Postcards from the Imagination

Added Laurie Sheck's "Notes on the Earth Seen from Space," from the Summer 2006 issue of A Public Space, to my highlights list. No text yet, but if you happen to see a copy on bookstore shelves...(and I suspect you might, as I've seen this in a number of places). I'd say more, but I don't want to ruin anyone's individual discovery of the poem.

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The Ritalin was a disaster, so my doc switched me over to Wellbutrin. It's helping a little, but the side effects are still more tangible than the benefit, so we'll see.

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GOOD NEWS: I took what I thought was a stack of scribbling half-starts in to my thesis advisor, at her request, and she found five new poems that with a few edits are 'done' to her satisfaction. Which means, I've finished writing my honors thesis!! All that's left to do is polish and order the thing. She and Seth are in agreement that what I most need is someone to tell me when to let go and stop writing. I'd be lying if I said I agreed completely. Just about every poem in my thesis could be better, so I feel like I'm settling, whether or not the poems are good enough for publication and/or earning me honors at BC. I don't know where I get off thinking this way. There must be an element of egomania in valuing my opinion of my work above everyone else's, even if I generally think less of that work. But something in my gut tells me that if I don't remain dissatisfied, I'll end up deluding myself into complacency.

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The Laurie Sheck poem doesn't necessarily dazzle in the first ten lines, or even the first half page. It's a three page poem that comments on astro/cosmonauts' accounts of their experiences in space. The opening lays the groundwork for the rest of the piece, and strikes me as completely appropriate. But it got me thinking--where does this idea that a poem should "hook" the reader in the first few lines come from? Is it still relevant? For journalists and advertisers perhaps, but for poets? Does one really want to appeal to that sort of impatience and/or attention deficit in readers? Just asking questions, not making any assertions.

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In the Forum section of the same issue of A Public Space, Michael Azerrad writes:

"I'm just not hearing the NO in the current crop of edgy bands. They seem to live lives of stylish desperation, yelping about pedestrian personal crises, more concerned with sporting undersized little jackets and combing their hair in front of their ears just so. I'm not saying there aren't any good bands anymore (it's actually a very exciting time for music). Nor that these bands have to protest in literal terms...There's just very little sense of implicit cultural dissent in cutting-edge rock music (besides a simulacrum of one so blatantly commodified that absolutely nobody takes it seriously), just oblivious self-obsession."

"And when these bands do take stands against things, overwhelmingly it's only against other approaches to music: let's stamp out emo, or music that's too complex, or music that's too simple. In the end, it's all insular--and thus inconsequential. There are so many more interesting things to destroy."

I found this notable, not just for its familiar ring, but because it reminded me of a song I heard on the radio a couple months ago--by PINK and THE INDIGO GIRLS! It's by no means a great, or even good song, but it is an unequivocal protest song. Of course, it's mostly too little too late, as there's very little risk inherent in Bush-bashing, even on mainstream radio, anymore. Here are the lyrics:

"Dear Mr. President"
(Pink feat. Indigo Girls)

Dear Mr. President
Come take a walk with me
Let's pretend we're just two people and
You're not better than me
I'd like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep
What do you feel when you look in the mirror
Are you proud

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye
How do you walk with your head held high
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why

Dear Mr. President
Were you a lonely boy
Are you a lonely boy
Are you a lonely boy
How can you say
No child is left behind
We're not dumb and we're not blind
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pave the road to hell

What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away
And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay
I can only imagine what the first lady has to say
You've come a long way from whiskey and cocaine

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye
How do you walk with your head held high
Can you even look me in the eye

Let me tell you bout hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you bout hard work
Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away
Let me tell you bout hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box
Let me tell you bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothing bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
Oh

How do you sleep at night
How do you walk with your head held high
Dear Mr. President
You'd never take a walk with me
Would you?

Posted by Ginger at 08:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm working on something, though at my usual snail's pace. It began with a few lines, then out of nowhere a shape presented itself: four boxes, two columns, one prose paragraph, a sea of fragments. I've spent hours staring at the form and wondering what it's trying to tell me. Not directly, of course. It's that this container made from nonsense symbols seems to want filling up. I've worked through the boxes and one of the columns, but everything's still subject to change.

Here's the thing in progress, because...I have no good because. I really don't presume that anyone should be care. I'm just doing my thing, and you're doing yours. If this thing doesn't interest you, we can easily agree your time would be better spent elsewhere. (For instance, a new issue of Born Magazine is out.) In fact, that's an appropriate disclaimer for this space generally--with apologies, of course, to those of you who are not so uptight.

Posted by Ginger at 01:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Turns out the eBay thing was a very popular scam. Typically the bidder wins an auction and pays with fraudulent PayPal funds. The seller, believing payment has been made, ships the item to Nigeria. A few days later, the false payment is withdrawn from the seller's PayPal account, and the item is gone forever. Often the buyer asks that item be shipped via his own FedEx or DHL account, and the seller finds out a few weeks later that that too was fraudulent, after he or she is billed hundreds of dollars for shipping. I contacted customer support and received an auto-response that said, "Unwelcome bidding is a serious offense and we will investigate your report as soon as possible, usually within 24 hours." That was four days ago, and I'm still waiting. I should have just FreeCycled the thing, but I got greedy. I've had my eye on a pretty sweet PDA (WiFi enabled, Outlook friendly), and was hoping to put the money from the laptop toward a factory-refurbed model. I'm neither a technophile nor a technophobe, but I do love the stuff that makes life easier.

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Speaking of the BIG-I:  as in first-person pronoun, as in Identity, as in gazer, as in perspective...

I think about all these things in relation to my own writing from time to time, and I've been thinking about them again lately, because I've been feeling blocked. No, not blocked. Unfocused. That is, I have a million little obsessions and no real shortage of material in me, but when I sit down to write I have trouble isolating the particular thing(s) I'd like to say. Partly I feel as though I lack the ability to write purposefully. When it happens it seems to come from some place other than my will, and when it's not happening all I can do is tinker with my environment and hope something, as Vincent would say, turns me on. That might be fine if I lived in a bustling city or rural paradise, but with the stimuli I have to hand I often spend hours and hours just spinning my wheels.

As for IDENTITY, mine feels too fuzzy to be a real point of departure for my writing. I absolutely feel like I have a core. For lack of a better symbol I call it Ginger, and it's the only place from which I'm really motivated to write. All the other tags--the race, class, gender, sexuality stew--feel not largely, but significantly external. My "I" has a relationship to my womanhood, my motherhood, my working-class-cum-academic-hood, etc., but it rarely, if ever, feels honest to signify those relationships with forms of the verb to be. If I had a better sense of who I am and what I'm about, would it be easier to write? I don't know. But for now, I'm not convinced that latching on to any of those shadow-Selves, those Selves whose particular cast depends of the nature and direction of external lights, would make me a better writer.

All this may be pointless wondering and/or avoidance of the writing itself, but it's what's on my mind this morning. 

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My doctor started me on Ritalin (or, more accurately, the generic methylphenidate) to help my focus problem, but it's too early yet to tell whether it's doing what it's supposed to do.

What is Identity and what Diagnosis? You see how complicated it can get.

Fortunately I've managed to avoid the drugs that fuck with my core. Heavy does of Nortriptoline and Tegretol did that when I was in my early teens, and I would stop taking instantly anything that made me feel like that again.

Philosophically I remain agnostic about the use of psychotropic drugs. I'm open to the possibility that our culture creates many of the disorders it's so busy trying to cure. Unfortunately, the culture isn't going to change, and life just keeps on happening. I was off the meds for more than ten years, and went back because I wasn't getting by on optimism, tenacity, intelligence, and so forth. One can only hope that the trial-and-error method of psychiatric diagnosis goes the way of blood-letting before too long.

Until then I continue to find it useful to think of psychiatry, psychology, sociology, theology, history, economics, political science and all the various arts as species of philosophy--though ever the skeptic, I realize this too may simply be a self-serving manner of dealing with my own limited purview in an age of specialization.

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No shortage of things to say. Just difficulty grappling with it in poem-sized bits. 

Posted by Ginger at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Last night, on a kind of whim, after Seth called from work and told me John Ashbery was reading in Providence, I attempted to drive down to hear him read. I've been in a funk lately, and we both thought it might help snap me out of it. My gut said, "It's already late, it's a longish drive (90 miles one way), and the area is unfamiliar," but my limbs hopped into the car and drove. "If I can average 80mph on the way down," I thought, "I'll make it." In reality I averaged far less, but I was still feeling relatively optimistic when I exited the highway at 6:55 for the 7 o'clock reading. Then it all went horribly wrong. I must have been looking down at the Mapquest directions when the off-ramp split, because I ended up losing myself for more than a half hour. By the time I found the reading it was 7:40. Ever tenacious though, I managed to find a wee spot just down the block and work my parallel parking magic on it.

The real humiliation began as I approached the door of the caffe. Sitting with his back to the street in Tazza's glass storefront was John Ashbery reading to what can only be described as a sardine-like mass of bodies. For those of you familiar with Boston, think Green Line after a Sox game. There was absolutely no possibility of my squeezing in to catch the tail end of the reading. The moment I cracked the door, people would have begun spilling out. Had I not been so beside myself with frustration, I would have snapped a photo. And I would have hurled that photo at every whiny critic who likes to claim Ashbery & Co. are the reason folks don't read poetry anymore.

Unfortunately, this episode is typical Ginger--not as bad as forgetting to pick my daughter up from school two weeks ago--but still disconcerting. I have an appointment tomorrow to have my head and meds checked-up. Hopefully a new doc will have something wise to say about putting my Humpty Dumpty brain back in order.

Posted by Ginger at 07:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Posted by Ginger at 12:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

At Ron Silliman's Blog: Gael Turnbull, site specific work, Kibble Palace Botanic Gardens, Glasgow, Scotland (scroll to the bottom of the post). I wish I could have seen this in person!

Posted by Ginger at 07:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

"In the appreciation of a work of art or an art form, consideration of the receiver never proves fruitful. Not only is any reference to a particular public or its representatives misleading, but even the concept of an 'ideal' receiver is detrimental in the theoretical consideration of art, since all it posits is the existence and nature of man as such. Art, in the same way, posits man's physical and spiritual existence, but in none of its works is it concerned with his attentiveness. No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the audience." from Walter Benjamin's "The Task of the Translator" in Critique of Violence.

Posted by Ginger at 04:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Thin things, but one makes due with what one's got. 

For some of us letting go means freedom. For others it means flying without a net.

True story: When I applied for transfer to Cornell University after earning my A.A. at a community college, I was dating a classmate who also applied. At the time, Cornell allowed one to call the admissions office and obtain information regarding one's application. I called and was told that both myself and my other had been admitted. Two weeks later he received a rejection letter. Left to his own devices, he would have given up and gone elsewhere. I promptly called the admissions office and lobbied hard to hold them to the information they'd given out over the phone. It worked. We were both admitted as junior transfer students. Several weeks before making the move to Ithaca, he and I broke up. After three months at Cornell, I had to withdraw because I ran out of money. As far as I know, he graduated.

For some reason, this is still painful enough to make me wince.

Clue: Recurrences. 

Posted by Ginger at 01:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)