Stuff I Said

A Brief History of Rum

2011-11-16T14:44:00.001-08:00

Where we find rum, we find action, sometimes cruel, sometimes heroic, sometimes humorous, but always vigorous and interesting."

Charles William Taussig

My first experience with rum did not exactly set me up for a lifetime of loving it. After all, when you are a budding drinker, you agree to drink things that should never have been manufactured, let alone consumed.

As I have grown older, I have developed an esteem for rum. After all, when you are a part-time pirate, a fondness for rum is practically a job requirement. Real pirates couldn’t be too choosy about what went in their mug, but these days, options abound.

I should say at the outset, that I tend to favor the richer, darker rums over their lighter counterparts. I have learned to appreciate the deep, caramel color, but even without it, the evocative smell of a mug of Hot Buttered Rum on Christmas Eve or a tropical cocktail laden with umbrellas and plastic monkeys will turn my head.

So, in honor of all things piratical, here is a brief history of the stuff every swashbuckling cliche is built upon. As it turns out, there’s a reason pirates share a long and saucy history with the stuff. As early harbingers of (ahem) trade, pirates and privateers played a huge role in introducing it to the world. Truth be told, rum was the oil of its time, tying together a world of otherwise disconnected countries in a web of warfare, trade and capitalism. Forbes magazine said, "Rum is the bad boy of booze. The pirates of the Caribbean weren't drinking vodka. The British navy wasn't run on "amaretto, sodomy and the lash." The smugglers who risked death to bring in illegal alcohol to the thirsty citizens of the U.S. during Prohibition weren't called "spritzer runners."

Breaking down the types of rum into simple categories can be a bit of a conundrum, since standards, requirements and preferences differ from nation to nation. In the U.S., most rums available will clock in between 80 and 100 proof (40 to 50 percent alcohol by volume). This is about mid-range on the scale. Some South American rums can be as low as 40 proof but some rums weigh in as high as 190 proof. You won’t find those in the U.S., of course, as distilled spirits regulations in most states prevent anything over 155 proof from being sold. And frankly, past that point, it’s really a bit of a chemistry lesson, because with a spirit that is past 190 proof, the alcohol would be converted into an azeotrope with water.

The basic types:

White Rum: Usually known as white or silver rum, it has no color and is typically the sort of thing you will see in most bar wells. White rums are distilled and filtered to remove impurities and typically only age for about six months to a year. Popular ones include: Appleton White Estate, Bacardi Silver, Cruzan, Mount Gay Premium White, etc.

Gold Rum: Much like a Tawney Port, Gold Rum is slightly amber in color thanks the time it spends aging in wood barrels. But occasionally, the color is a result of the addition of congeners or caramel. Popular ones include: Bacardi Gold, Appleton Estate XV, Gosling's Bermuda Gold, Sea Wynde, Mount Gay Eclipse, and 10 Cane.

Dark Rum:

Sometimes referred to as black rum, this is the deep, dark member of the rum family. A dark rum is made from molasses, most likely blackstrap molasses. It often spends a lot of time in barrels, and frankly, the longer you age a rum (well) the smoother it gets. These rums have a deep molasses flavor that makes them really great for cooking if you can stand to spare it. Popular ones include: Angostura Dark 5 year, Cruzan Estate Dark 2 year, Trader Vic's, Whaler's Dark, Pyrate XO Reserve, Rogue Dark, Myer's Dark, Gosling's Black Seal, and Pampero Rum Aniversario.

Spiced Rum: There is a touch of pirate history in this type (at least if you believe the labels, but pirates and the British Navy were known for doctoring up their rum, so perhaps it makes sense.) Spiced rum is usually a dark rum that is left to sweeten or is sweetened with caramel and given a kick by adding spices such as cinnamon, anise, pepper, clove and rosemary. Popular brands: Sailor Jerry's, Kraken, Captain Morgan, Kilo Kai, Trader Vic's, Voodoo, Castillo, Admiral Nelson, and Lieutenant Dan

Over-proof Rum: This is the stuff you will often seen used as a component in flaming cocktails like Spanish Coffee. It can be consumed as a mixer, but can often be a bit harsh on the tongue. Popular brands: Bacardi 151, Cruzan 151, El Dorado 151, Gosling's 151 and Jamaica’s Wray.

There are other types of rum such as Rhum Agricole (a cane spirit found mostly in the French Caribbean islands), cachaça (a Brazilian sugar cane spirit), and Aquardiente (an un-aged spirit fermented from fruit), but the list above is a good enough start.

What'll We Do With This Goo?

The discovery of rum was a bit of an accident. As early as 325 B.C., there are references to drinks or elixirs made from sugar cane. When left to ferment, the by-product from the cane will turn to alcohol, and if the early reports are in any way reliable, it did not make for a tasty beverage. When you process sugar cane to make sugar, the by-product you have left over is molasses, which early producers didn't really know what to do with. They used it as fertilizer, they dumped it into rivers, never knowing that it would soon become a valuable commodity.

Just after the Seven Year War, in 1764, the Sugar Act (American Revenue Act/American Duties Act) was passed by the British Parliament, as a follow up to the failed Molasses Act of 1733. Back then, the Colonies were using a lot of sugar (or more specifically, Molasses) to make (you guessed it) rum. So, plantation owners in the West Indies demanded the British government impose higher taxes on the sugar imported to the colonies. Had it worked, we would all probably be drinking vodka right now...um...wait.

Technically, it didn't work. Instead of sucking it up and forking over the cash, Americans decided to bribe, smuggle and intimidate their way around the Molasses Act. The slightly gentler Sugar Act still impacted the production and trade of rum in the Colonies, and the resulting protests were a precursor to or rehearsal for the discord that would later arise with the Stamp Act.

Allow me to take a little detour into the etymology of the word "rum". There is some dispute over the origin of the word, but many accounts note that the word most likely stems from the word West Indian "rumbullion", which denoted uproar. Since most of the rum being produced at the time was being produced in the colonies, there are some historians who like to draw a pretty comparison to the the "rumbullion" of drinking a spirit that you have to fight to create and the civil liberties that the colonists were seeking in the New Country. They must have been pretty amped up because it is estimated that the early colonists consumed almost 12 million gallons of rum a year.

Of course, after the Revolutionary War, sugar cane became much harder to get and the fledgling Americans started making spirits out of the things they could find in their own back yard--thus the uprising of bourbon, scotch and whiskey producers in the 18th century.

But rum production was still going strong in other parts of the country, and it was developing quite a name for itself, assuming you could keep track of them all. Rum has been known as Nelson's Blood, Kill-Devil, Demon Water, Pirate's Drink, Navy Neaters, Barbados Water, and occasionally Grog, but that last one is a little bit off. You can blame that fallacy on the pirates, or better yet, the King's Navy. Yeah. They probably have it coming.

Navy Grog and the Pirates Plight

It is true that pirates have a long history with rum, but the association really began with the British Navy when their fleet captured Jamaica in 1655. Fresh water was scarce aboard long sea journeys and the threat of scurvy was imminent. Alcohol was considered safer to drink because the alcohol could at least stave off some of the bacteria that grew green in the water barrels. Sailors aboard ship were given rum (and before that brandy) with lime juice as rations. The lime juice battled against scurvy and the rum...well, the rum kept the crew happy. Rations were usually given out three times a day. Around the 1740s, however, the practice of watering down the rum became regular. And, it makes sense, right? No one wants a drunken crew and if you water it down a bit, it lasts a little longer. Well, this on-ship concoction is known as grog (pirates often called it Bumbo) and to this day, most recipes include a little bit of water and citrus fruit.

The name Nelson's Blood also comes from rum's maritime history. As legend goes, Admiral Horatio Nelson--who was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar--was sealed in a cask of rum to be transported back to England for burial. Upon arrival, however, it was discovered that the cask was empty (save the body), having been drained of its spirits (and to a certain degree, its occupant) by the sailors aboard ship.

Now, with or without the bodily fluids of a fallen admiral, the rum of the early days was not the stuff we are used to today. At best it was rough. The addition of water and lime made it somewhat more palatable, and as the demand for it grew, the production of it was perfected. Whether the improvement in rum or the increase in consumption came first, is up for debate. Rum was tasting much better around the early 1700s, and there are a number of tales of pirate crews falling victims to their taste for it which illustrate that. "Calico" Jack Rackham and his crew were well into a recent capture of rum when the were set upon by a band of British soldiers led by pirate hunter Jonathan Barnet. Rackham's crew (with the exception of Anne Bonney and Mary Read) were too drunk to do little else than surrender.

Bartholomew Roberts (known in legend as Black Bart) was killed in a battle off the coast of Gabon, West Africa when he was set upon by the crew of the H.M.S Swallow in the early morning of February 5, 1722. His crew was well into the celebration of capturing a ship called The Neptune and most of them were quite too busy enjoying the spoils of war to take up arms. Roberts himself was well known for being a teetotaler who preferred tea to rum, but without a worthy helmsman, he was unable to escape the grapeshot that eventually ended his career in piracy.

The notorious pirate Edward Teach (a.ka. Blackbeard) also fell victim to drunkeness and a false sense of security when he was set upon by Lieutenant Robert Maynard and the crew of the H.M.S Pearl, a ship dispatched to kill the (then supposedly retired) pirate. Maynard’s crew waited until sunrise and watched as Blackbeard’s crew drank the night away. Upon morning they struck and it is said that Maynard recalled of the encounter, “At our first salutation, he drank Damnation to me and my Men, whom he stil’d Cowardly Puppies, saying, He would neither give nor take Quarter”. A restless battle ensued, at the end of which, Blackbeard was dead. The details of his death are steeped in pirate history, with claims of him being shot five times, stabbed 25 times, and claims of his headless corpse swimming around the ship seven times before sinking to a watery grave.

So, there you have it. A (in retrospect, not-so-brief) history of rum that really only scratches the surface of the spirit’s long and lusty history. Rum has been a part of naval and piratical lore as well as one of the major instigators to warfare, commerce and American independence. More so than many of its distilled brothers, rum has been a symbol of a rebellious spirit. It is--and probably always will be--the drink of naysayers, rapscallions and pleasure-seekers.

Two by request

2011-10-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

Waxing Poetic
-for Lacy
Jevon is the picture of cool
offering me a shot of tequila
before I strip for her.
We discuss hair styles as she attacks my crotch with tiny scissors.
She's a bushwacker who specializes in small talk, I guess.

After much deliberation,
we decide to leave a little to the imagination,
but with all the ripping, it's hard to believe
there will be anything left.
I won't make a sound for her.
I won't even flinch.
It's not in my nature to be a screamer.

But she's the picture of cool
nose inches away from my tender vittles,
she's got me talking about work as she spreads her wax, and..
OH MY GOD, I've got hair there?
She's getting more personal with me than my last date
But it's kind of okay because she bought me a drink.

I've got to bite my lip a little
when she settles her elbows against my thighs
and leans in for leverage but I won't make a whimper
I've got my crotch pointed towards Burnside
And Jevon is excavating bits of skin never meant to see the light of day.

Screaming-red and puffy
plucked like a thanksgiving turkey,
my girly bits are shrieking with a newfound freedom,
something between shock and embarrassment.
They don't know whether to sing or curl inside themselves and hide.

But it doesn't matter because Jevon's got her hands on my ass now
and my feet are by my ears
It's hard not to like a girl when she's got a popsicle stick of
hot wax in your asshole and she's talking to you about Chekhov.

The verdict is still out on the results.
I have to admit that it's hard not to touch myself whenever I get a chance.
Trips to the bathroom have become lengthy
because I am mesmerized by my own freakish nubile charms

But looking in the mirror at my bizarre love triangle,
It looks like I shrunk my pubic hair in the wash.
I should have gone with the Mohawk, I guess
because no amount of twisting or posing
could make sense of that tiny wedge of hair.

Next time, I'll listen to Jevon,
She is The Bushwacker after all.
And it's hard not to trust a gal
who can look at your cooter with the eye of a critic
While she's talking to you about liposuction.

No

I don’t want too write another poem
I don’t want to write another verse
blaming bourbon for fuckery
luring you to my porch
for another half-blind throbbing jumping-jack caper

Give me a dream haiku,
hissing stars on the brink of chaos
imagination and food in Technicolor clarity
Morning glory vines and bitter dandelions
in crowded, disjointed rows hoping to catch the light

Don’t give me piss-artist prose
blood and bone,
four-letter pretentiousness
and thoughtful depravity
masking ho-hum sanity

I want monsters springing
from brick facades
chewing up muse poems
and nipping at my backside
while I splash through puddles of orange

I want stones to throw
into barrel caves,
the seminal thunk of rock meeting metal
the wicked luxury of dominance
over the terrible din
of coffee cups and frying pans

I don’t want to write another poem
another sick-at-heart song,
dragging baggy knees
through the dust of neglect
burying hearts in the sand at high tide

Don’t give me connect-the-dots verse.
Don’t feed me flattening familiarity.
Give me a sixteen-car smash up of words.
Give me under-the-bed bunny brawls
and a melody of primordial screams.
Give me unabashed experimentation
with dashes and indents
Until then, I don’t want to write another poem

Gravel Road

2011-04-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

I have learned a thing or two about grief in the last several days. For one thing, people tend to circle around you when you're grieving, like onlookers at an accident scene, wanting but not wanting to see something catastrophic. And you (the griever) want to say, "It's okay! You can come closer, I won't explode." But you don't because, deep down, you fear you might.

Last Thursday, my mother called me to tell me that my friend Beth had killed herself. I remember little about the conversation except that my mom said,
"I just can't believe it."

To which I replied, "I can." And immediately regretted my words.

I have struggled for the last few days with what to call her. She was my Godsister, my closest childhood companion, in many ways, the sister I never had. But over the last few years, we have struggled. She had been battling alcoholism, depression and other demons I can't name; and I had been struggling to regain and maintain the strength required to support her. I just couldn't seem to muster it. She has been the subject of a number of started-but-never-finished poems, stories and essays. (Case in point, the following poem, which I began last year.) I guess, in a way, ours was story I could never quite figure out how to tell.

Gravel Road

Moon and cumulus companions, we were
kicking gravel from saltwater sandals
between your house and reckoning fields
amber anecdotes of the unknown

You, softer than I, but never dainty
Had firecracker fingers,
a noonday beauty never
waiting for Kodachrome kisses
but giving them away like penny wishes.

You hated your apple cheeks
freckled as the quail’s egg
we found under the neighbor’s pool,
And I, prairie mouse plain
spoke of marquee bulbs and spider lashes,
my rabbit twitch hands fumbling with a crawdad
as yours swept in to nab it.

Nine years old,
we dashed through prickly grass,
ducking your toe-headed brother
You screamed at a kestrel,
“I’ll never get away”
And we left him, barely

Taller than the grass, searching
for the hands meant to lead him home.
We were punished for ditching him
Made to pull the ivy from the garden beds
And apologize to his chocolate ice cream smile

In July, we dressed ourselves as bunnies
plastic heels and paper ears,
slinging lemonade in our bathing suits
to confused neighbors

We didn’t know the joke
the wink behind the nod
but you heard the whispers,
saw the crimson cheeks,
heads turned away
to sip from real juice glasses
nabbed from your mother’s kitchen
Come August , we are windstorm willows
certain of nothing but cola and gum,
existing on sighs and chips of pink polish.
We are more caterpillar than butterfly
And you know it better than I

I set my feet in parallel lines,
Kicking away the gravel
that might upset my footing. And you,

You are careful to step, smiling like sequins
Patter-mouse stepping about the edges
of our ramshackle friendship

Drinking and yodeling

2011-01-11T15:35:00.000-08:00

In the past eight months I think I have declared myself “at the end of my rope” about 80 times. Fourteen (hundred) times I have raised a glass and declared that I was going to drink until I didn’t care anymore (never realizing that that would mean drinking until impending apocalypse). Four times I have considered chucking the whole idea of being a writer and applying for a job as a singing waitress at the Rhinelander--although, I should clarify that statement by admitting I used to dream about doing just that when I was a kid. Apparently, I could think of nothing more fun than wearing a dirndl and yodeling for a living.

So of course, when I finally admit that the drinking doesn't work, when I have posted all the clever things I can possibly say on Twitter and I have run out Oatmeal cartoons to read, I find myself in that place that so many writers do. Can't find me? Check the closet. I am probably in there rocking and crying about how I peaked 10 years ago.

Yes, it's a common theme, this idea of scrabbling around like a tether ball without a tether. As writers, we all have those moments when we dive headlong into our archives searching for a snippet of something to build on, frantic with the desire to create something, recreate something or imagine...I don't know...anything. This is a particular challenge when you feel like the artistic equivalent of off-brand Instant Pudding. Vanilla flavored.

To pass the time, I spent the last year telling myself little white lies to explain why I haven’t been able to produce anything.

Among the lies I tell myself:

1. I can’t write because I am too happy.

2. I can’t write because I am too depressed to see past the pain.

3. I can’t write because I need to get laid.

4. I can’t write because I just did.

5. I can’t write because Twitter is ruining my ability to communicate effectively.

6. I can’t write because I am a hack and I always was but I just didn’t know it before.

7. I can’t write because I just wrote a book and my brain can’t possibly produce more than a million words in one year.

8. I can’t write because no one inspires me anymore.

That last one is a touchy one for me. Not terribly long ago, we (Portland) had a remarkable open mic scene that just seemed to vibrate with energy, talent and enthusiasm. It was one of those great, fleeting moments that you enjoy so much, you barely recognize how much you are enjoying it. It was bacon and pancakes with your newspaper on a Sunday morning. It was happy hour with cheap drinks, intelligent conversation and free nachos.

I have been missing it for a couple of years now, but recently, I had a breakdown that can loosely be blamed on a wee bit of vodka, a lot of stress and a few ill-advised YouTube videos of some great (but gloomy) poetry. After my head went all ‘splody, I decided to contact an old friend for advice, but mostly ended up venting my frustrations about those creative moments lost.

I'm missing your influence these days, creatively speaking. Missing the old days. Missing the days when a bunch of us could gather around a bunch of PBRs and create poetry/nonsense out of bar napkins. Missing the days when my fingers couldn't wait to get to the keyboard Monday morning because I had an entire week's worth of stories to tell. These days, nothing seems to inspire me quite as much as those ridiculous days when Tony's was going strong and the only reason to miss it was because of [name withheld] or because the idea of developing black lung was not appealing.

I don't know if it was the group we had or if it was just that particular place in time, but lately the consensus seems to be the magic has died on the scene. I know, I know. Open mics are always short lived. They are what they are and even when they are great, they come with a side order of crazy. But somehow, back then, it worked. At least for me.

I haven't written so much as a creative sticky note in over a year and, frankly, it's killing me. At first, I thought I couldn't write because I was too happy and when the bliss wore off (blame unemployment and growing old) I realized that I was fooling myself. Truth is, I feel disconnected from it. I hardly feel like a writer anymore. I miss the collaboration.

Jesus, I don't know what I am asking for or if I am even asking for anything. I just...want it back. The enthusiasm, the inspiration, the madness, even the angst. I am writing to you because I have discussed the process of writing with you so much already. You have always been so honest with me about it and I thought (or hoped) that you might understand, sympathize or maybe...possibly provide hope.

His response? I am posting it here because he posted it in his blog and I think between us we might only have about half a dozen readers.

You know, you're a long mile from being the only person that feels that way. The few people who are still running around within the confines of the poetry scene in its badly dilapidated state seem to be a completely different species from those of us that won't go near it any more but miss that gorgeous window when it was going great guns.

I think we all took inspiration from that, a motivation to actually sit down and write instead of planning to sit down and write. Jesus, I did my homework every week and turned it in to that classless class over the mic, even if most of it was C-grade or worse. It's been over a year since I finally cut the cord, feeling like what was left of that scene wasn't much, and not nearly enough to help anything I was doing...

Yes, it's metabolic, as writing often is. It's also, I think, the only way I could prove to myself that I was still me after spending so much time mired in an emotional scum vat. In any case, I think it's more a matter of personal survival right now than the old and more drunkenly democratic model of plowing en masse into the endeavor.

I guess all I'm saying is that, after the diaspora of the old community, we're each left with the problem of coming up with new and individual reasons to do the work. As much as I miss it, it seems like any effort to try and force a poetry scene into being when it's not ready of its own accord will just bog down in misdirected energy and the hangers on who will show up for anything but don't care a fish fuck for the actual discipline of being a scribe. In Portland, at least, the genuine article seems to flower once a decade, like a yucca in very dry ground, its blossoms smelling just enough of rotting meat to draw all the right flies. The rest of the time is spent standing around in the sun, waiting, and getting burned.

If there's an epilogue, maybe it's the possibility of having everyone that still gives a shit get back to working a blog and knitting them all together with feedback and comments. Most of the old principal players have all shot off in different directions and have lives that don't look much like they did a few years ago. A few minutes of support from each other in the time we all spend logged on to the internet each week may be all the help any of us still need. It's certainly more than most of us are getting now.

He's right. We can't force it to be what it was. I am betting we've all tried to recreate something in our lives that felt really good the first time around. (No, silly. I'm not talking about sex. Who among us would want to recreate that first time?) It's not the instant fix that I was blithely hoping for, but my pudding brain is willing to wait until the moment to bloom again.

In the meantime, I think I a reevaluation is in order. I have spent a lot of time bellyaching over my lack of inspiration/motivation, but I haven't done a goddamn thing about it. I bitch a lot about how it used to be simple, as if that is an excuse for me not to try any more. I moan about how none of my friends are writing and my "circle" is broken; and yet, when some one mentioned the idea of finding a new circle, I looked at them like they were spitting out slugs instead of wisdom.

So, here are my new thoughts on the matter. I will not call them resolutions, because that imparts a sense of urgency I am not willing to engage in. I'm just calling these "thoughts" for now.

1. By wallowing in my niggling little problem, I am giving it life and credibility.

2. The more I vocalize my absolute inability to be creative the more I shut off the possibility of it.

3. Creative inspiration (like extra money) often comes when I don't need it. When it comes, I need to tuck some away for later use.

4. I have to choose not to want the things I cannot have. The year 2007 is over. So is 1996. The magazine is out of business and that editor's position at that other glossy magazine has been filed. It's time to get over it.

5. It's also time to employ a little flexibility. For a supposedly open-minded person, I'm spending a lot of time being obstinate. And you know, nothing is certain. Even failure.

Tiny Bubbles

2010-04-27T09:27:00.000-07:00

I have a bottle of champagne that I received as one of the last perks of my job as editor of a dying magazine. When I received it, I had no idea what I was getting. The owner of a newly opened cigar shop (Broadway Cigar, for those of you who are curious) offered it as a thanks for visiting his venue, with an expressed hope that I would put down my beloved clove cigarettes and pick up a good cigar.

Hours later, as I showed off my gifts (the champagne, a hefty cigar with a $45 price tag, and a package of whimsically flavored cigars that collectively smelled like the tropics), I was immediately greeted with envy and questions about what I was going to do with my swag. "Um, drink it?" I replied sensing that my Trashy Girl roots were beginning to show. "No, no." They said, "You need to save it for something special."

Suddenly, sipping the champagne while smoking my (now affronted) cloves seemed an insult to the integrity of the vintage. Out of the blue, I was wracked with guilt over the responsibility of enjoying it. I thought of the people who might order that particular bottle of bubbly while celebrating something truly special. I imagined a young couple, newly engaged. I imagined that they were not typically champagne drinkers but, still wishing to embrace their joy, they would peruse the menu of high-priced bottles at a mid-to-high priced French spot with low lighting and snooty waiters. I would see them lending a fond eye to the outrageously priced, but familiar Cristal or Dom Perignon before settling on my bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rare Vintage 1988. They would reason that it's a fine wine, but not ostentatious. Lovely, with a properly French name, but not the sort of thing that would cause a newly affianced couple to miss their rent.

I thought also about my mother, from whom I inherited my love for champagne. I remembered her offering me my first sip of the stuff as we embarked on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. I was eight and had no palate for it, but I knew that it was a grand celebration. The "champagne" was a cheap imitation (I knew because she told me)served in a tiny paper Dixie cup; but still, that cup seemed to hold the promise and excitement of many celebrations to come. I suddenly felt like Marlene Dietrich (I was a big fan at the time) and when no one was looking, I found myself striking a sultry pose and quoting her, “Champagne makes you feel like it’s Sunday and better days are just around the corner." Looking back, I am not sure what I was hoping for. Frankly, every day was Sunday and the days couldn't get much better than Rainbow Brite roller skates, Otter Pops, and bike rides to the Dairy Queen for Dilly Bars. Nonetheless, I understood that if you had champagne in your cup, you should take a moment, raise a glass, and appreciate...something.

My mom was a fan of Cooks Extra Dry, which could be purchased in most grocery stores and 7-11's for about $5. We'd joke about how tawdry we were while pouring it into crystal glasses, promotional Princess Cruise wine glasses, or coffee cups, but that $5 sparkling wine still managed to make a Saturday afternoon playing Kanasta feel like an occasion.

One Christmas, I carried a gift bottle to my mom, which had been sent by my father as a nod to her love for the stuff. Upon receiving it, my mom both ooohed and sighed, noting that it was perhaps a finer vintage than she had ever had. We cracked it open immediately, but the part of me that was excited about branching into the world of actual French champagne was squashed by the fear that my mother might feel inadequate for never being able to afford, or rather justify such luxuries before. The first glasses were lovely, but much of the bottle went untouched and ultimately went flat in the refrigerator. (By the way, the old spoon-in-the-neck-of-the-bottle-to-preserve-bubbles trick does work, but only for a day or so)

I have now had my bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rare Vintage for nearly a year now and I have declared many occasions the moment when we would finally pop the cork on that puppy and raise a glass. But, time and again, I have returned it to its dusty home in the cupboard. First, I thought that finishing my book would be the proper moment. After all, I had spent countless hours locked alone in my room crafting words that were so numerous, they barely registered as mine. I was proud of myself for finishing it, but the moment came and went. The next occasion that seemed to warrant celebration was the marriage of my roommates, but they had their own champagne and seemed not to grasp the gravity of the uncorking, so I shelved it again. Finally, I declared that I would celebrate when my book was finally printed and on the shelves. When the books arrived, shiny, new and full of promise, I finally moved the bottle to the refrigerator and declared to all present that we would celebrate the next night. But then I spent the next afternoon perusing wine shops and contemplating that familiar bottle of Cook's Extra Dry, wondering if the moment had actually arrived and whether we were equipped to appreciate whatever that now legendary bottle of champagne has to offer. The "sensible" side of me said that we did not.

So what of it, right? If we pop the cork on that thing and don't like it, have we failed? It's like saying it's a man's fault when he longs for a woman for years and is disappointed when he sleeps with her and discovers she's a dead fish. If we don't like the champagne, is the celebration less joyous? Or is it like the sex and pizza analogy?

I am prone to analogies these days, so this whole dramatic debacle has led me to consider the things we anticipate and put off for fear that we will do it wrong. My own fear is a constant lojack calculating my moves and weighing me down as I try on stripey socks or stilettos. I want to shake it off, but some days, it still gets the best of me. I keep thinking about the quote that Brady loves from the TV sitcom, The Tick, when the big blue bug cries out to his friend Arthur, "Destiny dressed you this morning, my friend, and now fear is trying to pull off your pants." Frankly, I'm not sure I want to be pantsless and sober.

So, maybe the proper time to uncork that wine is when I am alone, writing about my fears. If it's not fabulous, maybe I won't care. Maybe opening it is the only celebration I need to look forward to. And if the rest of the bottle goes flat in the refrigerator, at least I have the luxury of knowing there's a bottle of Cook's at the 7-11 down the street.

"My only regret in life is that I did not drink more Champagne." (John Meynard Keynes)

Starting Over

2010-04-16T11:04:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, last June PDX Magazine folded after just four and a half years. To many (including some of the people employed by the monthly mag) this came as no great shock. Sure, the economy was tanking and print media was faring even worse, but PDX Magazine had a certain trashy scrappiness that seemed to flag it as the first to go. As the editor, I was disappointed, but not surprised. Instead of crying over the pretty but never-to-be-printed June issue (if you’d like to see it, click HERE), I simply orchestrated as graceful an exit as possible, packed up my belongings, and hit the proverbial streets. That was the easy part. The hard part? Figuring out where to go.

I was fortunate enough to have a project that demanded my attention. The Moon Guide had been eating up my spare minutes for months already, but I was way behind thanks to the heaps of work the magazine required each month. I was looking forward to diving into the book completely and I giggled with the inkling that I might just “knock that thing out in a month or so.” Boy, was I stupid.

It took me a while to get over the numbness I had employed as a coping mechanism while serving as editor-in-chief at PDX. The months prior to the magazine closure had been filled with so many ups and downs that I eventually decided it was in my best interest to avoid feeling joy or sorrow over anything. What’s that? Sam Adams says he loves the magazine and wants to do an interview? Meh. We got a huge ad contract? Sigh, I’ll find a page for it. We can’t print the February issue? Eh. I’ve never liked February all that much anyway. Call me Spock, but in those last several months, engaging my emotions felt frivolous and dangerous.

Immediately following the closure of the magazine (and I mean hours later) I was quietly grinning. Like so many other publications, we had been hanging on by a thread for months and our creative team had gotten very creative about how to fill those pages. My assistant editor, Jeremy and I wrote nearly all of the articles, calendars, and listings with the help of an intern and one or two freelancers who were willing to work in trade (or wait patiently for pay). Furthermore, understanding that print media as I had come to know it was a dying cat, I was also spending a lot of time writing blog posts and trying to finagle trade agreements and sponsorship events. I was attending every media invite I could make it to, even the stupid ones (and if you work in the media, you know there are A LOT of stupid ones), in hopes that I might acquire partnerships. I was answering epic, self-aggrandizing emails from English majors who “loved the magazine, and were hoping to write for it.” I was learning about outdoor sports so I could write an article on kayaking. Truth be told, I was averaging about 10,000 words a month and not one of them went in the book.

So, suddenly I had all the free time in the world to finish the book, get in shape, visit with friends, or hell, learn how to play Dungeons and Dragons, right? Imagine my surprise when day after day I woke to find I couldn’t write a thing. It was as if my words got packed up along with all those PDX Magazine paperweights and pens. The less I wrote the more I hated myself and the more I hated myself, the more I found it impossible to even look at the computer.

Meanwhile, friends and colleagues were emailing me and calling me to check in and make plans. “We need to have lunch!” they’d breezily declare, “It’s on me!” “Let’s have happy hour and talk about your book! I’ll buy, since you’re unemployed.” My email box was filled with invitations to eat, drink, commiserate, celebrate, and in one case, vandalize a completely deserving house. But I couldn’t bring myself to accept any of the invitations, as exciting as they may have seemed. In fact, the more excited I was about something, the more the hives began creeping up my swiftly expanding midriff. It’s not like I was enjoying being a homebody. My home office felt like a hot, sticky prison and most days my computer just mocked me with its smug blank screen and its impatient blinking cursor.

Slowly, the invitations stopped. The guy from the deli down the street forgot my name. The bartender at my favorite bar forgot my drink and then got a new job. The unemployed friends who beckoned me to join them for rafting trips and mani-pedis got new jobs and moved on. My restaurant gift certificates expired and my theatre tickets went unclaimed. For months, I simply sat at my computer and begged the words to come. Eventually, I got the work done, but it was like extracting 15 pounds of pea gravel from a full body road rash.

Once the book was finished I imagined myself throwing open the doors and declaring, “Hello, world! I’m back!” I would toss off my comfy Chuck Taylors and slouchy jeans, dust off my stilettos and go dancing. But at my best, I just poked a toe out the door and then called for pizza. At my worst, I went to a party, got too nervous to socialize and drank an entire bottle of vodka.

To make matters worse, I wasn’t sleeping. As if the undefined daytime hours weren’t maddening enough, I now had a dozen or so unfulfilled night time hours to contend with. One night, while re-reading Robert Green’s 48 Law’s of Power, I stumbled upon the 18th law, “Do Not Build Fortresses to Protect Yourself – Isolation is Dangerous.” I cried and put the book away, certain that ignorance felt better.
Rather than acknowledge the growing fear that I was becoming obsolete, I chose to reprioritize. So, I couldn’t write an 800 word article, but I could cook. Cooking became my saving grace because it was so much more predictable. I didn’t need to be clever or important; I simply needed ingredients and time. Suddenly, I was becoming a 1960s housewife, making Beef Carbonnade from scratch, while doing five loads of laundry and tackling the mold in the bathroom.

Creating these elaborate meals gave me a sense of accomplishment, but it too came with a side order of crazy. If the roommates showed up late for dinner, I would panic, certain that everything would be ruined because now the asparagus was cold and the chicken was overcooked. Dry pork chops made me feel powerless. A gummy risotto left me feeling like a fraud. Once, I left a pot roast in for too long, and when it came out dry and flavorless, I tossed the whole thing went to bed angry at myself.

I kept waiting to hit rock bottom, certain that when I did, I would rise from the ashes with a new sense of purpose. Every time I snuck out of a media event early, sober, and beleaguered by the inevitable question, “So, what are you doing these days?” I told myself that “this too shall pass.” But when? And How?

Sure, I was engaging in a powerful cycle of self-defeating behavior. Over and over I would say to myself, “You’re better than this! Get off your ass!” So I would brainstorm and concoct a new fabulous plan. Then I would excitedly tell my closest friends (and anyone who would listen) about the amazing new me. These moments were chock full of statements like, “I’m going to do something completely different” and “all bets are off.” But time and again, the moment I put the pen to the page, I would freeze up. Then I would have to go through the complicated process of telling myself that I didn’t really like that fabulous plan to begin with.

One inherent danger in this industry is that you are only as good as you are willing to allow yourself to be. No one is going to be a better advocate for you than you, and really, no one else is going to put your fingers on the keyboard and command you to write. No one else is going to submit your work for you, write queries, or meet a potential editor for coffee. You still have to show up for work, even if showing up simply means putting on your underwear and pouring yourself a cup of coffee before sitting down to write. Furthermore, once you do show up, you have to believe in yourself or at least trick yourself into believing that you are capable of completing the small steps. There’s a huge difference between, “I’m not certain I can do this justice” and “I’m just gonna finish this paragraph and see how it goes.”

Another intrinsic danger is that solitude is both your best friend and your worst enemy. I’m still trying to figure that one out. As a writer, I fall into that “absolute observer” trap that many of us do. I watch. I listen. I scrutinize and scribble down the details as I walk away. It’s all well and good when you are writing a story, but it doesn’t lend itself well to actually living a life. I have a friend whose freakishly adorable girls have just turned 6 and 8. When they were younger, he took it upon himself to record basically everything they did. The tapes fill a bookshelf in their living room. Here’s Madison walking. Here’s Avery opening birthday presents. But ask him what Avery got for her last birthday and he has to consult the video. “On one hand,” he tells me, “I am glad that I have these videos as a record of their youth, but on the other hand, I don’t feel like I was actually there for any of it.”

So, what have I learned? Honestly, I am still figuring that out. Peeking out the front door each day and stepping into the sun is still astonishingly hard. Chucking off the fear in favor of having fun still feels scary and awkward. I have considered having two t-shirts made, one that says, “I used to be fun” and another that says, “I used to be smart.” (I wish I were kidding.) I figured that I could wear these interchangeably, rather than be forced to explain that I am just in a funk, but then, of course, I’d have to explain what happened.

Instead, I suppose that getting up each day, putting on my underpants and pouring myself some coffee will have to do. I have to start over again, learn from my mistakes and forgive myself for them. I also have to start allowing myself small (and big) victories. Too often, I downplay my successes for fear that I will get complacent or cocky, but doing so tends to make me fear success. I call my inner critics “the alligators” and when the alligators get chompy, they’re busy telling me that I only got that job because I was in the right place at the right time or I got chosen for that award because there wasn’t much competition.

Starting over means shoving out the alligators. I have to be kind to myself and allow myself to feel okay about that. I have to say out loud that I am good at what I do and believe it (which is the hard part). And ultimately, I have to allow myself to fail, because one failure does not a hack writer make. A photographer may take 600 photos in one day and if he ends up with one great one, he considers the day a success.

Maybe I’ll write an article today or maybe I’ll invent a new recipe for mac & cheese. Lately, in order to get up each day I have to tell myself that it’s less about what I do and more about how I do it.

My Superhero Team

2010-04-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

The Stalwart League of Advocates for Notoriously Good Grammar (SLANGG)
The Alter Egos Society is getting ready for the epic battle between good and evil that erupts every year in downtown Portland. Each year, I contemplate getting the grammar team together, but it seems we're always too busy with our novels, screenplays, and red pens to make it out. Maybe this year, gang?

THE HEROES
Captain Hyperbole, Symbol: ∞ Captain Hyperbole is the best thing ever! The Captain tends to exaggerate to make his point, but that’s only because you’re stupider than a banana in the refrigerator.

Dr. Interrogative, Symbol: ? You’ll never get an answer out of this guy, but he’ll sure get you to talk.

Editrix the Enforcer, Symbol: [sic] Editrix is committed to the powers of Good Grammar. Under her watchful eye, no comma splice shall go unpunctuated and no dangling participle shall be left…um…dangled. She fights for clarity, communication, and the protection of the English language. She is armed, as always, with the Red Pen of Justice.

The Exclaiminator, Symbol:⚠ Shouts everything! Uses superlative exclamation points!!!!! Also frequently uses the words, “Wow!” “Hey!” and “Yipee!”

Semantics Man Symbol:☝ Semantics man is a master of meaning. He can always tell when your body language belies your words and will respond with his battle cry, “That doesn’t wash!” Semantics Man has been known to dismantle his enemies until even they don’t know what they are trying to say.

The Screaming Flag, Symbol :-O Ok, so the Flag doesn’t actually save the day himself, but he’s REALLY good at calling our heroes’ attention to the problems at hand. (i.e. “Hey, guys!! GUYS! These girls just used a dangling participle! Over here! Get ‘em!”

THE VILLAINS

The Euphemism Kid, Symbol: #@%! Be careful what you say around The Kid. He can turn anything, even the bible into something so dirty, your ears will catch syphilis.

The Invincible Run-On Symbol: R-O Nicknamed “Runny”, this guy is known for his stamina. Long after the heroes have run out of breath, Runny is still blathering on about his evil plan to destroy all periods, commas, and semi-colons.

The Notorious Confusable, Symbol: ⇄ Their not sure what this affect this guy has on people, but its evident that he can (at the very least) prevent people from getting jobs and bank loans. Nonetheless, he seems to illicit a response that leaves the reader with a fowl taste in his or her mouth. In the passed, it was believed that he possessed the power to control minds, now there beginning to think its something else.

The STET Avenger, Symbol: [STET] A nemesis of Editrix, the STET Avenger devotes his time to undoing all her good work, insisting that when it comes to grammatical travesties we should “let it stand.”

Captain Cliche, Symbol: I ♥ Originality This guy hasn’t made an original declaration since he was in diapers (and even then it was just, “Gurgle, Goo!”)

The Unspeakable Ellipses, Symbol: … Ellipses’ loves suspense and he is not afraid to use it. To torture his prey he will tell them a story and trail off at inappropriate moments, leaving them to…

THE NEUTRALS

The Iron Interrobang, Symbol:‽ Long thought to be dead, this hero rides the line between good and evil blending the two sides with a simple cry of “WTF!?” The Iron Interrobang has little patience for the youth of today and constantly and excitedly expresses disbelief over the things they say and do. Be careful: He is known to ask a lot of rhetorical questions.

Asterisks the Elucidator, Symbol: * Known for her powers of distraction, Asterisks can derail even the most well-intentioned sentence.

Lessons from the Dinner Table

2010-03-12T11:27:00.000-08:00

The boys are learning personal responsibility and there are many opportunities to exercise this at the dinner table. Examples:

1. If you eat (most of) your veggies without being asked to, you are unlikely to be berated for your dislike of veggies. You are also unlikely to have more heaped on your plate.

2. If you put 2 tablespoons of butter on one piece of corn, ALL of the grownups will mock you. Mercilessly.

3. If you wipe your hands on your pants, you will end up doing the laundry yourself.

4. No one is going to be excused until everyone is done eating. Why do you keep asking?

5. No, you cannot have Diet Coke with dinner. Why do you keep asking?

6. If you are too sleepy to eat because you got up at 5 a.m. to play Star Wars, you will be poked in the ribs repeatedly and possibly tickled. And yes, you will still have to eat.

7. Man cannot live on chicken legs alone.

8. Color us unsurprised and unsympathetic when your four glasses of chocolate milk have rendered you not only full, but sick to your stomach.

9. Butts belong in chairs, not perched on the back of them. If you tip over into your lasagna, we will laugh at you (and then probably give you a time out because you know better).

10. The garbage is never "too full" for you to clear the table. We shop at Costco, there are always more bags.

11. Pajamas are occasionally tolerated at the dinner table, arriving at the table wearing nothing but Spongebob underpants is never acceptable.

12. Guns (yes, even the Nerf N-Strike Vulcan) are not allowed at the table.

13. That thing next to your plate that you just pushed aside because it was "stabbing you in the hand" as you reached for more pork loin? That's your fork.

14. We understand that giggle fits happen, but trying to make milk shoot through your nose? Uh uh. Not only will we not find it funny, we will also respect you less for your low brow humor.

And, some lessons for us parents:

1. Making the same vegetables that the kids actually like is, in fact, okay. Rome wasn't built in a day and it took you a whole lifetime to appreciate asparagus.

2. Giggling fits are sometimes unavoidable.

3. If you make "just enough" food. It won't be enough. If you make "too much" food, no one will be hungry.

4. Three boys under the age of 11 can load a dishwasher without your input (as long as you don't mind having to rewash a couple of things).

5. If you are cooking to gain the praise of your children, STOP IT. Spend time creating the meals because it brings you joy. If they don't like something and you lay into them with the old argument, "But I spent hours on this!" (I have done this many times.) It doesn't do anyone any good. At the end of it all, the kid may eat it, but you still don't feel praised and he feels like crap.

6. If you force the kids to suggest a topic of conversation, expect to be entertained with the inner workings of Halo 2.

7. Sometimes, leftovers are exactly what everyone wants.

8. Discussion of farts, burping, and crotch shots cannot be avoided. Discouraged, yes. Avoided, no.

9. That whole "Do as I say, not as I do" thing is crap. If you start a belch war, the kids will finish it. A food fight? Oh yeah, they've just been waiting for the opportunity.

Meme Girl

2009-12-16T15:56:00.000-08:00

I am finally getting around to responding to some memes that I have been sitting on for a while. I won't tag anyone else on this, but if you feel so inspired to respond with your own (to this one or the previous post) do post a link in the comments.

1. Which words do you use too much in your writing?

I, eventually, which, while, certainly, since, if

2. Which words do you consider overused in stuff you read?

Suddenly, seriously, literally, like, whatever,

3. What misused phrases irritate you the most?

”I could care less.” (because this means you do care. The phrase should be “I couldn’t care less.”)
“Anyways” Grr.
“Could of” (It’s “could have.”)
“Intensive purposes”
It’s/Its (It’s ALWAYS means it is.)
“ATM machine” (It’s redundant. So is VIN number.)

4. What are your other favorite blogs?

I have a list of them on the right side of the page. Those are my favorites and I check up on them regularly.

5. Regrets, do you have a few? Is there anything you wish you hadn't written?

I have some truly regrettable poetry from my early 20s. I don’t have deep regrets about my other (published) work, except that I wish some of it had been less rushed and more researched.

6. How has your writing made a difference? What do you consider your most important piece of writing?

Crap. It’s so hard to gauge. I know that I enticed a number of people to go out and see live performances around town (a thing which I hope had the long term effect of making them arts patrons). I’m pretty sure I encouraged a number of people to go out and visit new galleries, restaurants, bars, and gathering spots. I always feel good when people come up to me and tell me that they checked out a new thing because of something I wrote.

As far as importance, I have to say that the most important writing I am doing right now is the stories that touch on my relationships with my children, my friends, and my parents. It’s not important to the greater good, but it is important for me and for those close to me.

7. Name three favorite words

symbiotic, cumulus, coagulate

8. ...And three words you're not so keen on

pop (I may be one of the only native Oregonians that actively refers to cola as “soda”)
Boyfriend/girlfriend (I know it is a practical term, but it sounds so immature. Unfortunately, the alternatives are equally indesireable.)
Hazel (I don’t hate this word nearly as much as I did while growing up. Back then, I would get positively irked when someone told me I had hazel eyes.)
w00t (why do people say this word out loud?)
Also, I hate it when people try to combine words to find alternatives for brunch (e.g. linner, dunch, etc.)

9. Do you have a writing mentor, role model or inspiration?

I am lucky enough to have a circle of really talented friends. For poetry, I am inspired by the likes of Patrick Wohlmut, Tommy Gaffney, Chris Ridenour, Dennis McBride, Elizabeth Archers, Heather Evanston.

On a grander scale, some of my favorite story writers are Susan Jane Gilman, Steve Almond, Gregory Maguire, Neil Gaiman, Ray Bradbury, Sarah Vowell, and (I hate to think that it’s becoming cliché to say so, but) David Sedaris.

10. What's your writing ambition?

To enjoy myself and dig deeper into the subjects that I love like art, food, performance, fashion, literature, and the city of Portland. Mostly the city of Portland. I’m a sucker for PDX.

11. Plug alert! List any work you would like to tell your readers about.

Keep your eye on my other blog, Keep Portland Yours. I’ll be updating it with interviews, write ups, articles, and reviews in the months to come.

On Writing, part deux

2009-12-16T14:09:00.000-08:00

1.What’s the last thing you wrote?
Some articles that I will be posting soon on my new blog, Keep Portland Yours. (Note: There are a number of great interviews, reviews, and write ups there now from my days with PDX Magazine if you would like to check it out.)

2.Was it any good?
I’m enjoying the act of getting back in the swing of things. I like what I am writing, but it has been a challenge to adjust to writing without a more clearly defined audience.

3.What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?
This poem:
Which moon will it be tonight?
Round or bitten?
It’s mine tonight.
(Holly age 3)

4.Write poetry?
I do. Though not much lately.

5.Angsty poetry?
Squishy, angsty, star-filled poetry, with occasional tangents into sexual deviance.

6.Favorite genre of writing?
Personal journalism. I appreciate it because it employs voice and emotion. At its worst, personal journalism comes off as pretentious, silly, self indulgent, or mawkish. At its best it is passionate, clever, and about as bombastic as a Sunday afternoon nap.

Howard Owens, the publisher of the Batavian and former director of GateHouse Media describes it as such:

Personal Journalism is just as ethical as old-school public journalism. It still values facts, fairness, truth telling and good reporting. It’s just that personal journalism is written differently. It is written from one person, a person we can identify and identify with, for one person. The byline is more than a name under a headline in Personal Journalism. It is the persona and the personality. Personal journalists do more than report the story. They let us see at least a little about who they are, what they believe, what drives them and what they find important. If a personal journalist has a bias, we know it. That is part of the truth-telling tradition all journalists should endorse, but only personal journalists make it a practice.

7.Most fun character you’ve ever created?
I re-created an old neighborhood couple I knew for a short story about my first (devastatingly regrettable) theft. They were a fun mish-mash of some of the more eccentric people I had known while growing up.

8.Most annoying character you’ve ever created?
A woman who was “trapped in a dead-end relationship” by her crushing fear of commitment and her unwillingness to move on for fear of being the bad guy. Note to self: Diary entries do not = storytelling.

9.Best plot you’ve ever created?
Centers around a hamburger

10.Coolest plot twist you’ve ever created?
Um…the pickle?

11.How often do you get writer’s block?
Don't be fooled by the words that I got
I'm still, I'm still Holly from the block

12.How do you get through it?
Sometimes it takes perseverance. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it requires the sacrifice of my liver. Sometimes a writing exercise can knock something loose. There are as many cures for writer's block as there are types.

13.Do you type or write by hand?
Most of the time I type these days. I used to keep a notebook on hand for sudden moments of inspiration, but I never seem to be far enough away from the computer to make that worthwhile.

But as I write this, I recall my visceral love of handwritten words on a page. Perhaps the disconnectedness of typing my words is contributing to my lack of inspiration.

14.Do you save everything you write?
Yes. I have files on my computer that are named things like “This Poem Sucks,” “Pig Vomit” and “Must Have Been Drunk.” I can’t bear to toss it out because even if it sucks I think there might be a couple of words or phrases that can be repurposed into something else.

15.Do you ever go back to an idea after you’ve abandoned it?
All the time. I love to let a poem or story sit for days, weeks, or even years, and then dig my fingers back in to twiddle around with it. I am never so opposed to editing that I consider a piece thoroughly complete.

16.What’s your favorite thing you’ve written?
I have a couple of favorite poems that I never seem to tire of and a short story that I have been sitting on for 8 years. I still love it, but I have no idea what to do with it.

17.Do you ever show people your work?
Well, the Open Mic is very much an “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” kind of scene, so I guess I do. Most of my poetry is posted on my blog as well, but my short stories (mostly auto-biographical) tend to stay hidden.

18.Did you ever write a novel?
The aforementioned story about the drama girl who couldn’t commit? Yeah, that was intended to be a novel. I wrote 13 chapters, most of which involved the main character hiding in the bathroom. *sigh*

19.Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?
See above.

20.What’s your favorite setting for your characters?
Bars, beds, and bygone days

21.How many writing projects are you working on right now?
About 14. I am playing the editorial equivalent of Whack-a-Mole right now.

22.Do you want to write for a living?
Ok, sure. Does it come with health benefits?

23.Have you ever won an award for your writing?
I have.

24.Ever written anything in script or play format?
Not well.

25.What are your five favorite words?
Bellicose, crematorium, tumultuous, allegorical, anachronistic

16.Do you ever write based on yourself?
That’s pretty much all I do. I took that whole “write what you know” thing and ran with it.

27.Where do you get your ideas?
Memories, writing exercises, literature, family, etc. Ideas come from pretty much anywhere. Oh, and dictionaries.

28.Do you ever write based on your dreams?
I used to, but I don’t remember my dreams much lately. Of course, I used to sleep more restlessly that I do now. So, it’s a toss-up which is better.

29.Do you favor happy endings, sad endings or cliff-hangers?
Depends on the story. I just don’t like to feel cheated at the end.

30.Have you ever written based on an artwork you’ve seen?
Yes, of course. I love writing poems or stories based on photographs, as a sort of backwards illustration.

I had a terrible 7th grade teacher who had a moment of brilliance when he gave us a writing assignment to tell the stories behind the pictures in Chris Van Allsburg’s The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. We only had to do one, but I was so inspired, I did the whole book.

31.Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
I am obsessively concerned with spelling. Grammar is usually right up there too, but I will occasionally allow a sentence fragment or other such sin to slip through.

32.Ever write anything in chatspeak (how r u?)
Only to be ironic or funny.

33.Does music help you write?
Only as inspiration. I can’t listen to anything when I am in the process of writing. The circuits overload.

34.What keeps you going?
Wonder.

35.Quote something you’ve written. Whatever pops into your head.
I’m thinking about family today, so it’s a short poem called “February”
My grandma never loved me more
than the day she died.
She was living in a requiem cloud and
I wanted to pull her out.
But she smiled and patted my hand and said
“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

Shiny Tin Boxes

2009-09-24T16:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-06T13:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-24T16:23:00.000-07:00

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 to 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

2009-03-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-19T17:09:00.000-07:00

(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

2009-01-27T13:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Certainty, thy name is Youth

2009-01-13T10:43:00.000-08:00

I used to be very, very clever. It's true. Just read my diary and I'll tell you how clever I am...about 14,000 times. I'll also tell you that I'm crazy (about 20,000 times) and that I am madly in love (I lost count).

I don't know what's wrong with me these days. Sure, I have a job, a family, great friends and a surprisingly healthy relationship, but dammit, I don't know everything about the world anymore.

In 1996, I wrote a diary entry that began, " I wonder who I am sometimes, and I think I know." It continued on for three pages with statements like, "I have been a drinker, a smoker and a socialite; an angel and a whore" " I have been a flower," and "I have flown without a plane." I swear to God I was not on drugs.

This journal entry was not self-exploration. It was mental masterbation. Even when I wrote it, I knew this. But certainly, I thought, it would prove useful after my tragic, untimely death at the age of 25. Some distraught friend would find my journal mere hours before the memorial service and be moved to tears. "Finally," she would say as she clutched the diary to her chest, "Finally, I understand her!" She would read passages from it to the congregation at the service and everyone would weep over the loss of such cleverness, such undiscovered emotional intellect. These are the thoughts that kept me up at night.

That same year, I told a (soon-to-be) boyfriend, "Whatever you do, don't fall in love with me. I'm damaged and I will only damage you." Now, of course, this is a phrase strategically designed to make boys fall in love with you. I probably even gave my best impression of Camille while saying it. Nonetheless, fall in love he did and so did I.

At the time, I thought I was so clever. Sure, I was young, but he was younger. People were always telling me that I was an old soul. I was certain that this gave me (and by extension, us) some kind of cosmic connection to the universe. Everything we did or said seemed so very important. An argument caused a shift in the Pacific Oceanic Plate. Our laughter caused a butterfly to emerge from his cocoon. Sex was likely to make the seas boil or, at the very least, melt the ice caps.

Honestly, I think it was becoming a mother that changed everything for me. Shortly after the little bundle is born, every parent discovers that they know squat about the world. Suddenly, there's this squiggling pink thing in your arms and you know you're supposed to teach it right from wrong. It sounds moronic to even mention it, but raising a child is very different from raising yourself. All your little neuroses bubble up to the surface and they are not as cute as they seemed before.

I'm willing to accept this newfound confundity over the certainty of youth. Honestly, looking back on my diary, I'm not sure that I was certain of anything except the idea that I was going to do or be something someday. But because I was terrified of having to figure out what that something might be, I engaged in romantic notions of tragedy. Car crashes, drowning or the uber-romantic notion of simply going mad (just call me Ophelia).

Maybe I am no more or less clever than I was at 22. I think I'm just a bit more honest about it now. Yee Gawds, it's certainly a lot less work and I enjoy those moments when someone says, "Do you know anything about ________" and I can say, "No, tell me about it."

It's about a cat

2009-01-07T13:48:00.000-08:00

So...how do you explain pussy to an eight-year-old? Furthermore, how do you explain it if you're a blushing wanna-be-princess who can only talk dirty if she's able to whisper it, giggle and then pretend she was kidding?

My son Parker has a penchant for making up lyrics to songs and then singing them ad nauseum for...oh, let's say...hours. Usually, it's a Christmas jingle with new words, such as (to Jingle Bells):

"Mom, mom, mom
Mom, mom, mom
Mom is a nice mom.

Mom just bought some beef jerky,
so Mom is a nice mom."

or (to his brother's constant irritation):

"Brady, the red-nosed brother
he just told a lie to me
Brady is so, so stupid
Stupid, stupid, stupid-y"

Brady asked me once how I can stand it and I told him that once Parker started talking and the novelty wore off, he never really stopped, so I've learned to tune him out. This usually serves me well. Brady is not so lucky. Especially when Parker is low on creativity and simply sings:

"Brady, the brady brady
Brady, brady, bra-a-dy" (usually sung while hanging around poor Brady's neck)

On Monday, however, we were standing at the bus stop waiting for the #10. (Our truck is still in the shop after it's dramatic breakdown during the snow storm.) I was on the phone trying to track down a last minute replacement babysitter so that Jaime and I could go out and see a friend's show, when Parker's song stylings suddenly sped to the forefront of my brain.

I pull the phone away from my face and say, "What did you just say?"

Parker pauses and then continues at full volume (and with gusto) to sing (to Jingle Bells):

Pussy puss, Pussy, Puss
I love pussy, yeah!
I love pussy under the moon
and in the sun it's pus-SY!

"STOP!" I screech. He stops, bewildered. The four teenage girls at the bus stop are rolling all over each other with hysterical laughter.

They all shriek something like..."OhMyGod!DidYouHear?OhShit!T'asSoFunny!OHMYGAWWWWD!Pus-SY!"

Parker asks, "What's wrong, Mom?" I try to explain that what he was singing might be considered inappropriate.

"I was just singing about Abby (his cat)." He replies without an ounce of jest.

"Yes," I say, "but you didn't say Abby."

"No, I call her pussy." (SHREIK!OHMYGAWD!HeSaidItAGAIN!) "I call her pussy because she's soft and I like p-"

"STOP!" I said, "It's just that..." And with four pairs of teenage eyes watching and waiting for me to explain that his fabulous nickname for his beloved Abby (that he has probably been singing about all day) is actually genitalia, I chicken out.

"I'll tell you later," I mumble. But, ten minutes later he's forgotten the Pussy Song and has reverted to the ever-popular Ode to a Brother's Annoyance.

Fun With Wordle

2008-11-10T09:47:00.001-08:00

This is a poem of mine and Patrick's that I re-invented in Wordle. It takes a chunk of text and randomizes it, into "word clouds" giving emphasis to words that appear more often. This poem was from an Exquisite Corpse exercise that Patrick and I did a while back.

Upsetting the Tea Party

2008-11-04T11:41:00.000-08:00

ReadWritePoem had an interesting prompt for this week. The prompt (entitled "Peel the Onion") "proposes that it is human for us to all have layers, like an onion — not just devil and angel, or masculine and feminine, or human and animal — but many, many souls inside of us. When we are peeled (or choose to peel ourselves), we reveal a new layer. We keep revealing layers throughout our lives."

So, embracing the onionyness of us all, many RWP participants posted a stanza or two revealing a layer about themselves. In the following days, the rest of us participants were allowed to pluck from these stanzas little bits and phrases (or whole stanzas) and create a sort of onion salad. Here's my contribution. (I resisted the urge to call it Frankenpoem).

Upsetting the Tea Party

A reflection in the mirror,
was it you or me?
We’d reckon, in then end
it was the looking glass
whispering from old men’s minds
and chapter books

Whenever we meet
I move through the world
Unseen by the jabberwocky,
who sits in a corner like a wombat and watches,
those nictitating membranes stretched
sister to sister
rough as a rope

Beneath the warm smiles
through which truth stumbles blind,
the hatter and hare ease egos,
tend the bruise,
the insult, the scab
and stop for early lunch.

Amidst the line of white cheese sandwiches,
the warm bowl perfuming of foreign lands
the pleasant gestures of oatmeal and mother
it is I who interrupt.
and scan the forgotten creases

Skin, horns, and strange trumpet ears,
I upset soup in scrimshaw bowls,
running from room to imaginary room
peeling back the barebones grin,
their broker detente too heavy to hold
or swallow or chew

I remember the girl,
like the moon’s bucktoothed twin,
the whole world close enough to touch
but most of all, her favorite possession
a tiny boat beneath a sunny sky

And you, the eldest oyster
Ever silent and safe

Plucky Bucky and A Poet's Advice

2008-10-18T12:42:00.000-07:00

R. Buckminster Fuller: THE HISTORY (and Mystery) OF THE UNIVERSE opened last night at Portland Center Stage. My feelings were mixed.
The NOT-SO-GOOD: 1) It's general seating and I got there just before they closed the doors. Seated high on the right side of the house, I was too close to the sound system and (with the exception of the moment when he stomped and it reverberated through the theater) the sound was a bit distracting and occasionally drowned out the actor.
2) The show made me cranky and depressed.

The GOOD: 1) I quickly got over being depressed and enjoyed listening to other people talk about the show
2) I think I am in the minority feeling cranky/depressed, as I have been told that many people leave the show feeling inspired and hopeful. While the first act was a fascinating crash course in the life and times of Fuller, the second act focused on the state of the world (war, poverty, Wall Street money-grubbers, the CIA, etc). He spoke a lot about working together, rethinking and seeing things for what they are or could possibly be.
At one point, he recalled the words of Fuller's book, I Seem to Be a Verb, in which he said, "If man chooses oblivion, he can go right on leaving his fate to his political leaders. If he chooses Utopia, he must initiate an enormous educational program—immediately, if not sooner.” Ouch.
Fuller had advocated for sustainability long before it became hip, believing in what he called ephemeralization (essentially the technological ability to do more with less). What's more, he believed that we were capable of achieving it. He believed in the possibility of the individual to change the world and benefit mankind. His hopefulness left me feeling depressed because, knowing he had died in 1983, I kept wondering if he'd still feel so certain that we could survive. While he compared himself and other humans to the rudder of a ship (small in comparison to the whole of the ship, behind it, but still capable of navigating it) I kept thinking about all those rudderless ships out there on "spaceship earth."
2) Doug Tompos (Bucky) does a fine job of holding everyone's attention for two hours. Delivered like a scientific/philosophic lecture, the monologue seems to come straight from his stream of consciousness. He is at times manic and then dreamy, giddy and then depressed. His portrayal of Bucky and Jacob's script capture both the man's oddities (like the fact that he didn't speak for 2 years while contemplating how man could be truly effective) and his visionary way of thinking. Fuller's ideas about humanity and each person's place in it are very inspiring (providing that you still believe in human compassion). And at times, when speaking about his moments of inspiration, he was downright plucky.
3) The first act has the best closing line ever.
4) I really enjoyed a moment when Fuller/Tompos recalled the words of ee cummings in his piece, "a poet's advice." While it made me kick myself for trying so hard to "be a poet" it also reminded me of why I do it at all.

A Poet's Advice

e. e. cummings

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through
words.

This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel—but that's
thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is
feeling—not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single
human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think
or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the
moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night
and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest
battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working
just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possible
imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like
somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the
time—and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and
working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem,
you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do
something easy, like learning how to blow up the world—unless you're
not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't.

It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

Pluggity plug

2008-10-15T16:40:00.000-07:00

Hey all-

The PDX Magazine blog is slowly getting going. Check it out and let me know what you'd like to see up there. So far it's just upcoming events we like, behind-the-scenes stuff and updates on us. In the next few weeks, you should also see online-exclusive articles and photos from events as well.

Stay tuned (and let me know what you think)!

-h

A response (finally!) to Patrick's prompt

2008-10-13T13:52:00.000-07:00

Back in...oh, say...August, Patrick posted a prompt for an acrostic poem which I began, but never finished (until now). Here's the prompt and here's the poem:

The Wrecking Crew

“Travel this road too long and you’ll find out who you are,” he said
Huge mistake if you ask me, 20 years old,
Engaged for the third time and certain of everything except how to sit still

Whimsical could only define my fingernails,
Regulation black to match the depth of my soul and the certainty that I’d never live past 25
Entrepreneurship meant a new shade of lipstick, tribal markings of the overwrought and underpaid, and
Corruption meant having to tell the truth
Kings for the kissing, they matched me. Wit for wit.
Insurgents who pushed their way out of the pink folds, quoting
Novel, poetry, doctrine of war
Greedy for more or maybe just tired of the resistance, tired of

Cluck and chuck muscle memory,
Rembrandt lies and Picasso-shaped stories, a one-woman wrecking crew,
Expecting the best, fearing the worst, certain of everything except the
Whimsy of love and the danger of falling into it

Self Enslavement

2008-09-05T10:44:00.000-07:00

"More bloggy!" Says Patrick. And so I must....

In the last week and a half, I finished 5 books. "Remarkable!" you might say, "When do you find the time to do so much reading?" But alas, my declaration is misleading.

No matter how much I might like a particular book, I have a habit of beginning it and somehow "forgetting" to read the last hundred pages. So, like any good ADD-addled person, I always have a stack of unfinished books littering my bedside table, desk, coffee table, messenger bag, etc.

This weighs on my soul. It tortures me when I walk past the bedroom door and hear the whimpering cries of the characters I have locked forever on page 348.

Choosing to watch DVDs of Entourage feel like duplicity.

As I pick up the glossy, fat September issue of In Style magazine, I can't help but feel like I've just checked into the Motel 6 under the pseudonym "Ms. Smith."

I think to myself, "Oh please don't let Astrid Bellagio find out that I haven't been practicing my spells!"

"Please, no one tell Edward Zanni that I've been hanging out with Louis Vuitton and Christian Louboutin!"

So, in an effort to cleanse my soul I have now finished:

Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell
Confessions of a Part-time Sorceress: A Girl's Guide to Dungeons & Dragons by Shelly Mazzanoble
Attack of the Theater People by Marc Acito
When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris
Candyfreak by Steve Almond

I am terrified to start another book.