2/22/09
o que o voce fazendo?
This is what I'm doing.
I went to the AWP Conference last week, so I've been reading these journals. I went to the biggest book fair I've ever seen. 800 tables. 1 table was manned by black people. 1. And 6 or 7 times while I was browsing--I walked by every single table--a nice white lady or two would say--Do you write, and I'd say yes and she would say, "we're looking for marginalized voices," we want to give voice to the women of color (like you), the apostrophized parenthetical. I don't know if you know this about me, ya'll, but I'm black and my snatch is black too. Mostly. Except for the pink park--she's red when she's bleeding.
So I'm reading thee journals, and all of the poems by black women are about erasure and rubbing out the blackness, combating the Bulest Eye Syndrome--violently fighting back. We're ( we meaning the African American women of color) are forced to fight the actions of oppressors 'cause silence still equals consent. I'm so sick of the top tier.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Readings and Music and Books, Oh, My!
I spent the last few days at the AWP conference, and I'm still a little overwhelmed. I walked away with my weight in pieces of paper with stories and poems, non-fiction and memoirs. I shook hands, collected buttons, listened to some of the best contemporary writers in the world. Titillated. Curious. Driven. I felt these things and a lack of focus, like I still haven't found a niche. Still, I have deadlines. I have a deadline in 4 hours. In 6 hours I will be on a stage reading a thing called a poem about a moment or moments or people or a person, and I want to make sure I say something right.
I spent the weekend with a good friend and friends. I drank beer and ate food and lusted after pretty bicycles. I studied portuguese and learned how to say, "Eu sou uma mulher," and I'm beginning to belive it because I am no longer "uma crianca," and I don't want to go back to that. Now I have to look up at "uma ceu azul" and dream grown up dreams, then make them come true. So I'm going to quit procrastinating now. I'll read a poem and then write a poem. Then I'll submit a story. bye bye.
I spent the weekend with a good friend and friends. I drank beer and ate food and lusted after pretty bicycles. I studied portuguese and learned how to say, "Eu sou uma mulher," and I'm beginning to belive it because I am no longer "uma crianca," and I don't want to go back to that. Now I have to look up at "uma ceu azul" and dream grown up dreams, then make them come true. So I'm going to quit procrastinating now. I'll read a poem and then write a poem. Then I'll submit a story. bye bye.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Brazil or Bust/ 25th Birthday Party
| Host: | Maya Marshall |
| Type: | |
| Start Time: | Saturday, January 24, 2009 at 7:00pm |
| End Time: | Sunday, January 25, 2009 at 3:00am |
| Location: | Poitin Stil |
| Street: | 1502 W Jarvis |
| City/Town: | Chicago, IL |
Here's the skinny: DJ PERV spins from 7-10 & intermittently raffles off prizes; Bachelor Auction from 10-10:30; Karaoke from 11-2am; Pool Tournament begins at 7; Dart Tournament begins at 8; Euchre Tournament begins at 9. Buy into it! Come on out.
The Cause: Send Maya to Brazil for 6 months to teach English and serve the Elderly.
I'm preparing for my mid-twenties identity crisis, and I'd like for you to come dance with me. Play pool with me. Be my Euchre partner. Beat me in Darts. Sing Karaoke, win a basket with wine and cheese in it or an hour long massage. Win lunch or a free cut and color by a lovely licensed cosmotologist. Win one of several other prizes. Come have a beer and talk to some folks you haven't seen in a while.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Green Mill
So I'm getting over my fear of reading on stage. As part of this initiative I went to the Green Mill and read a poem I wrote. It received a good response. Here's the poem I read:
She and I are the daughters of top tier abstractions.
I swallow haloed theories of difference. She plucks
strums, fingers nerves like cello strings vying decency
to escape all things traditional. We're glorified young
women free to drink and tromp along glistening Chicago concrete,
gnash teeth at lascivious old men, use our bodies to free our minds.
With a smoke full mouth this semi-Sappho speaks her mind
into sound symbols--syllables meant to concretize abstractions.
She holds my elbow, sure that this way only her feet will hit the concrete.
"I had a baby once, well twice," she admits. She had them plucked
in time to stop their first breathes. She claimed she'd saved her young
fellow the trouble of trying to care. "It's not about decency,
just time and space." I listen: sirens, jingling spokes, "decency."
On the corner a wrinkled woman squats to piss. I wonder what mind
could think this? The young
in the wilderness are in the wilderness everywhere. Flesh is not abstract,
morals aside. Listen. See Sappho push flesh from flesh, too concrete
a liminal breakage. In the alley by my back gate, a little boy is plucking
the face of an action figure. Index nail to plastic. thump. pluck,
pluck. thump. The sound is eighth notes. "Decency"
is not his concept. His is a night of simple destruction: crush plastic into concrete
walk, resume--thump,pluck,pluck. There is no one around to mind.
This little one is alone in an alley at 1 or 2 or 3 am. Abstractly,
I begin to flick the gate--pling, pling, pling--my focus entirely on the young
boy just steps ahead of me. Sappho speaks, "Aren't you too young
to be out here alone?' No response, just--thump. pluck, pluck.
"Are you lost?" His eyes are grey, milky, He looks up abstractly.
"Doesn't your mom want you in bed at a decent
hour?" He turned to leave calling out, "she ain't here, so she don't mind."
She turns her smile on me, laughs, shrugs. I pull the gate, iron scrapes concrete.
He could be my nightmares made concrete,
The epitome of all things frightening about the young.
Too much to hold on to. Too much to keep in mind.
Sappho says, "grab me another drink. Let me finger then pluck
som music out of you." She's on my nerves, but I concede. Decency
degenerates into ambiguity. Whiskey and want cause abstracton.
Tonight I'll make a mistake characteristic of the young.
It would be indecent to deny an artist the chance to pluck
song into creation, to concretize the lush lust, eliminate the abstraction.
She and I are the daughters of top tier abstractions.
I swallow haloed theories of difference. She plucks
strums, fingers nerves like cello strings vying decency
to escape all things traditional. We're glorified young
women free to drink and tromp along glistening Chicago concrete,
gnash teeth at lascivious old men, use our bodies to free our minds.
With a smoke full mouth this semi-Sappho speaks her mind
into sound symbols--syllables meant to concretize abstractions.
She holds my elbow, sure that this way only her feet will hit the concrete.
"I had a baby once, well twice," she admits. She had them plucked
in time to stop their first breathes. She claimed she'd saved her young
fellow the trouble of trying to care. "It's not about decency,
just time and space." I listen: sirens, jingling spokes, "decency."
On the corner a wrinkled woman squats to piss. I wonder what mind
could think this? The young
in the wilderness are in the wilderness everywhere. Flesh is not abstract,
morals aside. Listen. See Sappho push flesh from flesh, too concrete
a liminal breakage. In the alley by my back gate, a little boy is plucking
the face of an action figure. Index nail to plastic. thump. pluck,
pluck. thump. The sound is eighth notes. "Decency"
is not his concept. His is a night of simple destruction: crush plastic into concrete
walk, resume--thump,pluck,pluck. There is no one around to mind.
This little one is alone in an alley at 1 or 2 or 3 am. Abstractly,
I begin to flick the gate--pling, pling, pling--my focus entirely on the young
boy just steps ahead of me. Sappho speaks, "Aren't you too young
to be out here alone?' No response, just--thump. pluck, pluck.
"Are you lost?" His eyes are grey, milky, He looks up abstractly.
"Doesn't your mom want you in bed at a decent
hour?" He turned to leave calling out, "she ain't here, so she don't mind."
She turns her smile on me, laughs, shrugs. I pull the gate, iron scrapes concrete.
He could be my nightmares made concrete,
The epitome of all things frightening about the young.
Too much to hold on to. Too much to keep in mind.
Sappho says, "grab me another drink. Let me finger then pluck
som music out of you." She's on my nerves, but I concede. Decency
degenerates into ambiguity. Whiskey and want cause abstracton.
Tonight I'll make a mistake characteristic of the young.
It would be indecent to deny an artist the chance to pluck
song into creation, to concretize the lush lust, eliminate the abstraction.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Striving and Nausea
The following is a late night e-mail composed for someone I care about.
I had this three hour long conversation today that only felt like an hour. There were mentions of: political platforms, AA meetings, shame, damnation, laughter, love, foreskin, the loss of virginity, moments of fraternity. The thing that is sticking with me is the idea that a person who is happy must strive to maintain that satisfaction by constantly replenishing herself/himself. That is, we must eat, sleep, fuck, laugh, cry, do without until we get more, etc. Further, there's the business of life's purpose being to work where work equals satisfy; if one loves to draw or write or dance, organize or eat grass, and one does these/that thing, then that someone has set about doing the work of life and is sustaining happiness. To be happy is to grow because by consistently supplying one's self with fuel is to change--is to do whatever fills the void. That is work in its most healthful form.
For me institutional changes are invaluable, because it is during the transition periods that I find what I have and lack and need. So when I change my home and my job or just when I travel/change my pattern, I find out little daunting and crucial things. I don't like to eat grass, but I love trains. I don't need grand gestures, I need the comfort of sharing minutia. My heart likes to be grounded and constantly moving. When I write about myself now, I do so without referencing people that I care about. Perhaps as you send off two of your loves you can send them with letters in their hands about how you've best learned to be happy--sated. I'm sure you'll use your own definition
(your ability to find this is part of your beauty), and then they'll be engaged in conversation with you as they take off. It would be rude not to answer, no? *Poof* a paper bridge between your heart and theirs.
Still, the transition is a rough one. Being more alone makes me feel like I'm preparing for another pubescent phase--I feel like I'm at the part where I have to redefine all of my terms because they're relevant only to the people/places/things in my life that are changing all at once. It is a type of nausea, a sea sickness that stays until you get your legs. It seems to me that you're in a phase like this--will I have a new job? Will some friends become closer as other move toward different bodies of water? The beautiful part is all of the living that happens just before we get a hold on things--just before we finish defining our terms. Those are the feelings we're fully experiencing--all of those sensations without specific terms. These are the conversations that friendships are made of, no matter how far away our bodies are.
It is late, and while I can feel what I'm trying to say, I suspect that I haven't made it all very clear. I told you that I would write to you. I told you that I like to spend time thinking about you while I'm doing something for you. So, I've written, and I'm glad. All I really wanted to say to you, specifically, is that I hope you don't feel more alone in the world, because no matter where they are you've got people loving and thinking about you.
I had this three hour long conversation today that only felt like an hour. There were mentions of: political platforms, AA meetings, shame, damnation, laughter, love, foreskin, the loss of virginity, moments of fraternity. The thing that is sticking with me is the idea that a person who is happy must strive to maintain that satisfaction by constantly replenishing herself/himself. That is, we must eat, sleep, fuck, laugh, cry, do without until we get more, etc. Further, there's the business of life's purpose being to work where work equals satisfy; if one loves to draw or write or dance, organize or eat grass, and one does these/that thing, then that someone has set about doing the work of life and is sustaining happiness. To be happy is to grow because by consistently supplying one's self with fuel is to change--is to do whatever fills the void. That is work in its most healthful form.
For me institutional changes are invaluable, because it is during the transition periods that I find what I have and lack and need. So when I change my home and my job or just when I travel/change my pattern, I find out little daunting and crucial things. I don't like to eat grass, but I love trains. I don't need grand gestures, I need the comfort of sharing minutia. My heart likes to be grounded and constantly moving. When I write about myself now, I do so without referencing people that I care about. Perhaps as you send off two of your loves you can send them with letters in their hands about how you've best learned to be happy--sated. I'm sure you'll use your own definition
(your ability to find this is part of your beauty), and then they'll be engaged in conversation with you as they take off. It would be rude not to answer, no? *Poof* a paper bridge between your heart and theirs.
Still, the transition is a rough one. Being more alone makes me feel like I'm preparing for another pubescent phase--I feel like I'm at the part where I have to redefine all of my terms because they're relevant only to the people/places/things in my life that are changing all at once. It is a type of nausea, a sea sickness that stays until you get your legs. It seems to me that you're in a phase like this--will I have a new job? Will some friends become closer as other move toward different bodies of water? The beautiful part is all of the living that happens just before we get a hold on things--just before we finish defining our terms. Those are the feelings we're fully experiencing--all of those sensations without specific terms. These are the conversations that friendships are made of, no matter how far away our bodies are.
It is late, and while I can feel what I'm trying to say, I suspect that I haven't made it all very clear. I told you that I would write to you. I told you that I like to spend time thinking about you while I'm doing something for you. So, I've written, and I'm glad. All I really wanted to say to you, specifically, is that I hope you don't feel more alone in the world, because no matter where they are you've got people loving and thinking about you.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Published Review
Not my best work, but I didn't have the best raw materials. Here's my latest review.
http://www.talesofourtime.com/novelreviewexcerpts.html
One must start somewhere.
http://www.talesofourtime.com/novelreviewexcerpts.html
One must start somewhere.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Bender
I don't know if spring is traditionally the time for bittersweet breakups and sudden and ill advised hookups, but this one has been for me. Celibacy, take me and do with me what you will.
My lungs hurt from smoking to keep my hands busy and my mouth shut. I have bills. Lots of bills. Bills that I can't pay. I've been looking for an office job for 3 months with no luck, and now I have to take a food/beverage job just to make my payments. I already have a job and an internship, and I've already done the three job thing. It makes me miserable. It make me want to crawl into a hole and forget that I ever loved anyone. I'm totally disinterested in reliving that type of life. After 6 years of school and $100,000 dollars, I can't find gainful employment. It is not for want of trying. I know that no one is going to pay me for my stories. They're not polished enough. I'm just asking to teach kids how to write poems or to copyedit dry business texts. Jeeez.
I've been drinking (which may be becoming synonymous with thinking) a lot lately about the early twenties (I've been thinking about the mid twenties, really. I am in my mid twenties. I am an actual adult with opinions and a home, but no sustainable job. No retirement fund. No property.). So, world of youth and older, I pose this question to you: what do I do? Write. Yes. I am doing that right now. No, Marshall. Write a book. Take all six of those stories and revise them. Then write six more. Right. This is what I say to myself before during and after the drinking. Well, where can I hide it? Cyberspace works. Now, instead of writing a story, here I am journaling about alcohol and jobs and debt and credit and a girl with nice tortoise shell looking glasses and long hair who wants to share intimate secrets may or may not be deep/ profound. But this is how I see that working out: poorly.
My lungs hurt from smoking to keep my hands busy and my mouth shut. I have bills. Lots of bills. Bills that I can't pay. I've been looking for an office job for 3 months with no luck, and now I have to take a food/beverage job just to make my payments. I already have a job and an internship, and I've already done the three job thing. It makes me miserable. It make me want to crawl into a hole and forget that I ever loved anyone. I'm totally disinterested in reliving that type of life. After 6 years of school and $100,000 dollars, I can't find gainful employment. It is not for want of trying. I know that no one is going to pay me for my stories. They're not polished enough. I'm just asking to teach kids how to write poems or to copyedit dry business texts. Jeeez.
I've been drinking (which may be becoming synonymous with thinking) a lot lately about the early twenties (I've been thinking about the mid twenties, really. I am in my mid twenties. I am an actual adult with opinions and a home, but no sustainable job. No retirement fund. No property.). So, world of youth and older, I pose this question to you: what do I do? Write. Yes. I am doing that right now. No, Marshall. Write a book. Take all six of those stories and revise them. Then write six more. Right. This is what I say to myself before during and after the drinking. Well, where can I hide it? Cyberspace works. Now, instead of writing a story, here I am journaling about alcohol and jobs and debt and credit and a girl with nice tortoise shell looking glasses and long hair who wants to share intimate secrets may or may not be deep/ profound. But this is how I see that working out: poorly.
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