melting off the back porch

Have you ever felt the ground start to tilt, a signal of a moodiness coming? If it is to be compared to anything,
then compare it to a storm approaching–the kind you can watch roll right in and blow through trees one at a time. A
marching line of rustle and bending, a choreographed movement of prayer and submission–it’s a fight between eerie
and beautiful. I compare it to that, some approaching blues or sadness.

So I’ve been a little “off” this week, a loneliness I haven’t had the energy nor desire to fight. It’s okay. I enjoy feeling,
you know. Which is the irony of dealing with chronic pain and depression–life is learning a dance between relishing
and loathing this thing I crave called feeling. Today was the day that all preparation of approaching
sadness came to use, as I crashed and crashed hard. I’ve shuffled a worngroove from bed to couch to bed to couch to
bed again. I drifted off again and again and felt damn well delirious at one point, bouncing from dream to dream as if I
was simply looking through a stack of photographs. All of them were sadness. When awake I sat there with them
weighing on my body, a sort of sagging in the heart. This feels like the most of it–the storm has wandered offto the
left and I’m coming up like out of water.

A necessary day, but a wasted one nonetheless. I’m ready for so many things. I’m ready for a new week and a better
mood(less lonely, more focus), more writing–lately that’s all I want to do(I want to sink my life into a pot of ink–want
to be the feather end dipping in, the words coming out in beats of three and dripping wet. If not writing, then what?
Then nothing). I’m ready for more melting, the slow dip and climbing tease of temperature, more soon-coming spring.
Finished revolving around the release, as letting go is not a stagnant stage(and I cannot be slowly opening a palm
forever). It’s time to forward. Shake feathers dry. Be light.

obligatory snow picture

Snow and snow and snow. That’s been going on. The storm hit the Friday before last,
andevery day since then, something’s been falling from the sky. I tweaked my knee while
navigatingthrough the stomped down white, so I’m stuck wearing a giant brace on my right leg
this week(it’s a wonky sprain). The side effect: an interesting social experiment. Plus
I have to walk a lot more slowly. That’s different.

The doctor appointment? Went well. The mole looks benign and the doctor told me I
don’t have to remove it at this point, unless I want to. I think I’ll keep it for a while. I have to get
blood work done to check my thyroid. Also, anemia may be an issue. I can start the
paperwork for FMLA. I said it once and I’ll say it again: I’m thankful for such a wonderful,
attentive medical team. I’ve been feeling(and doing) a lot better because of their support.

Writing = full of surprises. My poem in [out of nothing] is about to be published(authors
were allowed to see the preview issue to check format and such). Open Thread Review
accepted a poem for publication–it will appear in their second print anthology.
Today I sent in my manuscript of poetry for the RADAR productions contest. A winner
receives 25 print copies of the poetry and the opportunity to read at an event in San Francisco.
I plan to record by the first week of March. Sister Spit is coming to town in April(!!!), and
I’m still working on out-of-town dates for the summertime. It’s been a slow and
steady fall/early winter for me–most of my focus stayed on my classes, so writing progress
dimmed a bit. I did some groundwork, and submitting lots of work for publishing consideration.
Doing so, and being accepted, has really helped me let go of the critical eye. I’m used
to approaching my work with an almost dismissive nature when really? I need to give myself
more credit(I cannot be afraid of that). I love to write more than anything, and I’m thankful
for the ability. So I’m feeling pretty good about it right now. Now to push out the sex
anthology, and piece together my next book.

Last but certainly most important, my sister found out what she’s having. A boy! I will have
a niece AND a nephew, and I’m over the moon. Everything looks good and she’s healthy,
and that’s all I care about. My family is so important to me, and I’m so glad that I have a
sister to look up to. She’s tremendous, and I can’t wait to meet the newest addition(coming in July).

When I get ready to read a book, I better have back up. That means at least one book of poetry
to accompany any longer nonfiction or fiction work I’m trucking through. My intake requires a balance.
Also, as a poet, I want to stay in a constant state of study. Going to readings, dragging my finger
over unique structures I admire, and losing my mind over new discoveries. Like the first
book pictured above, “Crush” by Richard Siken. I’ve mentioned his name to few poet-loving friends
and they all nod in agreement and understanding. Perhaps I’m behind the time. I have Marty
McConnell to thank for the discovery(she asked the readers of her journal to name their
favorite queer poets, and Siken’s name appeared in multiple comments). So thank you, Marty.
I read 4 of his poems and sent him a message immediately to let him know how much I
appreciated his work. That’s another thing I’m working on with words: giving credit loud and
instant when it’s due.

Other books in the picture above, stacked beneath Siken: “Wellspring” by Sharon Olds. Renee
gave me a gentle nudge in checking her out, and I studied her work for a project in poetry class
last semester. I’ve read two of her other books and I’m already swept away by this one.
Knowing how little she reveals outside of the page(in regards to her childhood and past) makes
her words even more stunning and intense. Good poetry is like being knocked over and not wanting to get up.

Next is “It’s So You,” edited by Michelle Tea. Various individuals contributed to this collection to
discuss personal style. Including Eileen Myles, my favorite. I will read anything that Tea is involved
with, honestly. But first, the book beneath that: a collection of letters between Vita Sackville-West
and Virginia Woolf. Oh. My. Goodness. Joseph described it best by calling it a “torrid love affair.”
Expect more entries on here in regards to the book as I delve deeper into it. Vita is such an interesting
spirit–the introduction refers to her as almost being “professional” when it comes to breaking
up marriages and having intense affairs with other women. She adores Woolf’s writing, and
Woolf takes to her because she is very mothering. I love knowing that “Orlando” was written with
Vita in mind as Orlando–that it is a book referred to as “the longest love letter ever written.”
Every time I start reading, I think of my dear friend Jess and how much she loved Virginia Woolf’s
work. I owe the exposure to Jess and Jess alone.

In between various housekeeping things, I started rolling my plethora of change tonight. I’m
tipping $120 and I still have a ways to go. Who knew? Change seems so random and everywhere
and not mattering too much. But oh when you archive it…the currency really shows itself.
I guess the word “change” is appropriate here.

In other news: another doctor appointment tomorrow. This one is a check up, some various
tests, and I’m going to see about getting this mole on my chest removed. For as long as I can
remember, I’ve had a beauty mark smack dab in the middle between my breasts. Two other
women in my family have one in the same place, which is kind of funny. However, mine is the
biggest, and I think I spy the first two or three warning signs of the ol’ “time to get the thing removed”
handbook. I’m used to seeing it, but parting won’t be such sweet sorrow–piece of mind
acquired is much better. Be done with it.

I have a busy, busy weekend in front of me(including a documentary on the Paris ballet), running
parallel to the warning of a snow storm coming our way. As usual, people are getting very excited
and anxious about the promise of severe weather, understandably so. I prefer to just wait and
see though. I’ll put on my boots and deal with it. It’s February, so I’m not surprised, and I’m
not disappointed. Spring is next. It’s coming, no matter how much people complain and detest the
current temperatures. It’ll pass.

That’ll do. And now, to bed.

In the news last week, I fell over an article about Heidi Montag and her plastic surgery. She’s quite proud of it, and quite
forthcoming with the information–yes she spent tons of money to change her face, yes she had TEN procedures
done in one day and spent about $30,000 to do it, and yes. She would do it again.

And that’s all I will say about it. For the rest of this entry I’m going to praise the process by which we age. Naturally.

Access to Life is a collaboration between the Global Fund and Magnum Photos–eight photographers shoot 30 people in 9
different countries before & after antiretroviral treatment for AIDS.

Massaman Keïta, 31 and Fatoumata Camara, 20 (Farmers)
Read more about their story here

Igor Tereshenko, 24 (construction worker), St. Petersburg, Russia

Like many among the “lost generation” of young Russians cast adrift into an insecure future after the collapse
of the Soviet Union, Igor, former construction worker, was a heroin addict. He knew he had been infected by a dirty needle,
but wasn’t sure when, and found out that he was HIV-positive in 2003, while in prison serving a three-year term for
stabbing one of two men who had attacked his wife on the street. (In a sad postscript, his wife was murdered the day
before Igor was released from prison.) Igor remained healthy for years after his diagnosis but contracted pneumonia
in early 2007. Then, in the summer of 2007, he became paralyzed from the waist down after injecting heroin. At the St.
Petersburg Municipal AIDS Center, doctors told him he had suffered a spinal injury of some sort (Igor claimed the ambulance
team had beaten him up). The condition forced him to lie motionless, leading to the development of massive bed sores.
In fact, doctors discovered he was suffering from a cancerous tumor. Igor’s parents were both strongly supportive. His
mother became a cleaner at the hospital, which enabled her to sleep in his room at night and provide constant care.

Igor has begun antiretroviral therapy four months before his death on March 18, 2008, from cancer. Although he had made
excellent progress with relatively high CD4 count (his immune system had strengthened) and an undetectable viral load, his
doctors decided to discontinue his ARV treatment when they realized that he would soon die from his inoperable spinal tumor.

View more photos from the collection and read individual stories here.
Select individual countries to watch a narrated photo essay for every location. Extremely powerful stuff.

I’m reading some poetry on Thursday night with a line up of other awesome writers. Here’s the flyer, stop by if you can!

Here is John Maloof’s explanation of how he acquired the photography of Vivian Maier:

I acquired Vivian’s negatives while at a furniture and antique auction. From what I know, the auction house acquired
her belongings from her storage locker that was sold off due to delinquent payments. I didn’t know what ’street photography’
was when I purchased them.

It took me days to look through all of her work. It inspired me to pick up photography myself…After some researching, I
have only little information about Vivian. Central Camera (110 yr old camera shop in Chicago) has encountered Vivian from
time to time when she would purchase film while out on the Chicago streets. From what they knew of her, they say she was a very
“keep your distance from me” type of person but was also outspoken. She loved foreign films and didn’t care much for American films.

Out of the 30-40,000 negatives I have in the collection, about 10-15,000 negatives were still in rolls, undeveloped from the
1960’s-1970’s. I have been successfully developing these rolls. I still have about 600 rolls yet to develop. I must say, it’s
very exciting for me. Most of her negatives that were developed in sleeves have the date and location penciled in French
(she had poor penmanship)…She was a Socialist, a Feminist, a movie critic, and a tell-it-like-it-is type of person. She
learned English by going to theaters, which she loved. She wore a men’s jacket, men’s shoes and a large hat most of the
time. She was constantly taking pictures, which she didn’t show anyone.

I found her name written with pencil on a photo-lab envelope. I decided to ‘Google’ her about a year after I purchased these
only to find her obituary placed the day before my search. She passed only a couple of days before my inquiry on her.

To read more about Vivian and see more of her brilliant photography, click here to go to the site.

(i’m posting this after reading about vivian on sweet juniper, another very-favorite blog which you can find in the links on the right side of my site)

I recently told the story about being a “punk rocker” for Halloween one year. I think I was 7 years old. My grandparents
belonged to a CB club and every year they had a costume contest for the kids. Various age groups. That year, my sister dressed
up as Minnie Mouse and, if I remember correctly, won her age bracket. I did not win. I wore a striped skirt with a polka dot
top with equally loud tights and little shoes. I had glow-in-the-dark clip on earrings that pinched my lobes(oh those things
hurt like hell) and my eyes were itchy from the make up(I have this vivid, oh-so clear as day memory of standing in line for the
contest, rubbing my eyes violently while my grandmother leaned over to tap my arm and said, “Quit rubbin’ em!”).

The best part about this memory, however, involves my (ex)stepfather Jeff. He insisted on helping me do my punk rock make
up. He made me close my eyes and I couldn’t look until he was finished. Jeff never picked on me really, but he was a big practical
jokester, he he was happy to make me the target of these practical jokes on more than one occasion(case in point: the
time he put a rotten banana in my bookbag without telling me, and then sent me to school, where the banana proceeded
to stink up the entire classroom). So instead of doing my make up in any sort of fancy and/or “punk rock” way, he
simply drew all over my face. Some color here, some scribbles there, some sort of pentagram-like thing on the forehead.
And then he said, “okay, open your eyes,” and I did. And I yelled “JEFF!” But too late–we had to go. No time to wash it off.

Happy Halloween.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been working with cognitive therapy. Here’s a simple way to put it:
I’m learning to change my thought process, to work myself out of the well-worn grooves
of negative thought. I’m goingto be honest and tell you that I’m not very good at it. Not yet.
It’s kind of like learning to play an instrument. Youcan’t just pick it up and be magical and have
a verse-chorus-verse complete with dreamy interlude and devastatingstrum. You
have to practice. You start with the scales and you do them over and over until you can’t see
straight.Then you force yourself to do them some more. You work your way into it. A process
that commands patience. Oneof the most difficult forms of patience is the kind you have to
have with yourself. Hence my jerky, sputtering start.

My therapist insisted that when I walk through a doorway, I tell myself two things. Two basic
things which one,maybe, shouldn’t have to tell themselves. I say maybe because it isn’t
always a given. I walk through a doorway and tell myself: I am a lovable person; I am a
valuable person. It’s a belief that I have to hear from me—when my therapist suggested
this I was quite irritated and angry. I didn’t understand it because I didn’t think I could
do it. That is, until, the first time I did it. And even right now I lean back and forth slightly between
making this entry something private, or making sure anyone can read this. My growth might
strike you as ridiculous, but I’ve got to quit caring about that. See, you can put weight
to things—on purpose and on accident. And some things carry a weight we aren’t aware of
until we try to lift them, until we put them into our hands and try to step forward. That’s
the best way I can say it. No pivotal beam of sunlight found me instantly. No trumpets sounded.
But with my next step I believed it. You wouldn’t believe how many doorways one walks
through in a day, until you start counting.

I’m going to say it until I can’t see straight. Then I’m going to walk through some doorways
and say it some more. This isn’t for you, or for this, or for that. This is for me. In some ways,
this is for everything because sometimes one change can trigger a long line of necessary.