"A biography is something one invents" --Louis-Ferdinand Celine. (Epigraph to Lisel Mueller's poem, "The Biographer").
April makes me slightly nostalgic for Poetasters, a group of poets I accidentally invaded as a freshman. Most of the members were seniors and graduate students who had studied and practiced and labored much more than I had and yet they tolerated me and invited me to come along. They introduced me to poets and styles and words I could not have dreamed on my own. And now, in April, I wait for their collections of poetry to become available so I can savor and praise them.
In celebration of 30 days of April, and thus 30 days of National Poetry Month, I read a collection of poetry by Lisel Mueller today. While I enjoyed it, I admit I did not savor it the way I savor Kimberly Johnson, Jay Hopler, Lance Larsen, Czeslaw Milosz, Carl Dennis, Natasha Tretheway (to list a few that jump immediately to mind). Something about her language felt too casual for me; not flippant or imprecise, but not necessarily poetic. It reminded me of rapidly scratching out poetry in high school, repeating the same phrases because that was "what poets do"--when really, who knows what any of us do? Writers, engineers, bakers, breathers.
This is one of the few Aprils that I have not written a poem every day. I forgot. But Charles Lamb just pounded to remind me that regardless of what I do, he is still a poem. Okay: so I've been percolating this growing poem for eight months. I think I hold him in for another five weeks or so, maybe more maybe less. Can I let this poem revise himself if I offer him the tools?
What are the biographies poetry allows us to invent?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Superdove, Courtney Humphries
On dovecotes and specialized pigeon breeding: "With all of this focus on form, the pigeons begin to seem like crafts projects, moving statues on display. It's easy to forget these are living birds, carrying out their lives in extraordinary circumstances" (50).
On homing pigeon racing: "Every release involves letting go" (73).
On feral pigeons as superdoves: "A superhero is simply a person who acquires special powers through some transformative event; domestication gave pigeons the ability to become the superpower they are today" (110).
On Project PigeonWatch: "The project, though it moves slowly has a legitimate scientific goal: to try to understand why the colors and patterns of feral pigeons are so diverse and how color influences how pigeons choose their mates. Enticing children into science through an appreciation for the commonplace rather than the exotic has the potential to reverse some of the common hierarchies of science" (183).
Believe me when I tell you that I have never really noticed pigeons--as a nuissance or otherwise. Since I grew up in the country, I did not deal with them as "sky rats." But, skimming through the new nonfiction at the library I found Superdove by Courtney Humphries. Newly published, slightly cheeky, and so frankly quotidian...I had to see what it was. Loved it--not necessarily as "literature" but as a fascinating read that interweaves scientific and social research with the personal. (I wouldn't even mind more of a personal slant). Conversational, honest, detailed--the book pleased my desire for fun intellectualism as well as offering insight into human nature. My favorite part of the book may be that Humphries willingly approaches a subject that seems so normal and recognizes it as a thing of beauty (as Alexander Smith says, "The world is everywhere whispering essays and one need only be the world's amanuensis"). Noticing and rejoicing in the "commonplace" will probably expand our minds (and souls) more than exotic adventures ever can. Exotic adventures do not usually provide a true experience; for example, people travel abroad to see the world and cultures and food and art but unless they move to that place, live there for twenty years absorbed in the town and life, making it theirs (and thus, commonplace) they cannot communicate a real knowledge of what they even discuss. The commonplace is all that we have, we just need to see our own.
Some of my commonplaces: reading (obviously), writing, cleaning, biking, pregnancy, making dinner, washing dishes in an old sink, avoiding my cell phone, checking my e-mail, complaining (too much of a commonplace event), eating ice cream, talking with Wesley.
Could the future of academia really be in the commonplace? Would it be more beneficial? As in, would it impact people outside of academia that way? Perhaps this is the way to approach literacy: we see it as a commonplace, but we don't really appreciate it--or we blow it out of proportion. We need to essay on it, not a transformative event, but a release: letting go of our blinders.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Backyard Alchemy
Outside, our four(almostfive)-year-old neighbor growls like a dinosaur. He's boldly letting the frostbitten world know he's up and ready to attack before eight a.m. He likes to dash back and forth next to our basement windows and look in, bending slightly at the waist. I always wave and he looks at me curious and puzzled; he waves back to Wesley, who is a boy and has been given the title of "friend." (I do receive dandelion bouquets on occasion and advice about keeping roly-polies in jars, though). When I first met our neighbor, I thought he was closer to seven, but he's just attending preschool and anxious to be released from the confines of walls and borders. His mom fears his wander-lust that leads him out of the front yard and into the adventurous blocks beyond. Once he walked to his grandma's house a few miles away; another time he started toward the cemetary; "I'm not negilgent," his mom says (this is very true), "I just can't keep him close." His wanderlust is endearing, but I am a neighbor. Soon I will be saying the same thing about my own son who will never be so close as he is now.
This morning, in further preparation for "the worst," I imagined how I would tell people (myself) that little Charles Lamb only lived a few hours . I tried to picture what we would do with his dresser filled with folded onesies and socks and receiving blankets, or his rattles and lotions and wipes, or his stroller and carseat and swing and bouncy seat. I tried to imagine what I would do with the empty space within me when my arms remained empty, too. In the middle of this lovely four a.m. reverie, Charles complained and shoved himself on all sides of my belly as if to say, "Oh, come on, Mom! I'm just trying to figure a way out of here!" I'm afraid he'll wander away into eternity without me and I won't recognize him as an adult.
I'm overdramatic. My imagination is much worse than reality.
At least I know that.
My sister's baby boy is due today. The doctor told her she could have another two weeks to wait.
What I really mean to write is that there is a poetry to this living thing. There is a rhythm we don't escape, even the unborn. Some books do not allow much underlining because at a certain point I realize I would underline the entire volume: so it was with Lance Larsen's Backyard Alchemy. His writing makes me want to write, to pound pen to paper and swish fingers over keys. His writing makes me want to read, turning pages the way I blink or breathe. His writing makes me want to cuddle close to all the people I love and whisper the lines aloud: "We have to taste that delicious itch / of air the way the blind sometimes hear light" or "...My love is rain wet / and almost forty-one, and children like seals // have pushed through her cries. / Tired rain, wash us clean."
Yes, Charles will taste the delicious itch of air. He will push through my cries, though the ones he bears (bares) now may be more trying than those awaiting us in five weeks.
Point: read Lance Larsen.
Point: forgive my obsessions, or forgive me for clinging to closely to them.
This morning, in further preparation for "the worst," I imagined how I would tell people (myself) that little Charles Lamb only lived a few hours . I tried to picture what we would do with his dresser filled with folded onesies and socks and receiving blankets, or his rattles and lotions and wipes, or his stroller and carseat and swing and bouncy seat. I tried to imagine what I would do with the empty space within me when my arms remained empty, too. In the middle of this lovely four a.m. reverie, Charles complained and shoved himself on all sides of my belly as if to say, "Oh, come on, Mom! I'm just trying to figure a way out of here!" I'm afraid he'll wander away into eternity without me and I won't recognize him as an adult.
I'm overdramatic. My imagination is much worse than reality.
At least I know that.
My sister's baby boy is due today. The doctor told her she could have another two weeks to wait.
What I really mean to write is that there is a poetry to this living thing. There is a rhythm we don't escape, even the unborn. Some books do not allow much underlining because at a certain point I realize I would underline the entire volume: so it was with Lance Larsen's Backyard Alchemy. His writing makes me want to write, to pound pen to paper and swish fingers over keys. His writing makes me want to read, turning pages the way I blink or breathe. His writing makes me want to cuddle close to all the people I love and whisper the lines aloud: "We have to taste that delicious itch / of air the way the blind sometimes hear light" or "...My love is rain wet / and almost forty-one, and children like seals // have pushed through her cries. / Tired rain, wash us clean."
Yes, Charles will taste the delicious itch of air. He will push through my cries, though the ones he bears (bares) now may be more trying than those awaiting us in five weeks.
Point: read Lance Larsen.
Point: forgive my obsessions, or forgive me for clinging to closely to them.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Heritage
Why is heritage so important? Why does it matter who begot who and what traditions formed the current rituals? The lineage is interesting, personal, and we rely on it to establish our present-day conception of who we are, but what is the significance that I was born of Corrie and Stacy or that little Charles will be born of me and Wesley? Will his heritage to God be any different? No.--Yet we are instructed to keep journals, family histories, to trace ourselves and seek understanding through these infinite lines of people.
I'm thinking about the covenant of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Or should I say covenants? A set for each of them? Uniting with the "covenant people" is an issue of devotion and commitment to the Lord regardless of actual bloodlines, so why uphold the three patriarchs? Why centralize on the children of Israel? (And why the "children of Israel" when we recognize and revere his progenitors Isaac and Abraham?)
This isn't actually an issue that disturbs me, (I enjoy organizing way too much not to get a buzz from lineage flow-charts) but it is something I don't understand. In Sunday School this year, the manual suggests reading Our Heritage in conjunction with the Doctrine and Covenants. Instead of reading a few passages here and there, I finished the little book this week. The heritage that is "ours" refers again to covenants and beliefs rather than familial lines. Both are "necessary"--why? I always pose more questions than answers and feel lazy for not attempting to answer them. So here's an attempt at answering. Familial heritage eventually traces back to Adam and Eve which links us directly and physically with Heavenly Father; this is the same kind of lineage as the covenant that links us directly to Him (although the chain may seem a bit shorter this way). In that way, both lines are similar. Family lineage can show where certain genetic traits derived as well as certain family characteristics (hard work is not genetic, but almost in my family and it can be traced for generations). This family heritage allows us to perpetuate positive family traits and also question others. It provides a sense of identity and connectiveness which does offer comfort. Covenant lineage also provides a sense of identity and purpose as it determines who we've decided to be(come) and what we will do as a result. Another source of comfort and direction. Knowing these different types of heritage may influence our present and ultimate choices--therefore, the past becomes necessary to the future. We gain "family" through both blood and covenant and unite with others to accept "our" heritage and create a heritage for the future.
While this makes sense to me right now, my conclusions my alter by this afternoon. Ah, the endless "howevers" of thinking in mortality.
I'm thinking about the covenant of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Or should I say covenants? A set for each of them? Uniting with the "covenant people" is an issue of devotion and commitment to the Lord regardless of actual bloodlines, so why uphold the three patriarchs? Why centralize on the children of Israel? (And why the "children of Israel" when we recognize and revere his progenitors Isaac and Abraham?)
This isn't actually an issue that disturbs me, (I enjoy organizing way too much not to get a buzz from lineage flow-charts) but it is something I don't understand. In Sunday School this year, the manual suggests reading Our Heritage in conjunction with the Doctrine and Covenants. Instead of reading a few passages here and there, I finished the little book this week. The heritage that is "ours" refers again to covenants and beliefs rather than familial lines. Both are "necessary"--why? I always pose more questions than answers and feel lazy for not attempting to answer them. So here's an attempt at answering. Familial heritage eventually traces back to Adam and Eve which links us directly and physically with Heavenly Father; this is the same kind of lineage as the covenant that links us directly to Him (although the chain may seem a bit shorter this way). In that way, both lines are similar. Family lineage can show where certain genetic traits derived as well as certain family characteristics (hard work is not genetic, but almost in my family and it can be traced for generations). This family heritage allows us to perpetuate positive family traits and also question others. It provides a sense of identity and connectiveness which does offer comfort. Covenant lineage also provides a sense of identity and purpose as it determines who we've decided to be(come) and what we will do as a result. Another source of comfort and direction. Knowing these different types of heritage may influence our present and ultimate choices--therefore, the past becomes necessary to the future. We gain "family" through both blood and covenant and unite with others to accept "our" heritage and create a heritage for the future.
While this makes sense to me right now, my conclusions my alter by this afternoon. Ah, the endless "howevers" of thinking in mortality.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Literacy (social and otherwise)
Reading through essays by William Gass and John Updike this morning I discovered that both had dedicated their books to Robert Silvers. Who is Robert B. Silvers? The editor of New York Review Books, born in 1929, called an "obsessive perfectionist," with a New York Public Library lecture series named after him. Yes, he's a big deal, and I feel like I should apologize for not knowing it. Perhaps this is pushing me towards a tipping point of some kind.
As I made cinnamon rolls yesterday I listened to The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference by Malcolm Gladwell. I've heard a lot about him (sorry Robert Silvers!) and thought I might as well check it out. I admit the thing I remember most was the concept of "stickiness" (what makes something memorable and worth reflecting on) and the fact that I probably should have been more attentive to the "power of context" as I scrubbed out our storage room. I love the idea of a maven, an "information specialist" who shares knowledge for the love of people and for the love of the item (Gladwell uses the example of those who actually use the phone number listed on the back of boxes of soap. Those are people who really know soap!) Wesley may be a coupon maven for grocery stores and oil changes. Perhaps I am an essay maven. The goal of the book is to inspire people to create positive social epidemics. With the creators of Sesame Street, I dream of a literacy epidemic. How do you encourage people to read? How do you initate the desire to read? How is there so much we don't know? (Again, a nod to Robert Silvers...) I dream of story times and libraries and book groups as I always have, but as a writing teacher of college students, I'm really starting to think about this. Sometimes I wonder if my students know how to read directions. That's frustrated days. On normal days, I just want people to understand the joy that comes from learning and exploring language. According to William Gass, "the reader's freedom is a holy thing"; can such divine liberty be achieved without literacy? Also from Gass in On Finding a Form:
“I believe the artist’s fundamental loyalty must be to form, and his energy employed in the activity of making….a maker whose aim is to make something supremely worthwhile, to make something inherently valuable in itself” (Gass 35).
So, my question is--how do individuals promote literacy? Is reading enough? Or does the term "literacy" imply meaning-making and literature? I don't think that everyone should memorize "The Wasteland" or resent Stephenie Meyer for her sentences that must be read fast rather than savored...but isn't there a balance somewhere?
If there are any literacy plans and/or ideas out there, please share.
As I made cinnamon rolls yesterday I listened to The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference by Malcolm Gladwell. I've heard a lot about him (sorry Robert Silvers!) and thought I might as well check it out. I admit the thing I remember most was the concept of "stickiness" (what makes something memorable and worth reflecting on) and the fact that I probably should have been more attentive to the "power of context" as I scrubbed out our storage room. I love the idea of a maven, an "information specialist" who shares knowledge for the love of people and for the love of the item (Gladwell uses the example of those who actually use the phone number listed on the back of boxes of soap. Those are people who really know soap!) Wesley may be a coupon maven for grocery stores and oil changes. Perhaps I am an essay maven. The goal of the book is to inspire people to create positive social epidemics. With the creators of Sesame Street, I dream of a literacy epidemic. How do you encourage people to read? How do you initate the desire to read? How is there so much we don't know? (Again, a nod to Robert Silvers...) I dream of story times and libraries and book groups as I always have, but as a writing teacher of college students, I'm really starting to think about this. Sometimes I wonder if my students know how to read directions. That's frustrated days. On normal days, I just want people to understand the joy that comes from learning and exploring language. According to William Gass, "the reader's freedom is a holy thing"; can such divine liberty be achieved without literacy? Also from Gass in On Finding a Form:
“I believe the artist’s fundamental loyalty must be to form, and his energy employed in the activity of making….a maker whose aim is to make something supremely worthwhile, to make something inherently valuable in itself” (Gass 35).
“In any event, and after many years of scribble and erasure, I came finally to the belief that sentences were containers of consciousness, that they were directly thought itself, which is one thing that goes on in consciousness, but they were other things as well, in more devious, indirect ways. Insofar as the words referred, they involved…our perceptions; thus a good sentence had to see and hear and smell and touch or taste whatever it was supposed to see and hear and smell and touch or taste; that acuity and accuracy of sensation was, in those sentences that invoked it, essential” (Gass 39).
So, my question is--how do individuals promote literacy? Is reading enough? Or does the term "literacy" imply meaning-making and literature? I don't think that everyone should memorize "The Wasteland" or resent Stephenie Meyer for her sentences that must be read fast rather than savored...but isn't there a balance somewhere?
If there are any literacy plans and/or ideas out there, please share.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Bleach and D-Day
From 7 a.m. until 4 p.m. today I soaked myself in bleach. Mostly my hands. I washed all the walls in my house, scrubbed the ceilings, dustboards, doorknobs. I took out the dishes, utensils, and randoms from my kitchen cupboards and scrubbed the cubbies inside and out. (Actually, I tackled the bathroom first. Making a toilet shine can give me enough energy to do pretty much anything.) I cleaned out the fridge and freezer. Reorganized our bulletin board, CDs, and spices. I started scrubbing our baby stuff, but Wesley came home from hours and hours of tests and reviews...so we went on a walk and attempted quarts of freezer strawberry jam (but we didn't have enough pectin, so throw in a trip to Macey's and try not to picture my unwashed face, flat hair, and greasy, sweats-wearing self. Amazing that Wes can still call me, sincerely, "cute" at times like this).
I didn't mean to do so much. But I wasn't tired; I saw the next patch of unwashed wall and thought, I can do a bit more. I can climb on chairs and attack the tops of our doors. So I did, and finally my feet, back, and Charles started noticing. I may be waddling tomorrow! My obsessiveness can sometimes be controlled, but when I've been holding back on deep cleaning for this long I can go crazy. This morning I made a list of a few cleaning things I want to do before spring term starts up again; I don't know if I'll be able to sleep I'm so excited about reorganizing our furniture and setting up house for our baby and digging out of our mess. We haven't lived in our house; this semester, we lived on campus. Not so for the next four months, though!
Last night we went to Bountiful to meet up with my sister, her husband, Shifty, and my parents. Funny how you miss people more when you allow yourself to dwell with them a bit. Even people who are gone from earth permanently: if I let myself start thinking about people I've lost I start missing them more, as if by invoking their presence I've enunciated my loss. My parents may have a more difficult year with my little sister (their last) off to college than she will.
I did laugh so hard last night Wes wondered if I might push myself into labor. What a wonderful way to enter the world--on the arc of your family's laughter. Maybe if we practice breathing/relaxation enough, Charles will be so blessed.
I started this with the intention of reflecting on D-Day. I listened to Stephen Ambrose's book as I cleaned. I'm ashamed at how much I don't know, how much I take my freedom for granted, how many people I don't appreciate. Even how ignorant I am of terminology! I'm amazed at the detailed plans, the individual lives interweaving to form this thing we call "history." How will present events be remembered? (Will Iraq be thought of by Here, Bullet or a historian's collected view?) What will Charles know of our lives--will his wars be a continuation of ours or will he be baffled by our violence? (I prefer the latter--even as I doubt its possibility.)
There are stains no bleach can purify: this may be to our benefit.
I didn't mean to do so much. But I wasn't tired; I saw the next patch of unwashed wall and thought, I can do a bit more. I can climb on chairs and attack the tops of our doors. So I did, and finally my feet, back, and Charles started noticing. I may be waddling tomorrow! My obsessiveness can sometimes be controlled, but when I've been holding back on deep cleaning for this long I can go crazy. This morning I made a list of a few cleaning things I want to do before spring term starts up again; I don't know if I'll be able to sleep I'm so excited about reorganizing our furniture and setting up house for our baby and digging out of our mess. We haven't lived in our house; this semester, we lived on campus. Not so for the next four months, though!
Last night we went to Bountiful to meet up with my sister, her husband, Shifty, and my parents. Funny how you miss people more when you allow yourself to dwell with them a bit. Even people who are gone from earth permanently: if I let myself start thinking about people I've lost I start missing them more, as if by invoking their presence I've enunciated my loss. My parents may have a more difficult year with my little sister (their last) off to college than she will.
I did laugh so hard last night Wes wondered if I might push myself into labor. What a wonderful way to enter the world--on the arc of your family's laughter. Maybe if we practice breathing/relaxation enough, Charles will be so blessed.
I started this with the intention of reflecting on D-Day. I listened to Stephen Ambrose's book as I cleaned. I'm ashamed at how much I don't know, how much I take my freedom for granted, how many people I don't appreciate. Even how ignorant I am of terminology! I'm amazed at the detailed plans, the individual lives interweaving to form this thing we call "history." How will present events be remembered? (Will Iraq be thought of by Here, Bullet or a historian's collected view?) What will Charles know of our lives--will his wars be a continuation of ours or will he be baffled by our violence? (I prefer the latter--even as I doubt its possibility.)
There are stains no bleach can purify: this may be to our benefit.
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