This morning I woke up and realized that today/tomorrow is my official 8 year anniversary.
Eight years of being in the city of Pittsburgh. This is, of course, an important milestone to
acknowledge, and I’ve been sitting at work today thinking about how I might talk about
it here, in the space I use to talk about things.

In thinking about this, I started thinking about the place that I left, and the people I knew
there. I started googling names of poets I used to see on a monthly basis–the hearts you
witness breaking, the ones who witness the demolition of your own. Eight years here means
eight years not there, and on some days it is still strange to me. Where does
that time go? What does that time mean?

I started googling old names and places and collectives we started and loved with our entire
selves for the short duration of their lives. I found old websites and words and faces, and
then I stumbled onto a source which lead me to a source which lead me to realize that Jack
Bowman passed away this summer. A little over a month ago, actually.

My eyes started to well up and I did not expect that. I didn’t really know Jack, though I
knew of him, and he was one of the first people I met when I started driving myself to
Dayton once a month to read my poetry. He wanted to take me under his wing but I felt
outof sorts about that–I was still pretty shy and only nineteen and he was much older. I
didn’t want to be under anyone’s wing, or part of anyone’s movement because I was trying to
make my own. We hung out a couple times in the poetic circles–I recall clearly the day he
signed my copy of Strike! in Barnes&Noble, with Randy sitting between us. Randy who
he knew from past embarassments and events–like the time he was kicked out during
a bookstore reading for using profanities too much; Jack had scrawled the word “SLUT” across
Randy’s forehead before he went up to read in a red, red lipstick. They told me the
story and laughed about it. I remember that day with a clarity that absolutely confounds me.

I didn’t really understand Jack’s work. Like I said, I was young. I think he was into shock,
attention, and thought. He had a hand in everything at once, guided other young poets to
the stage to shock as well. Some of it was startling or strange but seemingly part of something
meticulously planned. I’m not sure how to explain it. Jack seemed to always be thinking, inventing.

We were not close and so the tears upon realizing that he had died were kind of surprising.
At first. It didn’t take long for me to see the connection of my emotion to him: sometimes
an individual, sometimes someone that isn’t even a main character, can end up representing
so much to you. That man represented my entrance into a new world, into a new city and a new art. He represented the fever and insanity and sadness of my relationship with Randy. I think of Jack, I think of Dayton. I think of the pictures taken during the living room reading, walking to the yard with my shoes in my hand, Jack passing the wine. I think of the group of people I befriended, the bar and the microphone, the ends the ends the ends.

I consider briefly the question: if this person is a representation of so much to me, what happens to all of that “so much” when the representation passes away? Is that time simply something that started fading the moment I left it behind? When so much of it changes(as in all of it), and you keep it living in your memory…then a person from that time, that memory, passes…well, it seems to drop a rock through the middle of the picture. Perhaps this sounds confusing. Maybe we remember things in a certain way, as they were,and it is this against our current life–it is this against the changing. The reality. In life we go through so many of them.

Jack Bowman passed away on August 5th. As soon as I get caught up remembering all that he represents to me(that time in my life, that city, individuals), I realize that he also represents a human life. He dedicated himself to creation and expression–one of those people you expect to be around for a good long while if not forever. I won’t say much because there isn’t much I can say. The news of this pulled something out of me, something I need to think and write more about. Where else can this go? I hope you’re resting well with your ancestors, Jack. Here is a poem by Jack called “My Spring Shadow.”

My Spring Shadow

I sit on a park bench on my patio
The bright spring sun in my eyes
In front of me
On the patio floor I see a shadow
It is my shadow
Reflecting from the sun
A sun reflected off the patio doors
Glass doors behind me
Doors that kill birds
That try to fly into the sun
Our past is always reflected from behind us
Casting shadows before us.

I don’t really say much at all about what sites I visit, what blogs I follow, etc. It’s a wild
little mix. I’ve been following a few of them for months, maybe even weeks–some? For years.
Case in point: dooce.com.

I can’t remember how I stumbled upon Dooce initially, but at the time Heather(the author of
the site) was still living in L.A, was not yet married, and had no children. Now she’s married and lives in
Utah with her husband and two daughters–Leta and Marlo. So yeah, I’m a bit of a loyal reader.
Why? Because Heather is a great storyteller, and she is able to take her life and relay it to
others in an entertaining fashion. Because she struggles with depression and I can relate to that.
Because I admire her bravery and her humor. Her site? It’s a good time. Let’s just say I enjoy
it for many reasons. The source of my enjoyment isn’t really the point of this entry.

Heather has made a living from her website, which is phenomenal–a prime example of amazing
things you can do with the internet and the ability to communicate. Click here to read her story. Her readers
are all over the place, and large in number. So you can imagine the amount of feedback she must get–
feedback which includes what one could easily call “hate mail.”

Hate mail makes very little sense to me. I guess it means being so enraged with whatever is
making you mad that you just HAVE to tell the source. Personally, I think that somewhere in the far faaaar
recesses of the person’s mind, they know they have little ground to stand on in regards to their
anger. There are people with genuine complaints, but I’m talking about individuals that email you just
to say “you’re ugly” or “you are raising your kids completely wrong” or “you are stupid.”
And yes, people email Heather with this bullshit.

I want to be eloquent when explaining how that makes me feel, but sometimes feelings are best summed up with simplicity: it’s gross.

Heather, however, is awesome and decided to do something with her hate mail. Instead of just filing it
away, she’s putting it out there–on a page riddled with various ads so that the hate aimed
her way ends up making her some change. In her latest entry, she explains:

Anyway, while all this is going on people are sending me messages going, dude, do you see what is being said about you over here and over here? Oh, and right there in your comments section? And I’m all, no, but I can guess. Is it something about the way I look? My chin perhaps? The mole in the middle of my forehead? Is it about what I’m wearing, how unflattering it is? Or how I’m an awful mother? Or how I’m exploiting my children for money? Or how I love Marlo more than I love Leta? Or how my husband must be gay? Because it’s all been said. Every awful thing you can say about a human being, it’s been said about me and my family. Over and over again, like a broken record, and I guess with the intention that it will at some point hurt me so badly that I will throw my hands in the air and give up.

And I’m sitting there feeding Marlo, my abdomen wrapped in a bandage SO THAT I DON’T GIVE HER CHICKEN POX, and I’m reading an anonymous comment calling me an asshead, and suddenly I remember that conversation I had with Heather. And I’m like, you know what? I’m going to let that anonymous comment help pay for the therapy that Leta is so desperately going to need once she finds out what awful things I’ve said about her on my website.

Internet, let me introduce you to Monetizing The Hate.

Here I will be posting all the hate mail I get in my inbox and all the hateful anonymous and
not-so-anonymous comments left on this website. And let me tell you, it is a hoot!
And the money? OH THE MONEY! I am going to roll around naked in all that money!
Because that’s what assheads do!

Also, for your convenience, I’ve added a link to this project at the top of the page in the navigation bar, so you can stop by at any time and see the artful way that insecurity unfolds via the anonymity of the internet.

I read a few of the hate mail entries posted and really couldn’t believe it. Why do people talk to other people like this? Especially to people they do not know, have never met, and cannot physically see? What is it about the internet that brings out the bully in others? Is it the fact that someone is putting themselves out there and finding success from it? Are individuals that bothered by another person’s success and/or livelihood? Would these same people say those hurtful things in person? Do people feel their opinions are somehow validated when they are “out there” on the internet? I’m thoroughly confused. I’m also intrigued by how much attention someone will give something that makes them so angry. If you don’t like the site or the content or the person behind it(for whatever reason), then why not go to another site and never come back? That’s pretty simple, right?

So yeah. I made this entry to post the link to Heather’s Monetizing the Hate page. I think it’s a brilliant move on her part, plus I’m a longtime reader so why not share some love? Also, I think the things people say are pretty gross, underhanded, petty, and downright pathetic. I’m not advocating meanness, but I think it’s important for others to see just how absurd some people can be when it comes to the internet.

click here for Monetizing the Hate

Changes, changes, everywhere. Please be patient with me as I tweak and re-tweak and get too busy for the tweaking and then tweak too much or too little, in regards to this site. The changes are a work in progress(here and elsewhere). Soon soon soon, I promise!

unplugged performance in the shallow end, july 2009

I am busy making changes. Wonderful, tough, and necessary changes.

On a not so parallel path under a different shifting of circumstances today would’ve been number eight. The eighth birthday of my kid.

[Here is where I type a sentence, hit backspace, start typing again, and hit backspace once more. Rinse and repeat.] (more…)

Soooooo basically, I find out if I can get the apartment today. I thought I’d post, put the request for positive thought out into the ether. Here’s hoping.

The vigorous parts,
the crook of you that spills
bent back commas like
the broken necks of cilia
flattened gold wheat
of your drums beating back;

Instinct:
to defy and protect,
to hold all parallels accountable as
the rebel in me
slathers another brick in spit
pulls another retraction
curls under the swivel of light.

on the horizon,
spinning mountains with sprawling veins of dirt
leading back to here
while a callused & urgent palm
presses me forward.
The hips whine when I
halve at the middle,
roll my heart in the mud.

Just a quick note to say: substantial update coming soon. Life’s busy, it’s summertime–you know how it goes. You have my word. Update soon.

Iranian footballers punished for opposing Ahmadinejad

Members of the Iranian national football team who showed their support for protestors against the re-election of President Ahmadinejad have been penalised by the regime according to the latest reports.

In a World Cup qualifier last week against South Korea, members of the Iranian football team wore green wristbands to express their solidarity with the hundreds of thousands of people who were protesting against what many have condemned as a rigged election.

Their silent but very public protest was seen a show of support for rival candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi, whose campaign colour was green. The players were told to remove the wristbands for the second half of the game.

According to reports from Balatarin the footballers in the protest have now had their passports confiscated and have been banned from giving media interviews. A number of state newspapers in Iran are also believed to be waging a public campaign pressuring the football authorities to force the players into early retirement.
source

For some reason, when I do not update for a long time or I do so sparingly, I feel the need to apologize and explain myself. Which is just silly, I know. I came back from Ohio with every intention of updating about my birthday weekend(and I will, I’m sure), but upon my return I came down with a nasty sort of viral/flu thing which I have yet to kick. So I’ll try to post something substantial as soon as things aren’t so fuzzy.