme of love is prevalent throughout the book, even in the darkest passages.

Narrated by a United Stated Marine Corps ghost as he lives out his forced million year exile, Galapagos examines the ways in which human fallacy can be wrought with pain and love. Much like the discovery of the Galapagos Archipelago by Charles Darwin, Vonnegut’s work begins with an examination into the naturally occurring experiences that are shared by all humans, most notably fear and hunger. The narrative opens with the notion that human beings had much bigger brains “back then … and so could be beguiled by mysteries” (Vonnegut, 1985,p3). These mysteries included the ways in which life formed on the Archipelago, and Vonnegut offers a variety of popular culture ideas, including the notion that a god placed animals on the chain of islands, that they sailed there on naturally made rafts, and that the islands had once been a part of the mainland. The correlation Vonnegut is making between these ideas and the eventual fate of humanity is there, even ‘back then’ as he calls the year 1986, the same questions surrounding intelligent life were being asked. To that, the claim can be made that Vonnegut’s proclamations on how the intelligent creates ended up on the Galapagos Archipelago were simply expansions on how it became (one million years in the future) the cradle for humanity.

Like all fables that discuss the beginning and end of human eras, Vonnegut provides the reader with a villain through the presentation of James Waite, a con-artist who has happened upon Guayaquil, described by the author as being so successful at what he did “that he had become a millionaire, with interest-bearing savings accounts under various aliases in banks” (Vonnegut, 1985, p8). Drifting from one unsuspecting woman to the next, Waite would swindle the women out of all of the money and jewelry they had available and then leave town. In a surprising twist of evolutionary fate, Vonnegut allows Waite to be the father for the human race via artificial insemination while the first ten settlers are marooned on the Galapagos Archipelago. Perhaps the point that Vonnegut is trying to make is that even though the reader knows Waite to be inherently ill-willed and quite possibly evil, it is through him that the human race is able to continue, suggesting that maybe in each of us, there is something both a little good and a little bad.

Known to her as Williard Flemming and not James Waite, Mary “Kaplan” Hepburn falls in love with the persona Waite presents and marries him after he suffers a heart attack, assuming that he is true in his approach to life and the presentation of his personality to her. The two live together for ten years while beached on the islands, and it is during that time that Mary begins to artificially inseminate the women of child-bearing age who are a part of their group. However, she doesn’t tell Waite what she is doing. This subterfuge could be seen as marking a correlation between the inherent need for humanity to continue. Perhaps because of his incestuous beginnings, having been born to a father-daughter couple, conjoined with his homosexual prostituting past, Waite was simply trying to get even in with the world. This could be said of Mary as well, in that she and her dead-husband Roy lived out almost fifty years of marriage without fulfilling her one true wish – to be a mother. As it were, the grandparents, then, of humanity as Vonnegut presents it on the Galapagos Archipelago were both selfish individuals hell-bent on getting what they want, no matter the cost.

Though this viewpoint may be considered somewhat extreme, the possibility that Vonnegut’s intention to push the reader so far away in order to bring him/her back is there as well. Just as one is ready to give up on the idea that James Waite has a shred of dignity or humanity available to him, he feeds starving girls of a long-forgotten tribe. In the same vain, after the reader learns of Mary’s genetic tinkering, Vonnegut presents the love scene between Roy and Mary, thereby illustrating that even in the multi-faceted whirlwind of the human psyche, duality certainly exists.

Perhaps the most concrete example of love presented in Vonnegut’s Galapagos is in the final pages where the ghost Marine narrator, Leon, flashes back to his exchange with a Swedish doctor. Leon has sought medical attention because he’s contracted syphilis in Vietnam. He contracted the veneral disease because he was chasing away the demons of reliving killing a toothless grandmother in a remote village after she had killed his best friend and worst enemy. Leon has been treated in the field hospital for his flesh wounds, but no one has addressed the mental anguish with which he was living. Chasing hookers and doing drugs was clearly his escape route, though it came at a cost. The Swedish doctor asks him about the experience, and Leon remains mum, not offering many details. Leon explained that after the murder, he did not cry, but the physician manages to ask him something that illicit emotion. Vonnegut writes, “But that that Swede found something to say which made me cry like a baby – at last, at last” (Vonnegut, 1985, pg323). The physician asks Leon if he is related to the science fiction writer, Kilgore Trout, Leon’s father. Throughout the narrative, Leon lamented over and over again the reasons for which his father was a failure, and likely why he was a failure as well. Therefore, the circularity in the Swedish doctor having heard of and read Kilgore’s work is not lost on Leon. Perhaps the summation of humanity is best left to Vonnegut as he writes, “I had come all the way to Bangkok, Thailand, to learn that in the eyes of one person, anyway, my desperately scribbling father had not lived in vain” (Vonnegut, 1985, pg323). In a way, it seems that all any human wants to do – Mary Helpurn wanting children or to help the evolutionary process, James Waite wanting to get back at the world for a cruel beginning, or Leon Trout wanting to find reason in his father’s journey, we are all seeking validation.

Climbing Stairs

Saturday Summary

Today’s summary comes from the Windy City! I’m here for the weekend, taking in the sights and finding some much needed moments to breathe. Life is a constant whirlwind of one obligation after another; so taking this weekend is as much to reset as it is to remind myself why I’m doing what I do. It’s easy for me to wrap myself around my day to day expectations, with little thought into why I’m doing what I do. Sometimes my lofty goals seem so far off that the drudgery of Dental World coupled with the focus and intent that this Writing Life requires makes me feel scattered.

Along with doors and windows, I’ve long used stairs as a metaphor in much of my writing. Like arched windows and sturdy doors, stairs generally seem to suggest progression. They remind me of mobility, that life is fluid, and that one can choose to go up or down. I have countless poems about stairs, and in my fiction work, characters always seem to find themselves maneuvering them as they approach life-altering decisions. As I’m sitting at a street-side café, listening to Logic and having an iced hibiscus tea, I can’t stop thinking about stairs.

I’ve been to Chicago a number of times, and always come away with a new sense of self. This trip is reminding me so much of visiting some years back with Ghost when he was thirteen and I was fifteen. It was right before the shit hit the fan, so the trip is symbolically attached to a certain period of my life that I’ll never be able to replicate.

On Friday morning, I set out for a run, not really sure where I was heading. Chicago is laid out on a grid, I have a good sense of direction and figured I’d run until I was tired and turn back. I was a few miles into my run when I saw a structure that pulled on something so deep inside of me. The familiarity of the building was immediate, but I couldn’t quite place it. As I got closer, I found myself staring at this set of stairs.

Over the years, I’ve moved more times than I can count. There was a period of time when I was moving every six months or so, and so I stopped unpacking after a while. In all of the moves, the countless apartments that led to repeated life-overhauls and upheaval, I’ve managed to hang on to few tangible items. One of my most treasured possessions is a photo of me and Ghost sitting on these stairs. I have returned to the photo I have more times than I can count; as much because it was a hell of a trip as because it captures something that’s gone – not just in terms of sense of self, but an innocence that was left when life started to splinter. From the photo, I gather strength, courage and determination to keep on moving.

It’s easy to be hard on myself; to bitch and complain that I’m not further and farther along. I set high expectations for myself which isn’t a bad thing. But it also can breed a certain sense of deficiency, of never being content in the moment. Seeing these stairs reminded me just how far I’ve come. I don’t need to add a caveat to that statement (… and how far I have to go) because I live that passion every single today. This weekend, I’m going to be okay with being pleased with myself. This isn’t being arrogant; this is accepting I have made some significant strides. Move up or move down. Just keep moving. 

Form and Technique

Friday’s Feature

As I’ve mentioned in a few of my Thursday Thought posts, I’ve started training at a new gym and have a wonderful new coach. Beat Personal Training is a long established personal training gym that’s been around for a while. It amazes me I’ve been living in Cincinnati for a year and a half and I’m just now discovering it!

So I’m officially training with one of the owners, Matt. Our sessions are so much shorter than what I was doing previously, which is both welcomed and surprising. It’s no secret I love my sweat sessions – so to get in and out in less than two hours is … startling. That said, being in the gym for less time does not mean I’m not working my ass off. I am. No, literally. Matt has me on a great split and I’m confident I’ll be ready for my show in October. Coupled with my new split is a new found appreciation for form and technique. My squat and bench numbers really don’t mean anything at the end of the day if I’m not executing the movement properly. This is one thing that Matt and I are working through. It’s almost discouraging to see less weight on the bar, but I know I’m doing it the right way, and I know I’m activating the muscles that need the most work. So like all things in life, after I’ve sought the advice of the expert, I’m listening to him, following his orders and hope that I will achieve the desired results I want.

It’s amazing how much raw talent Cincinnati has to offer. We’re a growing city, and we aren’t always the most popular in the zeitgeist of the country, but by and large, there are some cleverly hid gems, some nuggets of sheer brilliant talent nestled in these hills. It’s just knowing where to look.

Aligned and Centered

Thursday’s Truth

heading to chi-town today

for a weekend to myself

a visit to a university &

some lake-front runs

i'm going to sit in the art museum

 & writewritewrite

i spent too much on a hotel

& decided it's completely worth it

i'll be an urban Walden

for a few days

& smile at strangers

during afternoon walks

& sit in the sun

at streetside cafes

& drink too much coffee

wondering while wandering

& maybe get some sleep

& i’ll look for an old flame

Muse of creativity

who comes and goes

like Chinook winds

& too bad i can't have pizza,

my competition is so soon

but i'll return sometime

& nosh on deep dish

dough & cheese

Complexities and Philosophy

Wednesday’s Word

Prudence

            From the Latin, prudentia, borrowed from providentia – seeing ahead, sagacity

            The ability to govern and discipline oneself by the use of reason

            Classically considered a virtue

This dude, Thomas Aquinas, (who is not nearly as fly as Aristotle, but had some important things to say from time to time) thought that prudence was the cause, measure and form of all virtues. If a virtue is defined as the moral excellence or positive trait that is deemed to be morally good, it’s reasonable to think that ol’ Tommy thought highly of the ability to see ahead, and to govern oneself by way of reason. Virtues are the foundation for personal principles, and good moral being. So it makes sense that prudence should be the springboard from which all other virtues can be measured.

I’ve been considering prudence in a new light over the last week or so.

If a virtue is something that is, at least in the general sense, something that forms the capacity to understand if something is appropriate given a time and place, it seems easy for me to make the connection that seeing ahead, governing my life with discipline is a virtuous act.

If I look at this word objectively, and try to understand the root of prudence, it seems to me that the more moral weight a decision has, the more prudently one should approach it. I tend to think I live a morally upright sort of life, but this word has been such a sticking point for me since it’s weighted, heavy with implication and esoteric meaning. Since prudence is the measure of moral virtues, as it provides a model for ethically sound and good actions, then it stands to reason that seeing ahead, that is – the capacity to approach life with sagacity should inherently allow everyone to be(come) a prudent person. But we all know that’s not the case.  It seems the most reasonable approach to being prudent, to living and within the confines of self-imposed discipline and reason should be developed through a careful examination of values and morals to base actions. I’m going to keep chewing this word for a while longer; I don’t think I understand the root of it the way I want.

Sinks and Sponges

Tuesday’s Thought

When I was shopping for my ultra-granola apartment last year, I was more concerned with location and function than I was the bells and whistles of a space. I’ve moved enough times in my life to be able to assess pretty quickly if a space is going to work for me – or not.

When I found my lovely space, I was so pleased and excited to discover the bonus room that I just knew would be a fantastic lab. As soon as I saw the room, I told the super that I’d take the space. She was surprised and proceeded to lead me through a lackluster tour of the rest of the space. Glossing over the kitchen and the basement, I didn’t pause to really look at anything because my mind was so concentrated on my new lab!

After moving in, I discovered that the kitchen had no dishwasher or microwave. The microwave I can live without because they generally disturb me, but no dishwasher?! Immediate panic set in. I’d been living in the ‘burbs too long … and forgot that folks really do exist, function and lead amazingly compelling lives … without a dishwasher.

The first time I had a sink full of dishes to wash, I did so with disdain and contempt. I thought it to be a complete waste of time because there was nothing else I could simultaneously be doing – besides washing dishes. Picture me standing at a sink, filled to the brim with bubbles, my yellow throwback rubber gloves on, wondering how I could make the task more efficient. After careful consideration (and many sinks of dishes later) I’ve discovered there’s no way to do anything else besides wash dishes.

So I stepped back from my incessant need for efficiency and tried to approach the chore from a fresher mind-space. Maybe there was something to be learned in the ritual of washing, or in honoring the time that it takes to wash each piece of cutlery dish by dish.

In the eighteen months I’ve had this apartment, I’ve nestled in to the concept of dishwashing. Now I find it to be one of the most cathartic and relaxing parts of my day. Why? Because I can’t do anything else at all! It forces me to pause. To reset. Regroup. Reevaluate. Now, every morning before I leave for Dental World, I wash up my coffee and breakfast dishes. It gives me a few floating moments to simply be. Whoever said technology makes the world better probably has long forgotten the joy of a sink full of dishes. 

fission

Modigliani Monday

(... taking a break from Modi in lieu of Picabia)

fission

            after Open Mask, Francis Picabia

dividing rupture

her rapture & his

intense kinks like he

liked her lines drawn,

eyes low and body bowed

(the breaking of

this) their severance

connection rimmed outer

with inner, thick

exposure like

dismissed emotion

she cracked & he walked,

deprived

her virtue, holy

saintliness salient still

she faltered & that

ended principally (missing his love)

long forgotten

offer when two were one

& she was whole

he scarred, she stood,

they split