30/30: A Poetic Evening

October 13th 

After some light house projects and a couple rounds of bowling for Tommie with his guy friends, we spent the evening at a free poetry reading by Richard Blanco (Obama's inaugural poet) at The Carolina Theatre.  

I always enjoy poetry readings because you get to learn about the backstory of the poet and it givers greater depth to their poems.  Blanco's poems (and stories) were very entertaining and funny, and explored concepts of culture, identity, and family, which are universal themes, therefore, easy to relate to.  It's great to see a poet like him gaining traction and interest.

After the reading, I had my book signed and told him that he ironically lives in the same small town in Maine as my parents (I did tell him, Dad, that you two have yet to meet.  He said that eventually it seems everyone there does end up meeting, so don't worry there's still time.)

Radio Silence...And A New Blog

This past year kicked my ass.  Actually, it's been a gradual build-up of a few hard years cumulating to this final boot in the butt.

While writing helps me sort through emotions and hardships, it didn't seem productive/fair to subject the cyber world to my woes, so I didn't write much at all.

This year was emotionally and physically destructive and I blame it on one thing.  Doctors.   They are my Kryptonite and they wore me down.  After a year of appointments with 10 different doctors, going through dozens of tests and lab work to try to figure out a chronic pain in my lower right abdomen, a pelvic pain specialist finally figured out it's a hernia.

The worst part is that when the pain first started I read an article in the NY Times about how difficult hernias are to diagnose in women so I asked every doctor about it but they all told me I was wrong and thought I was crazy.  I can't even begin to tell you how frustrating and taxing this experience was for me.

Here is a link to the article about diagnosing hernias in women.  All doctors should read this.

I am partly relieved to finally know what the problem is but terrified, of course, to face surgery and recovery.

With that said, I'm focusing my attention elsewhere.  In the midst of all this madness, my husband and I bought our first home.  It needs major updates so I have no shortage of projects lined up and things to distract me from the rest of my problems at hand.

To chronicle the progress of the house for our families, friends, and anyone else to follow along, I started a new blog.  It's called The Amberican Dream.  

Hope to see you there!

New Computer, Old Soul

Over the weekend Tommie and I bit the bullet and bought me/us a new laptop (13" MacBook Pro). It was time for my old iBook from the college years to retire considering I could make myself breakfast in the time it took to open photos or navigate a couple Web pages.  

I am getting used to the new laptop--loving the clearer, brighter screen, the light up keyboard, and of course the increased speed. Apparently this thing can do a lot more, but I'm probably not the best person to test it.

When you go to the Apple store to purchase a computer they help with personal setup. Helping me setup took twice as long as helping elderly couples who were in and out of there before I could even get my username to work. Tommie kept slapping his forehead in pain. I asked the Mac genius if he thought I could get a job there. He didn't answer.

In my defense, my previous Mac was so old that I didn't have updated information that was compatible with the new one. Against my defense, I have never been good with technology. It's the old mind, the creative soul, the defender of dying arts against the new engineers who would rather see novels written in HTML code. Computers "know" this about me and I'm telling you they rebel--they are very smart, and maybe I rebel back, but I'm not admitting to anything.

When we got home, Tommie set up my computer to make sure it didn't self destruct and Maya spent more time sitting at it than I did. I sat on the floor and made paper pinwheel art out of old magazines (more on that later) because I saw them in a window display on the way to the Apple store earlier that day and got inspired. As Tommie said, "You are the only person who gets a new computer and goes home to make paper wheels." True.

Winning Money for Buying Used Paper Lanterns

Best news I have received in a while...I won $100 for sharing my story about how I scored a bunch of cheap paper lanterns from Recycled Bride! 

Recycled Bride is an online wedding marketplace for searching and getting great deals on used and new items for ones wedding. It's kind of like the "Craigslist" of wedding items--no wonder I like it.

Winning stories and other comments can be viewed on Recycled Bride's blog here.  I included a photo our reception venue decorated with the lanterns. 

I knew my obsession with lanterns would pay off someday!

Thankful

With Thanksgiving upon us, it's as good a time as any to reflect on the things we are most thankful for. 

For all the griping that I do, I have a lot of big things to be thankful for this year such as....

A miraculously warm and sunny wedding day.

My mom's recovery from kidney surgery.

Beginning a job that affords me more time and writing experience.

 A safe and memorable trip to Turkey.

I can only hope the upcoming year is full of equally grateful, sunny moments.

Gloucester Poetry

Gloucester poets are being recognized in an anthology put together by the city's poet laureate, John Ronan. I'm especially looking forward to it because one of my poems, which was a finalist in Gloucester's Quarterdeck Poetry Contest, will be featured.

The collection of poems titled, Salt and Light: An Anthology of Gloucester Poetry will be available for free (thanks to sponsors) at the Sawyer Free Library, Rose Baker Senior Center, and Mayor Kirk's office. If you live on the North Shore, be sure to pick up a copy and celebrate National Poetry Month by reading some local poetry.You can read more about it here:
My View: Time for poets to shine - GloucesterTimes.com, Gloucester, MA

National Poetry Month

Poets.org does some pretty cool ("cool" if you're kind of a nerd like me) stuff for poetry month:

One easy thing you can do is sign up for their free poem-a-day e-mails. You will get a new poem each day in your inbox throughout the month of April and maybe get a few new favorite poems/poets out of it.

The Art of Embellishment

Creative non-fiction is often what categorizes a memoir or a personal narrative. It's a story that is true (real people, real events), but told in a creative and interesting way. This is how I like to see the world. My family and friends say I like to exaggerate. I say I never exaggerate, only embellish.

As an example, there was one time my sister and I were making a nightly ice cream run to pick up a pint (make that two) of Ben & Jerry's. When we got to the freezer isle, we saw they were having a sale...Great! Until we realized that Ben & Jerry had been ransacked by girls who apparently had the same idea. We had had a system going: I'd get cookie dough; Eva would get half-baked. I spotted my flavor and grabbed it, but Eva was in distress...half-baked was no where to be found. She moaned, reaching both arms into the freezer, strewing useless pints of Ben & Jerry's across the shelves in her frantic quest for half-baked. To tell you the truth, I don't remember if she even found what she was looking for; all I remember is that she left the place in shambles. When we got home, Mom asked how our trip to the store went and I told her that Eva had been like a bear at a campsite. She laughed, but Eva was not amused by the description. Eva called me a lier and said that she had simply searched for her favorite flavor, slightly frustrated. But I had seen her...reaching her paws--I mean, arms--deep into the shelves of the freezer, leaving a path of destruction in her wake, and I swear when I yelled at her to stop making such a mess, she growled at me.

(photo by Jeffrey Brooker on nps.gov)

Unfortunately for people who find themselves around people who like to write, that's how we see things. I didn't just see my sister getting upset over ice cream--I saw a grizzly bear hungry for half-baked. I can see how this might be slightly annoying. My sister isn't really a bear (though I have seen her attack boys at the jugular).

Sure, I could see and tell things exactly the way they happen...Eva couldn't find her ice cream. This upset her. But then I wouldn't be doing any creative justice to the event that transpired and I would have missed the opportunity to describe my sister in a more visually captivating way. I'm sure she'll thank me for it later.

One Year of Blogging

I began this blog exactly one year ago, and since then I have used it pretty much as I intended: sharing creative resources, anecdotes, embarrassing stories, and documenting events throughout the year.

It has been a good creative outlet for me and I'd like to find more ways this year to fuel my creative side. In the meantime, I'll continue to showcase my findings and fine embellishments on the blog. Hope you've enjoyed one year of "Letters From a Libra."

Based on data collected from Google Analytics, here are the top four posts viewed this year:

1. Why Do Women Go Crazy?
2. Poem By Mary Oliver
3. Hey, Jealousy (And More On Why Women Go Crazy)
4. Poetry Contest Winners Announced

Creative Souls

Maybe it's being around artists all day at work, but lately I've been having an overwhelming urge to create things. I consider myself a creative person, but I'm no artist. I have always enjoyed the less tangible "art" of writing but I find myself wanting to diversify...and not just wanting to, but feeling like a have to. I never thought I'd see such a quick decline of the printed word as I have in the past couple years. It's hard for me (and even harder as a relatively recent grad) to come across any jobs in the publishing industry that are not tech- or medical-related, and at that point, I feel like I might as well sell my creative soul to some big data entry corporation.

It's not that I want to become a painter or a sculptor, but I do want to be happy. I see a variety of people come into my office and what I've learned from them is that, really, anything you can think up is possible. I've seen a woman who is starting her own journal line inspired by her family relationships and her mother's artwork. I've seen two woman come in to discuss the outline of a cookbook featuring local recipes and artwork. I've seen watercolors painted by a famous chocolatier who started making candy in his basement and artwork in his spare time. While these people won't make the salary of a big CEO, they will feel better about what they do every day and be in charge of their own life and that's what I admire.

Art From Above

The other day at work an artist came in to drop off some of his paintings and he proceeded to tell us that God gives him visions of what to paint. Usually when people say things like this I smile politely and turn quickly away to give a good eye roll towards the wall. To make matters worse, this guy wasn't even a good artist—The least God could do is pick a better artist to paint for him, I thought. But the fact that this man wasn't good actually helped clear something up for me (no, I wasn't converted), but for the first time I was able to make sense of what he was saying.

When this man feels inspired or when he gets a clear idea of what to paint he believes this comes from God. I can actually relate to that because as a writer I have had similar moments, I've just never given a thumbs up towards heaven when they've happened because I don't believe that's where they came from. I have had moments writing poems when I have no idea what I'm saying or where the poem is headed until it suddenly, and seemingly at once, becomes very clear and the rest flows easily from my head and from my heart. See, I just said it comes from my head and my heart—others would say it comes from God. It's just a matter of what you do or don't believe in.

So, I stopped mid eye roll this time because I realized that while I would personally be freaked out if I thought someone (God included) was infiltrating my mind with "visions," all creative minds have moments of inspiration from somewhere...whether we choose to believe it comes from within us, around us, or even above us.

Poetry Contest Winners Announced

The Quarter Deck Poetry Contest winner, finalists, and honorable mentions were announced yesterday, and as one of the finalist, my poem appears on the Gloucester Poet Laureate Website:

www.gloucesterpoetlaureate.org

I wrote the first draft of this poem in college while reading Charle's Olson's The Maximus Poems. Olson drew from the rich history of Gloucester (my hometown and where he eventually settled). He explored the connection between people and place and the changes (not such a good thing) brought about by technology and industrialism. I got to thinking about how much things had already changed since the time Olson wrote about them to the time I was writing about them. Time always moves forward but our words are more fluid and explore the connection between the past, present and where we're headed.

Mass. Poetry Festival

The Massachusetts Poetry Festival will take place in the Boston area this fall. Events begin on October 15th and continue through the 18th. If you click on the image above, you'll be directed to the Website where you can view the schedule of events and reserve tickets to the popular events (especially those on Saturday, Oct. 17th). Tickets are free, but you can guarantee a seat by donating a few bucks to reserve your place online. I grabbed a couple tickets for Louise Gluck's reading in Lowell on Oct. 17th, which happens to be on my birthday. People who know me know I wouldn't mind starting my birthday evening off with some good poetry.

Recognized For a Poem About Home

The poet laureate of Gloucester, Mass. recently held a poetry contest to recognize the Gloucester Fisherman's Memorial (a statue remembering the fisherman lost at sea) which will be featured on the new Massachusetts quarter.

On a whim, I sent in one of my poems about Gloucester and found out yesterday that though I did not win the contest, I was one of three finalists and that my poem will be mentioned in the newspaper and published online as well as in a print version later this winter/spring. I'm honored for the recognition. I'm glad it was well-received and it makes me happy to have shared my work locally. I know this is where my words belong.

I'll post a link to the winning poems when they are published in a couple weeks!

Express Yourself

Almost everyone has a creative talent/outlet.

Tommie has discovered a recent passion for photography, and I'm not just saying this because I'm fond of the kid (he knows I'm not generous with my compliments), but he really has an eye for it. The other night I was looking at his photography—all serious and beautiful—then I looked over at him on the couch sharing a cheese stick with the dog...then looked back to his photos: sophisticated and polished...then back to him making ugly faces in my general direction, and I thought, "Were these pictures really taken by that weirdo over there?"

I got to thinking about how many of us have a creative form of expression that suite us best. Tommie's photos are better than his words; better than how he speaks and writes; better than how he draws or how he dances (sorry, Tommie, your electric slide is more creepy than talented if you ask me). For me, I think I write much better than I speak. Writing allows me to take my time with words and better express myself. It's also cathartic, but for other people words don't do it at all...they prefer expression through painting or art. I remember a very shy girl in grade school who hardly uttered a word, but man, could she draw. You would never guess the striking sketches came from the same girl. Other people "speak" best through other means such as cooking or through music (or in my sister's case, karaoke—why couldn't her outlet be a little more quiet?).

Maybe we all have a certain way we shine. Sometimes that outlet is underestimated, shoved aside, or may be undiscovered, but it's always telling. It's the way we feel most comfortable, most expressive and most like ourselves.

McCourt's Memoirs

Frank McCourt, a very talented memoir writer, passed away on July 19th. He was best known for his novel "Angela's Ashes"—a memoir about growing up in poverty in Ireland and the troubles of his family. Maybe because I tend to like things that don't get as much hype and because I like writing, I actually liked his other, lesser known book most: "Teacher Man"—about McCourt's teaching career in New York where he taught English and writing for 30 years. McCourt's stories about his sassy students and what he learned during his time there is written with the kind of self-deprecating humor I appreciate. So, if you enjoyed "Angela's Ashes," I suggest you check out McCourt's other works...and if you haven't checked out anything by him, I of course, would encourage that too.

Intuitive Travel Plans

In 8th grade I had an English teacher who was told she would also have to instruct her students in math that year due to a teacher shortage. It was clear from day one that she was not happy about this. Not only was she unhappy, but she was just as lost as we were when it came to x + y = 47. As an English major who seems to be missing that chunk of my brain which comprehends numbers, I understand her disdain and only wish the principal understood what a mistake it was to ask an English teacher to mix algebra with Shakespeare.

What my teacher did to cover this section of her forced curriculum was cleverly disguise writing assignments as math assignments. The one I remember most was planning a road trip. We were to create a budget (this was the only math component) and write a report on where we would go and what we would do. Without hesitation I decided I would take a Winnebago with all of my friends across the country to the San Diego Zoo.

I sent away for free brochures and dreamed of palm trees and panda bears. Little did I know that eight years later I would be making that very trip (minus the Winnebago full of teenage girls) only it would be to live there. I still wonder sometimes if that choice in 8th grade was led by some strange intuition. Of all the places to travel to in the U.S., I chose the very place that, years later, my parents would tell me they/we were moving to. When I was having lunch at the zoo with my sister after first moving here, I couldn't help thinking how strange it was to be there, exactly where I had imagined myself only in a different time and under very different circumstances.

It's little things like that that make me wonder if we listened to our gut more often, maybe we'd have a better, truer sense of where we were headed. Even though I'm not choosing to stay in San Diego, I feel very lucky that a creative "math" project in 8th grade turned into a reality that was better than I could have ever imagined.

National Poetry Month: Lisel Mueller

In honor of National Poetry Month, throughout the month of April (in between frenzied moving activities), I will be posting some work from my all-time favorite poets.

First up is Lisel Muller. I came across her collection of new and selected poems "Alive Together" while aimlessly searching for a poet to review for a class in college. Her narrative style reminded me of my own writing and I instantly connected to her work. I have posted one of her poems before; the one below is another favorite of mine because it reaffirms my belief that the world should be a more peaceful place when we consider how lucky we all are to be here, alive together, sharing this world at the same time.

Alive Together
By Lisel Mueller

Speaking of marvels, I am alive
together with you, when I might have been
alive with anyone under the sun,
when I might have been Abelard's woman
or the whore of a Renaissance pope
or a peasant wife with not enough food
and not enough love, with my children
dead of the plague. I might have slept
in an alcove next to the man
with the golden nose, who poked it
into the business of stars,
or sewn a starry flag
for a general with wooden teeth.
I might have been the exemplary Pocahontas
or a woman without a name
weeping in Master's bed
for my husband, lost in a drunken bet.
I might have been stretched out on a totem pole
to appease a vindictive god
or left, a useless girl-child
to die on a cliff. I like to think
I might have been Mary Shelley
in love with a wrongheaded angel,
or Mary's friend. I might have been you.
This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless,
our chances of being alive together
statistically nonexistent;
still we have made it, alive in a time
when rationalists in square hats
and hatless Jehovah's Witnesses
agree it is almost over,
alive with our lively children
who—but for endless ifs—
might have missed out on being alive
together with marvels and follies
and longings and lies and wishes
and error and humor and mercy
and journeys and voices and faces
and colors and summers and mornings
and knowledge and tears and chance.

Gear Up For National Poetry Month

For all the poetic souls out there, now is the time to sign up for your poem-a-day e-mails in preparation for National Poetry Month in April.

Even though poetry has taken somewhat of a backseat in my life since graduation to be replaced by the burdens of "the real world," it's still an ever-important part of my being. In April I'll highlight some of my favorite poets, but for now here is a poem to get you thinking. I'm reminded of the quote by Robert Frost, "No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader." This is how some of the best poetry happens...it wanders like an unpredictable dream. The words and thoughts come as a surprise and leave you questioning how the poem got there, and also how you got to where you are in your own life.

Intro To Poetry
By Steven Bauer

You thought it was math that taught
the relation of time and speed
but it's farther than you knew
from that sun-lit white-walled classroom
to this darkened lounge with its couch
and overstuffed chairs. How many miles,
would you say, since you talked
as if poetry were no distorting mirror,
one-way street? But listen, sometimes
it's like this, a stranger's Ford pulls up,
and you, with no plans for the afternoon,
get in. He doesn't talk, stares at the road
and it's miles before you understand
you didn't want to travel. His lips say no
as you reach for the radio's knob.

In this silence you fall deeper
into yourself, and even the car
disappears, the stranger's face
blurs into faded upholstery, and all things
being equal, you're alone as though
you've wandered into a forest with night
coming on, no stars, the memory of sun
and a voice's asking Is this my life?

My Own Worst Enemy

I have always loved writing. Though ever since college, every time I sit down to write I feel like I need to always be producing something of great importance and quality. I miss the days when I could sit in my room and fill a whole journal with poems and stories and didn't care whether or not they were any "good." Writing was purely cathartic. But then I started writing for grades in school and it became more serious...now I do it professionally and it's definitely serious. I have trouble sitting down and writing for fun. It's not that I don't want to. Sometimes I feel like I have a story, poem or idea just bursting inside of me and I sit down full of energy to write it but become easily deflated because I keep revising it before I'm even finished with the first sentence. I attended a short writing class recently where someone talked about how tricky it is to do real "stream of consciousness" writing because you are literally trying to out-write the inner editor inside of you. I'm a perfectionist by nature and an editor by profession so that's not easy. Blogging has helped me a bit because I feel like my thoughts don't have to be perfect, but that doesn't mean I can't hear the inner critic inside me...I just ignore her a little more. I yearn to write more freely just to keep my creativity going. I just have to figure out a way to write faster than I can think.