Shiny Tin Boxes

I say I never meant to hide it from you, but we both know better
Boxed up babies and
Chronological change purses
shiny tin boxes, alphabetized,
Alkali bunnies, corroding dust
Empty fucks gone habitually, inappropriately
jawdroppingly knowable,
last minute nicknames
offered as payment for
quiet rapacious shower tableaus, but
Unraveling Winnie-the-Pooh verses
Won’t explain you
ziplining a pistol

Ave Maria came over the hill, and I
Tucked under the window pane
wanted to give it all to you
sensible. Never strange. Never
reeking of molecules that failed to rise
and evaporate into a fresh morning

shiny tin boxes left to rust
concealing decades of lost Scrabble games
Perfumed talc dusted hip bones,
Toothless nights spent whistling the
Idiot’s Guide to the String Theory
Dog-earing Robert Burns on
Sexual Healing, Doing
Odometer reads while gunning
the engine, bargaining the yard chickens
to coo a little longer


A poem for Read Write Poem, which I haven't contributed to in so very long. I tried to follow the prompt, but it went awry somewhere. I'm posting this anyway because they keep telling us we don't have to follow the rules. Had to use some trickery (i.e. challenge games) to pull this one out of me. See if you can spot the two I used.

Things I have learned while writing a book

Things I have learned while writing a book

1. Having “all day” to work on writing means you have about 2 good solid hours.

2. The cable bill will come due on your deadline and you won’t be able to pay it because you went out drinking last night.

3. There IS such a thing as too much ccafffeinne.

4. It takes you three times as long to write about a person, subject or thing that you actually care about.

5. Doubt is your biggest enemy. The minute you think you aren’t up to the task; you aren’t. Vodka won’t change that. Sex won’t change it either.

6. No one will be as excited about your goal as you.

7. The concept of “the muse” as most writers use it confuses and irritates me. “The muse is an angel” “The muse is a parasite.” “The muse is a whore.” “The muse is a fickle friend.” I think we need to maintain a safe distance from that so-called entity that inspires us to write. What do we do if the muse doesn't show up? Our job as writers is to show up and write. Sometimes, we write brilliantly, sometimes (often) we don’t. The more we grow anxious about engaging the muse or “allowing” her into our lives, the less capable we are of simply showing up.

8. On that same note: If you think about the whole book or even a whole chapter, you will freak the hell out. That thing that E.L.Doctorow, the author of the book/play Ragtime said holds true, “Writing a book is like driving at night. You can only see as far as the headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” (Probably misquoted, but the general idea is there.)

9. Remember how everyone said they would help you? Edit when ever you want? Take you out for cocktails? Get photos for you? Yeah. They didn’t mean it. Don’t take it personally, they are busy, too. (See rule #6.)

10. Every now and then, you have to interact with real humans. In my case, I am actually writing about what real humans would presumably want to do, so it makes sense that I would understand what people might be interested in. But when I find myself sharing how excited I get about closing all my browser windows at the end of each task (seriously, so gratifying!) and look up to find everyone staring blankly back at me, I know it is time to turn off the computer and talk to someone who doesn’t limit me by 140 characters.

11. I am apparently a perfectionist. But I’ll elaborate more on that later. I don’t have enough time/head space right now to express everything I want to say on it right now. (Which, as I re-read this, is probably a testament to the fact, sheesh.)

12. Your editor is there for a reason. Don’t expect to be perfect. Try to spell correctly. Use the Oxford comma with grace and skill, but don’t spend an entire day looking up 14 alternatives to the word “good,” only to freak out and spend another day reading People magazine instead of writing because you are afraid you are a boring and amateurish writer who should never have gotten the job in the first place.

13. I’ll say it again. Your editor is there for a reason (and not because you are boring and amateurish. Stop it. Just stop it.) Your editor is there to make you better. When your editor does correct you, don’t beat yourself up for not thinking of it first. Embrace it.

14. Don’t make plans on the day of a deadline in hopes that you will be inspired to stay focused. Mistakes will be made.

15. Don’t forget why you’re doing it.

Time Management

It's been weeks now since I was given the task of announcing that PDX Magazine was folding. As I suspected, we didn't go out with a bang. It wasn't really a whisper either, more like a soft, unintentional fart.
But frankly, I am pleased with the way things ended. For a while I was worried that all our work would have been for naught. I was sad to see it end, but I think the timing was right.
We had our ups and downs over the years, sure. There were times when we weren't certain what to expect from the business side of things. But my colleagues and I stuck with it until the end because of a number of reasons:
1. We believed in the product. There were some that complained about the fact that we never wrote "anything negative." This is not because we were ruled by advertising, but because we had made a choice to only cover the places we liked. We billed ourselves as the "Where to go, what to do magazine" not the "what not to do" magazine. Plus, we figured the Willamette Week and The Mercury had that whole snarky thing down pat.
2. We felt that we had finally begun to separate ourselves from the others (The Mercury, Willamette Week, Portland Monthly, etc).
3. We (myself and my art director) had the distinct pleasure of having nearly-complete creative control.
4. We were getting paid. Sure, we were working long hours and wearing many, many hats, but we got paychecks (almost always before sundown on payday).
5. We love Portland. This city is so vibrant and enthusiastic. Writing about it for the last 3 and a half years was not only easy, it was fun.

On a more personal level, I am taking this opportunity to focus on finishing the Moon Travel Guide for the city of Portland. (The completed book is due in August.) I had set my mind on the fact that I would be able to soar through the rest of the chapters with ease now that my schedule had opened up, but that hasn't exactly been the case. Budgeting my time has been a challenge and some things have gotten in the way of my productivity.

This week, I am trying a new tactic. I get up early, make coffee, take a shower and "commute" back upstairs where I proceed to work on writing for at least 2 hours before I allow myself to get distracted or consumed by anything else. It's going well today, but hey, if any of you have tips for being more productive while working from home, I would welcome them!

The Red Shoes

Story time (around 8:30 Saturday through Tuesday) is always an advernture. We occasionally find ourselves dipping into the fantastical world of Coraline, the whimsy of Shel Silverstein or the milk-through-your-nose wit of Captain Underpants. Sometimes we simply read excerpts from a great big book about swords (It goes something like this “‘A polearm is a large two-handed edged weapon, usually in the form of a long metal or wood pole a bit taller than a person, with an axe-like head which allowed it’s user to stab his opponent or chop off his head without risking close combat.’ Ok, kids…sweet dreams.”) Every now and then, we grownups like to switch things up a bit. We throw in a little Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories (“O my Best Beloved!”) or some Lewis Carroll.
One night, I grabbed a copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s original fairy tales from the shelf. The copy once belonged to Jaime’s mother and had her inscription on the inside cover. Flipping through the book, I tried to find a story that hadn’t already been adapted by Disney or sung about by Elton John or Randy Newman.
Ah ha! The Red Shoes! Perfect. A story about art, passion and love, right? What could be better? Um…yeah.
Apparently, my memory of reading HCA’s original story has been romanticized over the years (and further bastardized by the 1948 movie). Does anyone remember the original?
Young Karen is orphaned and then adopted by a rich old woman. She covets a pair of red satin shoes and then tricks the old woman into buying them for her. Against her caretakers wishes, she wears them to church and basically causes a scandal, but somehow, she cannot bring herself to give up the harlot shoes. She tricks the old woman again and goes to a party in her red shoes where she dances gleefully all night. But wait…here comes the lesson like an ACME anvil out of the sky…Try as she might, poor Karen cannot take the shoes off, nor can she stop dancing. She dances day and night until she nearly dies of exhaustion. Desperate, she enlists the help of an executioner to chop her feet off. The end, right? NO!
Karen tries desperately find forgiveness by hobbling on her bloody stumps to church, but is thwarted each time by those pesky shoes (still dancing). Eventually she shows enough remorse and piousness that she is forgiven…I guess.
Upon finishing this story, I look up from the book to find all three boys staring at me with knitted brows. Parker pipes up, “What? That’s the story?” Trisha excused herself to get a cocktail.
The thing is, I haven’t been able to get the story out of my mind. My memories of the Michael Powell film were largely influenced by the fact that I saw it during the five minutes of my life in which I wanted to be a ballerina, but still the story resonated some where deep within me. The heroine, gazing lovingly between her crimson toe shoes and her lover cries out, “Oh, Julian, I love you!” To which he despondently replies, “But you love dance more!”
Ah yes! The classic struggle between art and life. Right brain and left. Passion and practicality. The story isn’t new, but it is particularly prickly now that the economy has many of us artists feeling like pursing our art “at all costs” isn’t simply impractical, it’s utterly perilous. “Keep your job! If you regret leaving, you’ll never find something else!” “Tough it out! At least you have a job!” “Quit you’re whining. We’re all struggling.”
The disillusionment feels all too familiar. If we chose to pursue our passions, are we choosing to chop ourselves off at the ankles? Will we be forsaken by the folks who tried to save us? Will we be supported by the community or will we find ourselves dancing in a dark, rainy forest at three a.m. crying over our aching feet?

Alarming

ReadWritePoem prompted us to share a “first line” with the group and then borrow from someone else to form a poem. Never one to follow a recipe, I have made what can only be referred to as a patchwork quilt of first lines. (Thanks to Alia, Deb, Sam, Wayne and Gautami Tripathy)







If I could wake before
Pacific winds tear

across star-spangled grass,
ripping dreams from plastic

stalks awakening fear
then reason, I would not

Before the drunks line
empty stomachs with coffee
and whiskey, fear

feels like yesterday’s cigarettes,
stale and familiar, knocking

at my skull, rattling
loose words, lost

in the folds of
sense and purpose

Old

(a ReadWritePoem prompt)

Old

Old used to live in jewelry boxes,
photographs of German ladies
curling at the edges

dizzy clouds of Artie Shaw and Chick Webb,
syncopated Sunday promises
still wet between the eyes

First my grandmother.
Skin like paper, pressed
translucent hands to fading lips

My mother, traced her
fluid-filled cheeks, carving
from memory the tracts she could

remember, and then set to work
on her own face, grasping for
lashes and absent kisses

until she forgot, and reached
for me, caressing brow bone,
cheek, anxious to recall where
it had all begun

25 Points of Randomness

I have been tagged by two separate people who requested 25 random things of me. I put it off. I moaned and fussed. I got over it. So...here goes:

1. I hate driving. I always have. My parents basically had to beg me to get my learner's permit and when it expired, they begged me to get it again.

2. I write approximately 10,000 words per month (I counted!). This is divided amongst the magazine, the website, my blog, Yelp and poetry. This does not include email.

3. I have never been to Vegas, New York, Chicago or Washington DC. I feel slightly incomplete because of this.

4. I just re-read Watership Down and was struck by the political and religious overtones that I was oblivious to in my twenties.

5. I want a tattoo that reads, "tabula rasa." Ha.

6. I cook meals for 6-7 people at least 2 nights per week. I rarely use anything boxed or bottled. I usually even make the salad dressing from scratch.

7. However, I often make cupcakes using store-bought cake mix and soda. If you mix a 12 oz can of any soda with cake mix and don't add anything else (no oil, egg, water, etc), the cupcakes come out perfect EVERY TIME and it's far less calories and fat.

8. I like to read the sort of books and essays that people often refer to as "personal journalism" or "immersion journalism," i.e. the sort of reporting wherein the writer becomes a subject or focus of the story. To that same effect, I often prefer read memoirs and non-fiction historical accounts to traditional novels.

9. For a writer and editor, I have a terribly short attention span. Oftentimes, when I am typing something, I'll begin to think about something else and end up with a sentence like this, "The gala opening event was a veritable who’s who of Portland and even Poison Waters should make meatloaf with both turkey and beef as well as crumbled up saltines."

10. I still occasionally wear a tiara on days when I am feeling terribly stressed or yucky. I do, however, try to do this when no one is looking.

11. I google the words "Green Dress" "70s" and "Keyhole" at least once a month in hopes that I will find another dress like the vintage one that I gave to a friend years ago when I thought I would never fit into it again.

12. I really miss having a cat. In fact, I rarely daydream about Jaime and I running off to get married or have children, but I do dream about us finding a super-organized and immaculate house complete with the pitter-patter of kitty claws.

13. My children have both informed me that they do not believe in God. Parker says that he's tried but God's "just not trying back." "Plus," he added, "after the tooth fairy thing, believing in stuff just seemed silly."

14. My oldest son is a poet, too. The first poetic line he ever wrote still makes me buzz with pride. It was, "The stars in my head wake me up with a story."

15. I have known Jaime since 1996. The day I met him, I wrote in my diary about how funny and amazing he was. The next day, I declared that I had made a fool of myself over him.

16. I like to make waffle s'mores by toasting frozen waffles (preferably banana) and then filling the little squares with chocolate chips and putting it under the broiler for a minute or so before adding a handful of marshmallows. These pair surprisingly well with bourbon.

17. I rarely say it out loud for fear I'll be lynched, but I really don't care for bacon all that much. I'm sure it makes me some sort of freak, but I've been known to quietly pick the bacon off my sandwiches and hide it under my napkin (like most kids do with their vegetables).

18. I still like smoking. Sometimes I do it once a day, sometimes fourteen. It makes me happy. So there.

19. I think I should take up knitting. I am not certain that I have the patience or dexterity, but I do like scarves.

20. I am addicted to magazines. Someone asked me how many I buy/receive each month and I lost count at 16.

21. There are few things that make me happier than a super-high, perfectly arched stiletto.

22. I recently discovered the joy of rain boots despite the fact that I am basically a lifelong Oregonian.

23. I walk on my tiptoes when barefoot or in socks. This is most likely a side affect of my aforementioned fondness for stilettos.

24. I occasionally get paid to be a pirate. And no, I'm not talking about DVDs.

25. I fear fish. I can think of nothing more terrifying than being dropped into a fish tank. Jaime used to be a diver at Undersea Gardens and whenever he tells me stories about it, I get shivers up my spine.