• 30Nov
    Categories: Weblogs Comments: 0

    Here it is: the last post of NowBloMe,YO. I wanted to be funny. I wanted to be profound. Or maybe sentimental, in a sweet, by not cloying, sort of way. But I’m afraid that all I feel like doing tonight is showing up. Friday, you know? I’m tired by Friday, and I’m feeling it now.

    I’m not going to lie about it; I really enjoyed NoBloNoMo. I didn’t think it was that hard, and although I didn’t always feel like doing it I managed to get it done. Some days were better than others. The best part, of course, was connecting with so many cool people all over the world each and every day for a month. My little corner of the blogosphere has been humming, and I’ve been digging on that energy. I have made new connections, and deepened old ones, and I’ve seen bloggers that I’ve known and enjoyed over the last year — but that didn’t know each other — find each other, through me. That’s a charge.

    Also, the list of blogs I like to read daily has about tripled, and while that’s probably not great for my time-management goals, it’s fun. The thing about writing every day is that you never know what you’ll come up with. There are days that I’m sure I’ve got nothing, and so I started posting about how I had nothing, and while my fingers were tapping, I’d start thinking harder, and before I knew it I was off and running with something I actually liked. That’s the way with writing, right? You just do it. You just do it, and trust the process, and the words will come. Not always the words you expect, or maybe not the words you want, but if you show up to do the work, the words will meet you halfway.

    It’s like the camera. If you don’t bring it with you, you can’t take the picture. And if you don’t take the picture, well, you’ve got nothing. You have to begin. You have to look through the viewfinder, at least. You have to press the shutter.

    It’s a good lesson for me to keep in mind as I get ready to begin my MFA in January. Do the work and trust the process. It’s my expectations that paralyze me. Wanting a story to be something in particular. Wanting it to come out a certain way. Never even trying to write it for fear that it won’t be what I imagine. How stupid, right? Of course it won’t be what I imagine — I haven’t written it yet.

    It’s like the camera. I set out to make a certain image, and in my attempt to make it I discover an image I never imagined.

    It’s about showing up. Because if you don’t show up, you can’t do the work. And if you don’t do the work, you’ll never make anything. So here I am: showing up.

    Now, then. Where’s my motherfucking prize?

  • 29Nov
    Categories: Fictional Comments: 0

    More from the archives — my man has been at a conference or something every evening this week and I am spent. I have no original or enlightening thoughts for you. At the moment, my three chickens are running in circles around the living room ottoman to the sounds of Madonna’s “Material World.” I cannot think, and so I give you a little ditty I wrote for a writing assignment at the Kenyon Writers’ Workshop a few summers ago.

    The assignment was to write an epistolary story in which one of the parties was “The Pottery Enthusiast Newsletter”. And there was also a list of random words that we had to include at least two of for each story we wrote, and we wrote a story a day for five days. For this story I used “fountain pen” and “dictionary”.

    Anyway, it’s untitled, and it’s silly, but I like Mrs Parkinson. I may use her again someday.

    To: editor@potteryenthusiast.net
    From: mparkinson@laposada.com
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Wed 5/27/2005 12:32pm

    Dear Editor:

    I picked up a recent copy of the Poettry Enthusiast Newsletter at Whole Foods Market and was dismayed to find only one poem in the entire newsletter! I have to question the title of your magazine, and find it terribly misleading that you call yourself a poettry “enthusiast,” and yet I found only a single poem in the issue, on the last page, by a Miss Patricia Raintree. While I certainly admire Miss Raintree’s effort, Flannery O’Connor she is not, to say the least.

    I write to request a refund of the $1.25 I paid for my copy. I am an old woman who was only recently released from the hospital for a serious condition involving parts too personal to mention, and I am on a very fixed income. It may not seem like a great deal of money to you, but on my budget, every penny counts.

    Sincerely,
    Millicent Parkinson
    1450 La Posada Rd. #22
    San Dimeon, CA 95031

    To: mparkinson@laposada.com
    From: editor@potteryenthusiast.net
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Fri 5/29/2005 6:14am

    Dear Ms. Parkinson:

    I am sorry for your confusion regarding the newsletter, but perhaps you have by now realized that the newsletter is the POTTERY Enthusiast, not the Poettry Enthusiast. Poetry, by the way, is spelled with only one “t”.

    While I understand and am sympathetic to your disappointment, The Pottery Enthusiast is a small publication devoted to building community among ceramic artists in the area. Our subscriptions barely cover our printing expenses, and I am simply not in a position to refund your money. Since you purchased it there, perhaps the Whole Foods Market would be able to refund your money.

    Best,
    Stephen Johanssen
    Editor, PEN

    To: editor@potteryenthusiast.net
    From: mparkinson@laposada.com
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Sat 5/30/2005 4:25pm

    Dear Mr. Johnson:

    I already tried to bring my copy of your newsletter back to Whole Foods but they would not take it as they claim to have some sort of store policy about refunding money for reading material. According to the manager there, the policy is irretrievable.

    I would expect that you have a great deal more independence and flexibility than a big corporation like Whole Foods, and could refund my money if you so chose. It is a small amount of money after all, and although I’m sure your newsletter is very important to the ceramical artists in the area, I hardly think it is more important than the health and well being of another human being, also in the community, who suffers from a rare and painful cancer, such as myself. I must ask that you reconsider my request.

    Sincerely,
    Mrs. Millicent Parkinson

    To: editor@potteryenthusiast.net
    From: mparkinson@laposada.com
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Wed 6/4/2005 12:15pm

    Mr. Johnson:

    It has been almost a week and I have not heard from you regarding my refund. I do hope that you didn’t attempt to send cash through the mail. Even though the amount is small, it would probably be better to send a check. I am concerned now that the money may have been lost. In case you misplaced it, my address (again) is 1450 La Posada Rd., #22, San Dimeon, CA 95031.

    Please do write and let me know the date you sent my refund, so that I may track it down.

    Sincerely,
    Mrs. Millicent Parkinson

    To: mparkinson@laposada.com
    From: editor@potteryenthusiast.net
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Thu 6/5/2005 7:06am

    Ms. Parkinson:

    The Pottery Enthusiast is really little more than a personal venture, a labor of love, if you will. There is no checking account attached to it, and therefore I cannot send you a check, for $1.25, or for any amount.

    Since you do not wish to receive cash through the mail, perhaps I could offer you one free issue and a reduced-rate subscription to the Pottery Enthusiast? Have you ever considered taking up pottery? It can be very therapeutic for those suffering long-term illness.

    Best,
    Stephen Johannsen
    Editor, PEN

    To: editor@potteryenthusiast.net
    From: mparkinson@laposada.com
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Fri 6/6/2005 12:21pm

    Mr. Johnston:

    I find it terribly insensitive that you would offer a poor old woman, who suffers from severely dehabilitating arthritis, a subscription to your useless and misleading publication. I have made it abundantly clear that I do not have room in my budget for new hobbies. I wonder if Whole Foods would be interested to know about your very poor record of customer service, and your attempt to swindle me not only out of my $1.25, but also an additional subscription fee?

    May I also request that you cease addressing me as “Ms.” Parkinson. I have clearly written “Mrs.” on all our correspondence, but you apparently have not taken note. I was married for 37 years to Mr. Alfred J. Parkinson, and I would appreciate it if you would have the decency to honor his memory.

    Please send me my refund immediately. Cash will do fine, but perhaps you should send it certificated mail.

    Mrs. Millicent Parkinson

    Mrs. Millicent Parkinson VIA CERTIFIED MAIL
    1450 La Posada Rd. #22
    San Dimeon, CA 95031

    Monday June 9, 2005

    Mrs. Parkinson:

    Let me start by saying that I did not appreciate the threatening tone of your last email. I have an excellent record of customer service, and I have tried to be as accommodating with you as possible. Let me now attempt to make a couple of things “abundantly clear:”

    First, the Pottery Enthusiast is a newsletter serving the ceramic arts community in San Dimeon. It is not, and never has been, about poetry. You misread the title when you purchased the newsletter, which is not my fault.

    Second, I am not inclined to take money out of my own pocket for your mistake, particularly when you have threatened my reputation, accused me of trying to cheat you, and have addressed me by every conceivable variation of my name except the correct one.

    Finally, I have enclosed a recent issue of Marco Polo, which is a lovely poetry magazine I got from a friend. I hope this will meet your poetry-reading needs, and convince you of my good intentions. I have also enclosed a dictionary, which it is clear to me that you could use, and a fountain pen I found in an old desk in my garage.

    All the best,

    Stephen Johanssen
    Editor, PEN

    To: editor@marcopolo.org
    From: mparkinson@laposada.com
    Subject: refund request
    Sent: Fri 6/6/2005 12:21pm

    Dear Editor:

    I picked up a recent copy of Marco Polo magazine at Barnes & Noble and was dismayed to find within it no information whatsoever regarding Marco Polo. I have to question the title of your magazine, and find it terribly misleading that you choose to call it Marco Polo, and yet include within its pages no information about Marco Polo, or any other American explorer for that matter.

    Therefore, I write to request a refund of the $7.95 I paid for my copy. I am an old woman who was only recently released from the hospital for a serious condition involving parts too personal to mention, and I am on a very fixed income. It may not seem like a great deal of money to you, but on my budget, every penny counts.

    Sincerely,
    Millicent Parkinson
    1450 La Posada Rd. #22
    San Dimeon, CA 95031

  • 28Nov

    It’s Christmas Pageant time here, and Holiday Pageant time in America, which means there’s a great deal of rehearsing go on around my house.

    Welcome to my musical world, y’all. Come in if you dare.

    Boyish sings about sheep:

    [audio http://texasgurl.fileave.com/shepbutts-bizzy.mp3]

    Girlish sings about puppies:

    [audio http://texasgurl.fileave.com/puppies4xmas.mp3]

  • 27Nov

    Is a bunch of expensive presents. For those of you who are dying to buy me something, here are a few helpful hints:

    Because Baybish needs to get with it:

    I think this would be a great book for all parents of young babies, whether it’s their first or their fifteenth child. No more free passes, babies! Fix Mommy a cocktail! Also available: Baby, Make Me Breakfast; Baby, Do My Banking; and Baby, Fix My Car. Why not get me the whole series?

    While you’re over at McSweeney’s, feel free to get me an international subscription. They’re expensive, but trust me, I’m worth it. I am deeply saddened because I have had to let all my lit-mag subscriptions go since we moved as they’re all too damn expensive to keep up over here. Let me say also, if you have never read any of these and you refuse to buy them for me, then the least you could do is click on over and subscribe to them yourself. Or pick one up at the bookstore and think of me fondly while you read it.


    One Story. Just what it says. Each magazine is a pleasingly thin little staple-bound paperback, in a muted color, containing one story. There are 18 in a year’s subscription, so you’re sort of constantly surprised to be getting yet another one in the mail. They are so good, that you will probably fall into the habit of reading it at once. Out of 18 stories they published in 2006, 10 of them were anthologized in collections like Best American, and the O. Henry Prize Stories.


    Zoetrope: All-Story. This one I enjoy because there is a guest designer for every issue. Each issue features a different artist (photographers, filmmakers, architects, musicians) that handle the magazine’s design and layout for that issue. I am very interested in the interplay of text and imagery, so I always find something interesting, and the stories are good, too. It’s Francis Ford Coppola’s project so the stories are almost always by recognizably famous literary writers.


    Tin House. This one I tend to read cover-to-cover. It’s contemporary fiction that is working to retain its edge, but not trying to be as edgy as say, McSweeney’s. Some of my favorite writers publish there, but there are also new voices in every issue as well. Someday, I would really like to publish a story in this magazine.

    And, (sniff), The New Yorker. That one’s easily solved, though, because I could happily read old New Yorkers for the rest of my life, probably, if someone wants to shell out $100 and get me this:


    Actually, if you buy it in ££s, it’s only fifty quid! That’ a bah-gain, readers! The short fiction alone is worth that, so buy it for me.

    For those of you with money to spend, there’s this little number:

    Ahem. The Nikon 70-200/2.8 VR. I won’t list the price here. Let’s just say you might want to run through your jewelry and electronics and think about what might fetch a fair price on eBay before ordering this for me.

    And I need one of these:

    And I really, really want one of these:

    And a green coat, which I could not find a suitable picture of, anywhere. I’m hoping Ann, if she makes it to the end of this incredibly self-indulgent post, will help me out by finding me one. Truly green, please — not Olive. Something tailored and fitted, with smart buttons, maybe, and in a shade that will make it easy for my chickens to spot me in the crowd. And also boots, if you can find them. Brown or black, I don’t care. I would assign the boots to Aaryn, but she’s liable to find me some crazy high-heeled $500 numbers that I cannot live without, which would either cause my husband to leave me or have me tripping into the gap I’m supposed to be minding and falling under a train.

    Which just wouldn’t be in the holiday spirit, I’m afraid.

    What would be in the holiday spirit, however, would be for the rest of you NaBloJoMoFo’ers to tell everyone what you want (to get me) for Christmas.

    Tags:
  • 26Nov
    Categories: Weblogs Comments: 0

    Just lost a long and turning-out-to-be very cool post about what I want for Christmas. Now I am just about out of time for this today and can’t redo it — my gala event for English PEN is tonight, and I have to: print some photographs, get dressed, get the chickens from school, prepare a snack for them, and get Girlish, Boyish, and Baybish’s overnight bags ready for the babysitting that is about to ensue. Baybish won’t actually be spending the night (she needs her mama), but the other two will. It’s going to be a late night, but hopefully also a fun one.

    Tags:
  • 25Nov
    Categories: Me, Weblogs Comments: 9

    Some of my friends have been playing one version or another of this game I will call: Who is your secret boyfriend? After Mrs. G full-on invited me to participate, I just could no longer resist.

    I’ll begin with the absolute top of my list: Mos Def, a man who is handsome, brilliant, and unbelievably talented. I think he is simply one of the most gifted artists of our time: a poet, a rapper, an actor, and capable of moving me both intellectually and emotionally. Listen to Black on Both Sides; watch Def Poetry Jam; see 16 Blocks.

    You can also catch Mos as a regular on reruns of The Chappelle Show, both singing and acting in sketches. Which brings me to Dave Chappelle, who I also love.

    I wish Dave Chappelle was my friend. I find him so charming — his mannerisms, his voice, his accented speech, his sense of humor, his taste in music. I wish he and his wife would come over for dinner and crack jokes around the grill while we bumped mad East Coast hip-hop out the kitchen window. He could bring Mos along, we could all kick it in my back yard.

    Next up, Mark Wahlberg:

    Falls into the category of: just totally does it for me. Don’t know why, unless it’s just the all-American goodlooking bad boy with nice teeth and dark hair. See also, Vince Vaughn:

    God, just looking at all those pictures of Vince just now I got a little warm in all my girly places. This man is so sexy to me because he’s not only dangerously good looking, but also funny. I have a serious weakness for funny. See also, Jon Stewart:

    Who is funny and smart and handsome. A man with a very engaging intellect and a serious commitment to speaking truth to power. He just melts me with all his self-effacing modesty, his dry humor and lightning wit. And he’s short — short men are just utterly enchanting to me — particularly when they’re smart and cute and funny and really good at what they do. Which brings me to:

    Jackie Chan. I read his autobiography, which wasn’t very good, because I am so fascinated by him. He can run straight up a brick wall and balance on a swinging pole on a moving train. His parents essentially left him at an orphanage for boys run by the Chinese Opera. He grew up doing handstands for punishment and other bizarre shit.

    I haven’t moved far beyond my my most basic anthropological impulses in that men who are good at physical stuff get me all hot and bothered, even when they’re not that handsome. See also: funny.

    For a token blonde I’ll say Leonardo Di Caprio,

    although I could’ve just have easily gone with Owen Wilson.

    And even though that’s already far too many, I’ll finish with my longtime crush on John Travolta, who I have had occasionally amazing sexy dreams about since puberty:

    And ah, what the hell, I also had an amazing dream one time about Chow Yun Fat:

    And now I’m feeling bad for leaving out Marlon Brando, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Robert DeNiro, so I’ll throw them in:

    Shit, I could go on. When I started this post I was worried I couldn’t think of enough movie stars to make a post, but now I can’t seem to stop. This was extremely educational — I had no idea I was such a Hollywood whore.

  • 24Nov

    So Wednesday I’m coming home from London Bridge on the overland train around 6:00. The train is packed, it’s pouring rain outside, but I have managed to get a seat. Usually I read on the way home from London Bridge, because the ride is about 20 minutes, and I can lose myself, if only a little, before I have to get off. I have to be careful, though, as I have looked up before to find that I’ve missed my stop.

    On Wednesday I had spent the day working on my teeny-tiny map project for English PEN, and so my nearly-40-year-old eyes were shot. I could not face Bird and his terrible problems, and I could not focus on the printed page on the swaying train. So I pretended to stare into space, and surreptitiously observed the people around me.

    This is what I do on the train.

    The guy directly across from me looked just like my horrid law-school boyfriend, except that this man had brown eyes instead of blue. He was also wearing a wedding ring and carrying flowers for someone, and I wondered if Doug was married yet, if he had any kids. I felt reasonably sure, however, that wherever he was, he damn sure wasn’t bringing anybody any flowers.

    Also bearing flowers on the train was a man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a blond flat-top straight out of the 50s. Because of the configuration of the seats he was facing me, about as far away as someone might be diagonally across the dinner table. He clutched a dozen damp red roses in his fist, the first two knuckles of his hand swollen, the skin reddened and bunched there. I wondered what had happened. Had there been a fight? Had he punched a wall during an argument, maybe, and was now bringing roses to his lover to apologize?

    I played it cool, of course, but I was intrigued. A few minutes later he jammed his free hand in his mouth and bit his knuckles hard, baring his teeth and screwing up his face like someone in pain. When he lowered his hand I saw the same thick red knuckles, and a small crescent-shaped sore, from his teeth.

    And for the next few minutes, I questioned it. It was the kind of bizarre thing you see that makes you wonder immediately afterwards: Did I see that? Maybe I misinterpreted it. But no, a few minutes later he did it again. At least three times more before my stop. Each bite seemed more anxious – more vicious — than the last, and by the time we reached my station I was glad to be getting off. What was he thinking of? Biting someone else? There was unmistakable fury there, although it was impossible for me to tell whether it was directed only at himself, or at someone else. For all I know, this is what your average serial-rapist murderer does on the train to pass the time.

    He got off behind me. Had he seen me watching him? Did he think I knew his secrets now? And even after I saw him entering the cab stand I couldn’t shake that feeling that someone might be watching me, following me, all the way home.

  • 23Nov

    Mommy, are we’re very close to our house now?

    We are. Do you know the name of this street?

    No.

    It’s Cranes’ Walk. Can you say that? Say, We live off of Cranes’ Walk.

    We do?

    We do. Do you know what street we live on?

    Um, Cranes’ Walk?

    No, we live on Taylor Grove. Can you say that?

    We live on Taylor Road.

    Close enough. We live off of Cranes’ Walk on Taylor Grove.

    We live off Cranes’ Walk on Taylor Grove.

    Excellent. Do you know our house number?

    36!

    Oo, that’s very close. It’s 32.

    Right. 32.

    Say, We live at 32 Taylor Grove, off of Cranes’ Walk.

    We live at 32 Taylor Grove, off Cranes’ Walk.

    Very good. And how old are you now?

    I’m four!

    That’s right. When’s your birthday?

    Uhh, Octember 83rd!

    Um, no. Let’s quit while we’re ahead, shall we?

  • 22Nov

    No. I didn’t. I thought about it last night, when I talked to my mom for the first time in 5 months because she was out with my sister doing the last-minute grocery shopping.

    I thought about it this afternoon when Girlish asked if we could have a celebration, and our American neighbors mentioned that they were having dinner guests. I did remember.

    Today is Thanksgiving.

    I didn’t eat turkey. I didn’t eat much of anything, actually. Isn’t that weird? I had my tea this morning–which, by the way, is the initial marker of how the day will go. Did I have my favorite tea this morning when I woke up?

    So, that is one thing I’m thankful for. My tea.

    I am also thankful for my husband, who is really, so very Goodlooking, which is pleasing to me on the daily, and also for the support he gives me every day, in every way. He watches my chickens, he tries (sometimes) with the housework, and he always, ALWAYS flatters and believes in me. It’s a good foundation.

    I am thankful that I talked to my mother last night. We’ve been arguing constantly for months, but only in my head. I haven’t actually spoken to her, but I have been missing her, and thinking about her, and worrying about her for months. And last night she called me and I am glad.

    I am thankful I have such sweet chickens.

    I am thankful for my neighbors, who have been so nice to us. They give us rides to school for no reason at all, other than that they are nice. She’s the one that invited me to the movies, and he has written a book as is working on a novel. He has an impressive bookshelf; I’m hoping I get to read his novel. If he can still find it in his heart to keep writing, after England’s embarrassing display last night at Wembley.

    I am thankful that I am starting at Warren Wilson in January, because I am serious, y’all, I am going to write a book.

    I am thankful that this time next year, we’ll have a new President-Elect.

    I am thankful for grimy magical London.

    So although I didn’t eat turkey, I did remember to be thankful. I didn’t get to be with my family, though, which is what Thanksgiving’s really about, right?

    So, if you’ll excuse me, now I should really go make a couple phonecalls.

  • 21Nov
    Categories: Me Comments: 9

    Seriously. I can’t think of anything. I’m tired of blogging every day, but I want to win a prize. So I’m trapped. And so are you.

    I think I’m going blind. My eyes aren’t as good with little tiny things anymore, and that distresses me. I have to put my glasses on, and take my glasses off, and adjust the lighting. When I shift from looking through the camera to looking out at the actual world, everything’s all hinky. Sometimes it takes my eyes a minute to adjust.

    I think maybe I need to do eye yoga, but I don’t know how. I saw a thing on bossy about eye yoga, where she just totally made fun of it. Which made me sad because I think I really need it. I need to look at the real eye yoga webpage.

    And today on the train I was packed in so closely with people that I could smell their breath. Which is not a cool way to travel. Since I was practically cheek-to-cheek with these people, I analyzed their crow’s feet to see how old I thought they were. Because I am also fixated on and dismayed by my wrinkles.

    I have wrinkles! I never thought I would. This girl on the train today only had the teeniest of very faint crow’s feet, and I remembered how my mom always told me to stay out of the sun and that I was damaging my skin and I could never get it back and that I’d be sorry. And I thought yeahyeahyeah. And now I have wrinkles, and I am sorry.

    When did I get so old? I feel like it happened all of a sudden. I’m almost 40. I can’t believe it. 40 seems like my mother’s age. 40 is undeniably middle aged. I am a middle aged woman.

    Oh my god.

    I am so old.

    Tags: