I've been working on Ghost Story recently. It came out of nowhere, but that little piece I wrote in workshop struck something deep, and so I've been trying to do something with it.
I made a little headway. But I was doing something I often find myself doing: I'm great at setting the scene, the atmosphere, but when it comes to writing what happens, I suck. It's almost like I want to write stories with no plot. I just want readers to infer the plot. I kept asking myself, "What's this story about?" "What happens?" And every answer feels wrong and contrived.
Then it hit me. I'm writing around the story. There's something really scary about actually writing the story...the real one...the one that's asking to be written. It's about stuff I don't even like to think about. That I've told no one. And I guess I don't want anyone to be hurt by it when it's written down.
But now that I know what the problem is, I've decided to write the story, and perhaps I'll never show it to anyone. Maybe I will. Who knows. But at least it will be written.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
How I love Jane Kenyon
This poem says it all. If I've been delayed with responding to your e-mail or phone call, now you know why...I'm stuck under the rubble.
Indolence in Early Winter
A letter arrives from friends. . . .
Let them all divorce, remarry
and divorce again!
Forgive me if I doze off in my chair.
I should have stoked the stove
an hour ago. The house
will go cold as stone. Wonderful!
I won't have to go on
balancing my checkbook.
Unanswered mail piles up
in drifts, precarious,
and the cat sets everything sliding
when she comes to see me.
I am still here in my chair,
buried under the rubble
of failed marriages, magazine
subscription renewal forms, bills,
lapsed friendships. . . .
This kind of thinking is caused
by the sun. It leaves the sky earlier
every day, and goes off somewhere,
like a troubled husband,
or like a melancholy wife.
--Jane Kenyon
Indolence in Early Winter
A letter arrives from friends. . . .
Let them all divorce, remarry
and divorce again!
Forgive me if I doze off in my chair.
I should have stoked the stove
an hour ago. The house
will go cold as stone. Wonderful!
I won't have to go on
balancing my checkbook.
Unanswered mail piles up
in drifts, precarious,
and the cat sets everything sliding
when she comes to see me.
I am still here in my chair,
buried under the rubble
of failed marriages, magazine
subscription renewal forms, bills,
lapsed friendships. . . .
This kind of thinking is caused
by the sun. It leaves the sky earlier
every day, and goes off somewhere,
like a troubled husband,
or like a melancholy wife.
--Jane Kenyon
Thursday, November 09, 2006
On blogging
It's curious...the things that get commented on, and the things that don't. Most of what I post here is poems, bits of writing from my writing practice, drafts of stories, and I don't get many comments on those. I'm not sure why. Maybe because people don't feel comfortable for some reason. (Or my worst fear is that I'm boring the crap out of you.) I get lots of comments on my rants, which is fun.
I've wondered about those bloggers who get double-digit comments on a single post. What does that mean? Do I have to go out and comment on other people's blogs to get comments on mine--like--is it a communal thing? Do I have to start up blog relationships? Or do I just have to write about more scandalous things, like excrement? (Not to knock it...for a good, fun, raunchy blog-romp, don't miss Gone Feral.)
Maybe I will. A completely new and inappropriate direction for Tchotchka Palace. Stay tuned...
I've wondered about those bloggers who get double-digit comments on a single post. What does that mean? Do I have to go out and comment on other people's blogs to get comments on mine--like--is it a communal thing? Do I have to start up blog relationships? Or do I just have to write about more scandalous things, like excrement? (Not to knock it...for a good, fun, raunchy blog-romp, don't miss Gone Feral.)
Maybe I will. A completely new and inappropriate direction for Tchotchka Palace. Stay tuned...
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Five things I could write about but I'm too tired to take the time
1. My obsession with making pumpkin muffins.
2. T's obsession with his new cell phone.
3. The dream I had last night where I was trying to fly to Mexico but forgot to renew my passport.
4. The rain.
5. The election.
2. T's obsession with his new cell phone.
3. The dream I had last night where I was trying to fly to Mexico but forgot to renew my passport.
4. The rain.
5. The election.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Everyone laughed at the second sentence
Just four walls at the top of a long stairway. The perfect attic turret for a madwoman to pace before she throws herself down the stairs. Window panes radiate the chill of the night inward. Condensation runs down the glass to hunch on the sill. Brown, heavy curtains can't decide whether to open or shut. They hang uncertain of their future, their purpose.
The light is bright--too bright--it exposes every crack and flaw, every seam and joint. It beats down relentlessly and drowns out the soft sounds of traffic. It sits up in the corners of the ceiling, watching, waiting for something to happen.
The light is bright--too bright--it exposes every crack and flaw, every seam and joint. It beats down relentlessly and drowns out the soft sounds of traffic. It sits up in the corners of the ceiling, watching, waiting for something to happen.
Monday, November 06, 2006
A poem for you on the eve of the election
Let My Country Awake
Where the mind is without fear and the head held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
-Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Where the mind is without fear and the head held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
-Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Sunday, November 05, 2006
E. said I should document my life
And it was a good reason to blog everyday, I agree. Except when I have days like today. I began the day with the worst conversation I've ever had with my mother in my entire life.
Should I even go into the details? The short of it, is that she's known for some time that T's dad was at the courthouse with us when we got hitched. Although I asked him to keep quiet about it, dad-in-law apparently blabbed on and on about it to my parents, making my mom felt excluded and unimportant.
Granted, I umderstand why she feels this way. It's because she has a traditional notion of weddings. You get married in front of your family. It's a family affair, and if you don't have family there, well then it must mean that you don't like your family.
I feel even more strongly about it than I did then, that a wedding...our wedding and our marriage...is too personal and intimate to have observers. I don't regret not having her there. All I regret now is that we didn't wait to do it until T's dad went home. I just let it all happen and I should have known better than to rely on the "it was coincidence" excuse.
I'm just pissed that now, my marriage, is about her. About my excluding her. I'm pissed that I'm feeling guilty about it, and fearful that I'm some sort of freak show who has emotional issues, and I'm pissed that here I am again for the umpteenth time in my life asked to put her needs ahead of my own. I'm pissed that I'm constantly asked to live up to someone else's standards, even though they are not my own. Goddam, and I'm pissed at T's dad for not having the sense to keep his mouth shut.
I heard about this guy...this American Arab...not sure if he's a citizen or not but he's been in the US for a long time (yes...this relates, I assure you). And some how he got on the terriorist watch list. Not just extra security checks, but major restrictions on his life. At least for a while. Until he decided to document the daily minutia of his life online. He's made his life publicly transparent. Now, the government leaves him alone.
It's a genius solution on his part, but disturbing at the same time. No privacy. Nothing you can keep to yourself. Is it the American mentality? Or human nature that the masses don't like individual secrets? I feel like Winston Smith from 1984, where I'm struggling to keep that one, small thing to myself. Just a thought, a feeling that I hold alone. Have you ever tried to keep a secret, or ask someone to keep a secret for you? How long did that last before they outed you, or you felt compelled to come clean? Or someone finds out and it becomes a huge insult to them, even though you never intended it to be one. Maybe not even a secret...just something you didn't want discussed. You just want it to be without sharing it? That's how I feel about T. My truest, deepest feelings about him are not to be discussed. They are for me alone.
Should I even go into the details? The short of it, is that she's known for some time that T's dad was at the courthouse with us when we got hitched. Although I asked him to keep quiet about it, dad-in-law apparently blabbed on and on about it to my parents, making my mom felt excluded and unimportant.
Granted, I umderstand why she feels this way. It's because she has a traditional notion of weddings. You get married in front of your family. It's a family affair, and if you don't have family there, well then it must mean that you don't like your family.
I feel even more strongly about it than I did then, that a wedding...our wedding and our marriage...is too personal and intimate to have observers. I don't regret not having her there. All I regret now is that we didn't wait to do it until T's dad went home. I just let it all happen and I should have known better than to rely on the "it was coincidence" excuse.
I'm just pissed that now, my marriage, is about her. About my excluding her. I'm pissed that I'm feeling guilty about it, and fearful that I'm some sort of freak show who has emotional issues, and I'm pissed that here I am again for the umpteenth time in my life asked to put her needs ahead of my own. I'm pissed that I'm constantly asked to live up to someone else's standards, even though they are not my own. Goddam, and I'm pissed at T's dad for not having the sense to keep his mouth shut.
I heard about this guy...this American Arab...not sure if he's a citizen or not but he's been in the US for a long time (yes...this relates, I assure you). And some how he got on the terriorist watch list. Not just extra security checks, but major restrictions on his life. At least for a while. Until he decided to document the daily minutia of his life online. He's made his life publicly transparent. Now, the government leaves him alone.
It's a genius solution on his part, but disturbing at the same time. No privacy. Nothing you can keep to yourself. Is it the American mentality? Or human nature that the masses don't like individual secrets? I feel like Winston Smith from 1984, where I'm struggling to keep that one, small thing to myself. Just a thought, a feeling that I hold alone. Have you ever tried to keep a secret, or ask someone to keep a secret for you? How long did that last before they outed you, or you felt compelled to come clean? Or someone finds out and it becomes a huge insult to them, even though you never intended it to be one. Maybe not even a secret...just something you didn't want discussed. You just want it to be without sharing it? That's how I feel about T. My truest, deepest feelings about him are not to be discussed. They are for me alone.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
48 Things You Could Care Less About
Aw man...I already failed this NaBloPoMo thing by missimg a day. Oh well. I didn't have much to say anyway. I'm going to eek through today by lifting a meme from E.
1. FIRST NAME? Kablammie
2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? I've always wished for a good story to tell, but alas, no.
3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Two weeks ago in the middle of my writing group. I was reading a short piece I had written out loud, and all the sudden foumd myself crying out of control. It was as if one person wrote the piece, and another totally different person was reading it. What I mean is that while I was writing it, I didn't feel emotional at all about it.
4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? If I have the right pen, yes.
5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCHMEAT? Ewww.
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? I ask myself that all the time. Maybe, but I'd think I was a pain in the ass.
7. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Yep.
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes.
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? I think I would.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? I used to love Golden Grahams as a kid. I have trouble eating cereal now. It makes my tummy unhappy.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Sometimes. But it takes too much time.
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? I call T. to open pickle jars.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? Come on! Chocolate.
14. SHOE SIZE? 8.
5. RED OR PINK? Huh?
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My obsessive self-doubt.
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? E., D., my bro, S.
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? Steal if you must.
19. WHAT COLOR PANTS, SHIRT AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? I'm in my pjs right now.
20. LAST THING YOU ATE? Pumpkin pie and champagne.
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? The last thing I downloaded on iTunes was a Nike running mix. 45 uninteruptted minutes of beats. The other day, I listened to a CD of ghost stories from Art Bell's radio show.
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Aquamarine.
23. FAVORITE SMELL? Pine needles on the forest floor.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? T.
25. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE YOU ARE ATTRACTED TO? Rebelliousness, height,.
26. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON you stole THIS from? Love her!
27. FAVORITE DRINK? Non-alcoholic: Irish breakfast tea with milk and sugar. Alcoholic: fruity/sour concoctions.
28. FAVORITE SPORT? Triathlons
29. EYE COLOR? Blue/gray
30. HAT SIZE? Big. I have no idea.
31. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Glasses.
32. FAVORITE FOOD? Right now, I'm hot on middle eastern foods like hummus and tabouli.
33. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? These questions are getting silly.
35. SUMMER OR WINTER? I'm more energetic in winter. It's the scandinavian in me.
36. HUGS OR KISSES? Depends who is giving them. Mostly hugs.
37. FAVORITE DESSERT? Chocolate chip cookies.
38. WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Dunno
39. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Don't know...
40. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING? Crescent, by Diana Abu-Jaber and The Poetics of Space by some french dude.
41. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE Pad? A black bump for resting your wrist.
42. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV? Lucky me...I didn't. I wne to a fun party instead. But I'm obsessed with DVDs of All Creatures Great and Small right now.
43. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Rivers and streams, cats purring
44. ROLLING STONE OR BEATLES? Beatles
45. THE FURTHEST YOU'VE BEEN FROM HOME? Barcelona
46. WHAT'S YOUR SPECIAL TALENT? I've got a green thumb and animals like me
47. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? DuPage, Illinois
48. WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Stole it from E.
1. FIRST NAME? Kablammie
2. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? I've always wished for a good story to tell, but alas, no.
3. WHEN DID YOU LAST CRY? Two weeks ago in the middle of my writing group. I was reading a short piece I had written out loud, and all the sudden foumd myself crying out of control. It was as if one person wrote the piece, and another totally different person was reading it. What I mean is that while I was writing it, I didn't feel emotional at all about it.
4. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? If I have the right pen, yes.
5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCHMEAT? Ewww.
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? I ask myself that all the time. Maybe, but I'd think I was a pain in the ass.
7. DO YOU HAVE A JOURNAL? Yep.
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes.
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? I think I would.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? I used to love Golden Grahams as a kid. I have trouble eating cereal now. It makes my tummy unhappy.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Sometimes. But it takes too much time.
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? I call T. to open pickle jars.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? Come on! Chocolate.
14. SHOE SIZE? 8.
5. RED OR PINK? Huh?
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My obsessive self-doubt.
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? E., D., my bro, S.
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? Steal if you must.
19. WHAT COLOR PANTS, SHIRT AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? I'm in my pjs right now.
20. LAST THING YOU ATE? Pumpkin pie and champagne.
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? The last thing I downloaded on iTunes was a Nike running mix. 45 uninteruptted minutes of beats. The other day, I listened to a CD of ghost stories from Art Bell's radio show.
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Aquamarine.
23. FAVORITE SMELL? Pine needles on the forest floor.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? T.
25. THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE YOU ARE ATTRACTED TO? Rebelliousness, height,.
26. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON you stole THIS from? Love her!
27. FAVORITE DRINK? Non-alcoholic: Irish breakfast tea with milk and sugar. Alcoholic: fruity/sour concoctions.
28. FAVORITE SPORT? Triathlons
29. EYE COLOR? Blue/gray
30. HAT SIZE? Big. I have no idea.
31. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Glasses.
32. FAVORITE FOOD? Right now, I'm hot on middle eastern foods like hummus and tabouli.
33. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? These questions are getting silly.
35. SUMMER OR WINTER? I'm more energetic in winter. It's the scandinavian in me.
36. HUGS OR KISSES? Depends who is giving them. Mostly hugs.
37. FAVORITE DESSERT? Chocolate chip cookies.
38. WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Dunno
39. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Don't know...
40. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING? Crescent, by Diana Abu-Jaber and The Poetics of Space by some french dude.
41. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE Pad? A black bump for resting your wrist.
42. WHAT DID YOU WATCH LAST NIGHT ON TV? Lucky me...I didn't. I wne to a fun party instead. But I'm obsessed with DVDs of All Creatures Great and Small right now.
43. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Rivers and streams, cats purring
44. ROLLING STONE OR BEATLES? Beatles
45. THE FURTHEST YOU'VE BEEN FROM HOME? Barcelona
46. WHAT'S YOUR SPECIAL TALENT? I've got a green thumb and animals like me
47. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? DuPage, Illinois
48. WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? Stole it from E.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
One a day
It's NaBloPoMo...national blog posting month. (When I told T. he asked "Who decides these things?" I dunno. This person did. Some blogger somewhere decided it and it spread like a virus.) It's sort of a take off on NaNoPoMo where people try to write a novel in a month, but instead, you write a post every day.
Not sure whether I'm committed or not to posting everyday. Maybe I'll make like an Oregonian and commit now, but flake out later. (Ha. That's supposed to be a funny.)
Not sure whether I'm committed or not to posting everyday. Maybe I'll make like an Oregonian and commit now, but flake out later. (Ha. That's supposed to be a funny.)
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Ghost story
I am upstairs, alone in my room, alone in this whole big house. My window looks out over the back yard toward a stand of glittering trees caught in the moonlight. It's light is so bright it x-rays the whole house and makes the walls dissapear. I am a toy-sized doll spotlit on the second floor, my fear transparent.
This house makes me do things I know are crazy. I run up the stairs away from nothing. I sleep with a crucifix under my pillow. I leave the light on all night long.
I talk to her. "I don't want to see you," I say inside my head. I don't need to say it out loud.
I think about her sometimes--my stepbrothers' mother who died in this house. I think she is here. I know it, and I imagine she sits at the edge of her sons' beds and watches them sleep.
But they aren't here now, so she has nothing to do but stand outside in the hallway and watch me. She looks at me and wonders what I'm doing there in that room and makes me think twice about crossing the hall to the bathroom.
That's where she is. In the stairways and the halls. She stands at the threshold and never crosses over.
My whole time, I hardly remember any one else in that house. I know they were there, but what I recall are rooms without people. I knew the contents of every drawer and box because I spent my time searching through them. I cataloged the whole house--the linens, the candles, the old clothes, the heavy box of coins in my stepfather's drawer. I went through them and then back through them looking for what I might have missed, what had not appeared before.
And it makes me think now that she was sending me where she couldn't go. Placing in me the desire to open up closets and dig through to satifsy her own curiosity. How much of her was still there, how much was gone?
This house makes me do things I know are crazy. I run up the stairs away from nothing. I sleep with a crucifix under my pillow. I leave the light on all night long.
I talk to her. "I don't want to see you," I say inside my head. I don't need to say it out loud.
I think about her sometimes--my stepbrothers' mother who died in this house. I think she is here. I know it, and I imagine she sits at the edge of her sons' beds and watches them sleep.
But they aren't here now, so she has nothing to do but stand outside in the hallway and watch me. She looks at me and wonders what I'm doing there in that room and makes me think twice about crossing the hall to the bathroom.
That's where she is. In the stairways and the halls. She stands at the threshold and never crosses over.
My whole time, I hardly remember any one else in that house. I know they were there, but what I recall are rooms without people. I knew the contents of every drawer and box because I spent my time searching through them. I cataloged the whole house--the linens, the candles, the old clothes, the heavy box of coins in my stepfather's drawer. I went through them and then back through them looking for what I might have missed, what had not appeared before.
And it makes me think now that she was sending me where she couldn't go. Placing in me the desire to open up closets and dig through to satifsy her own curiosity. How much of her was still there, how much was gone?
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