Let’s talk about our feelings.

{whoosh}

That’s the sound of men rushing out of the room. Almost ten years of marriage and I’ve finally learned the quickest and surest way to find alone time: What are you thinking about, darling husband? Tell me what you’re feeling.

So. Feelings. Other than the bone-crunching desire to slice off the penises of Penn State powers-that-be.

Nervousness. Hi-ho, hi-ho it’s back to clinic I go in a few days. I’m working through  my nerves with deep breathing calming images denial lavender tea a few good books.

If writing is one of the great pleasures and necessities of my life, reading is the place where it all began.

My family once road-tripped through the US. I spent the entire  vacation curled up in the back of the wood-paneled station wagon with a pile of books. My mom and dad begged me to look out the window. I insisted I was looking out of a window.

My beloved fifth grade teacher would go to the public library and handpick books she thought we’d love. I’ll never forget the feelings of excitement and pleasure on the days she came into class holding her canvas tote bags filled to the brim with hardcover selections. I’m sure the bags were heavy and I’m sure she worried about library fines, but she gave us that joy every two weeks.

Poet and writer Edward Hirsch does a good job explaining the feelings I have for reading:

Reading has been a deeply liberating experience for me. Like many of us, I feel as if it has given me most of my interior life and delivered me to myself. It has also taken me to extraordinary places where I otherwise never would have traveled. 

I’m also feeling fortunate. I’m lucky to have the virtual company of a circle of women who share these consuming passions with me. About two weeks ago,  I received a letter and a gray bracelet in the mail from Teri. The bracelet is stamped with three letters: FTF. Finish the fucker. This bracelet is gas in my tank, sun on my seeds, a little love incubator for my literary hatchlings. The bracelet is rumored to have magical powers which I can solemnly attest to…since receiving this gift I’ve had two more pieces accepted for publication! Forgive the exclamation point and know that details (and links!) are forthcoming. Finish the fucker, indeed.

A few days after I received the charmed bracelet, I opened my mailbox to find a manila envelope from MSB. Inside of the envelope was a book of poetry by a poet whose work was completely unfamiliar to me. I leaf through his pages and find myself submerged in another world, feeling grateful for another “window” to look out of and grateful to know someone who sees a treasure chest between two paper covers and thinks of me. Even better, MSB’s gift came with a card made out of one of her black and white photographs. Two loaves of salt-dusted baguettes. I feel nourished.

As if all of this isn’t enough, I kid you not, today my magical mailbox contained another gift. (Yes, I’m feeling sort of embarrassed by this shower of love). This recent gift puts a bit of a tangle in my secret admirer theories. Last time I received a book in the mail, I had no idea who sent it but I thought I had a hunch. To this day the secret admirer remains a mystery. But this time (evil laughter), though the gift was sent practically anonymously, I know for sure who sent it.  Days like today make me turn my gaze skyward, not in lament but in disbelief that I should be the recipient of so much love and blessing. My heart buzzes, not just for the joy of a new book which I can’t wait to dig into, but for the heart with which it was sent and the heart who sent it. Thank you.

And now I’ll let you go with a book recommendation:  The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. Not only is Teri a wizard who knows how to concoct bracelet spells, she also knows how to pick a damn good book. I love it. I’m not quite done with it because I’m sipping slowly. I don’t want it to end. I allow myself a few pages, a little nip, every day. When I hold it I feel like I’m holding hands with a long-lost friend. It’s woven out of history, Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera, Trotsky, Mexico, food, cooking, class warfare, art lovers, book lovers, screaming monkeys, guns, intellect, heart, a love letter that made me cry, friendship, longhand communication, an aspiring writer, broken hearts, and love sweet love. I’m a spinning top, giddy in love with this new book.

Ah, feelings.

——————

Today’s poem is for reading.

Dostoevsky by Charles Bukowski

against the wall, the firing squad ready…

Tunnels and vehicles.

I sat down to write a blog post a few days ago updating my sinus situation and as I wrote, all I could think was I’m sitting down to write an update on my sinus situation? It made me poof-haired crazy. Has it come to this? Writing about the clogged tunnelage in my little melon of a head? I decided several things.

1. I’m a deficient CF blogger. I write about CF, the daily huff and puff and the corollary emotions. But I prefer to keep a comfortable distance from the uglier aspects for everyone’s sake. There are several CF bloggers who have more guts and less vanity than I do and who are able to write about the ravages of the disease in a sensitive yet honest way. I praise them and I thank them, because many of those blogs lifted me out of the cystic fibrosis quicksands with information and the comfort of knowing I’m not alone. But I realize I am unable to write a “CF blog”. I get shrill. I get teary. I get grossed out. I hate myself a little bit extra. And anyway, it becomes difficult to write a CF Blog when I refuse under penalty of self-inflicted death to never ever use the word p.h.l.e.g.m. in a sentence, so help me God.

2. My sinuses do not require an entire post. Surgeon Number 1 swaggered into every appointment wearing scrubs and the musky scent of egotistical pride for having developed a less invasive method for sinus surgery (balloon sinuplasty). He began every appointment with genuine amazement to see me standing there (still alive!) and ignored me when my insurance refused to cover the surgery. For once in my life, I actually felt thankful for coverage denial, because it forced me to get a second opinion.

I went to meet Surgeon Number 2 armed with a sinus battle plan courtesy of Noan. Surgeon Number 2′s exam was thorough (did I mention the first surgeon didn’t bother to look in my nose a single time?); he took over an hour and a half, but spent most of the time listening and creating a mutually agreeable plan of action. He agreed I was in need of surgery, but felt the conventional  method of sinus surgery was the only method which would actually benefit my small and inflamed sinus passages (balloon sinuplasty would have lasted a few months at best). The good doctor gave me several weeks of treatment with oral antibiotics, steroids, and nasal spray. All of this occurred a few months ago and the treatments helped a lot. Unfortunately, it seems the improvement was temporary because soon after the therapies ended, I returned to a stuffy nose and burning cinder headaches. I have an appointment next week to reassess.

The story has not ended yet, but I’d say the moral is to trust yourself if you have a bad feeling about a doctor. Find a better one. There’s no reason to seek treatment from a doctor you don’t trust, or worse, dislike. Medical treatment consists of medicine and treatment– human interaction and relationship. The most important lesson I learned though is that if I must have an eight inch  metal scope pushed down my nostrils, it helps so much when the young medical fellow who is learning how to properly scope has coffee colored skin, green eyes, and a delightful English accent. I asked ten times, Is it in? Is it in? Not quite yet, you’re doing great, just lovely. Just lovely indeed. I think of scopes now and I smile.

3. Illness is not a muse. While I was reflecting on the foot-dragging resistance I felt against writing a medical update, I realized CF is not a topic I explore in poetry. Not one single poem is about CF. Lungs make occasional appearances, but the disease? Never. I’m sure it’s there in the spaces, between the lines, or casting a shadow over the words. Maybe CF is the dirt from which the words grow. But I don’t find the disease inspiring or worthy of ink on my page. As Rafael Campo writes in his fascinating article about illness as muse:

The only way we can defy our own mortality is through acts of the imagination, by creating the stories and sculptures and paintings and poems that will outlast us, but that will always be animated by our will to have created them. Even our greatest scientific discoveries can be understood in this way: they are not truly ends in themselves, by which we can ever hope to explicate away our suffering, but are rather part of the same process of dreaming and desiring, wishing and wondering.

Illness is simply a means of transportation. It’s a vehicle which drives me closer  to the precipice of life and death, the greatest show on earth. The swizzle of life and death, mingling and steaming and frothing, constantly and simultaneously unfolding within every living thing (yes! in your body too! this very instant!). I’m not interested in the means of transportation; I’m interested in the view: the thin little string that keeps us here, inhaling, exhaling, multiplying, decaying,  swinging back and forth, swinging swinging like a pendulum, maybe amazed and maybe not by the wild cacophony.

——————

Today’s poem is for knowing nothing.

Looking West from Laguna Beach at Night by Charles Wright

I’ve always liked the view from my mother-in-law’s house at night,

Oil rigs off Long Beach….

Country.

Right now S is driving North on the grapevine, on the road for another work trip. He was given a free upgrade at the car rental place this morning, the sun is shining, and traffic is light so he has lots to whistle about. He’s headed to the Central Valley: land of Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, “cowboah” boots, sweat, migrant workers, our Poet Laureate, and the agricultural heart of the West.  After a full day of meetings my NPR- listening, left-leaning, tree-hugging, civil rights-fighting man wants to soak up some country. He’ll take off his suit jacket, loosen his tie, unbutton the button at his throat, and lean back with a cold brew at the Crystal Palace. And even though I’m a jealous, petty woman whose imagination bubbles and froths, I know he won’t find a skinny, pretty little sugar in a too-short skirt and heeled boots to clink glasses with. He’ll be nodding to the rhythm of twang and strum all by his lonesome.

—————

Today’s Poem is for the Valley, where “poetry sprouts like weeds”,  for iced tea and whatever it is that quenches your thirst.

A Red Palm by Gary Soto

You’re in this dream of cotton plants..

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*Want to know more about the Valley? I found this fabulous blog.

Pocketfuls.

A Native American ceramic pot, a guide to jellybeans, sweatpants. These are a few of the gifts my sweet traveling husband has brought back to me because he doesn’t like coming home empty-handed from business trips. He travels to small college towns and his schedule is crammed with meetings, so with little time to browse, he usually ends up finding something in the university bookstore or the airport. I appreciate the gifts (the sweatpants have become my go-to item on cold, sick, or PMS days) but I appreciate the thought behind them even more. Still, we made a joint decision to put a moratorium on the trinket purchases; I know he loves me and I don’t need a lavender spice rub (lavender on meat?) to tell me so. A few months ago, though, S put a moratorium on the moratorium and returned from a trip with a present.

The university bookstore is following the trend of many college bookstores today, and is transferring their book sales to an online distributor. The university book store will no longer sell books. What will they sell, I asked S. Granola bars and teddy bears apparently. I’m dumbfounded, and the gift is bittersweet. Every book in the store (there were few left by the time S got there) was reduced to one dollar. I’m not sure if I should be celebrating or mourning this bargain. S lugged home eight books of poetry- he bought almost every book of poetry that was left. I was familiar with a few of the names, but the work was all new to me. So I’ve been digging through them, finding some gems and discovering the work of poets I probably would never have taken the time to explore. All for 8 bucks. The best gift, though, is the man who will scour deserted and forlorn book racks to find gems for his wife.

Another gift came via email yesterday when a friend emailed to ask for poetry book recommendations. She wants to buy her husband his first book of poetry and is not sure where to start. I was delighted to be able to help and to be included in a small way in the celebration of their love. It thrills me to know that people are talking about poetry and the discussion is leaking out of the blog forum into our daily lives. Last week I had lunch with my dear friend M. Same time, same place, same drinks, same meal (except M stepped to the wild side and ordered fish tacos instead of her usual). We gabbed and laughed, and even talked about a poem I posted a few weeks ago. I love how poetry clears a pathway to topics that might not typically be discussed. A poem is successful at the point where it stops being just about the poet, and becomes about the reader as well. A poem is a meeting place between writer and reader, and when the poem is shared with others the meeting place becomes a community, a gathering, a shelter from solitude.

And a final gift this morning: my mother came by this morning and gave me a book. My mom took an early retirement after my brother had his bi-lateral lung transplant. After retirement and after my brother’s recuperation, my mother devoted herself to pursuing interests she never had the time for, such as art and dance. The thing about my mother is that she succeeds at whatever she devotes herself to, so she became a successful artist and dancer. But recently she has been wanting to work again. So she put her suit back on and got herself a job. And all of this to say: she’s been going through old work books and materials and found an anthology of poetry about leadership which she surprised me with this morning. I’ve been leafing through it and I already adore it.  It has some poems I’ve never read before as well as some of my most beloved; but I especially appreciate it because each poem was submitted by a community leader as a piece which carries them and which they carry in their daily lives and work. Poetry put into action, read daily, used daily by teachers, administrators, mental health workers, congresswomen, pastors, mothers, you and me. Find a poem you love and put it in your pocket, then put a poem in someone else’s pocket.

I don’t think I’ve asked you yet: what’s your favorite poem?

———————-

Today’s poem is one of the poems in the anthology. Today’s poem is because you do not know, and will never know, your own diameter.

The Diameter of the Bomb by Yehuda Amichai

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters….

Silent as a…

Mouse? No. Mice are quite loud. They scamper and click their way through this world. They nip at the corner of the cereal box. When you’re alone at home, listening, this sound can feel as noisy as the pound of a sledgehammer.

If you listen well, not listen hard, as the act tends to be called, but listen open, everything makes sound. Even silence, or the absence of sound, can thrum in your ears with energy. My silence these past days has been loud, churning with thought and energy. I’d say I’ve been silent as a turtle. Thinking. Silent as a clock, ticking. Silent as a snake, waiting.

Some of you are aware of what occurred after my last post— a ripple of incidents, one leading to the next like a Rube Goldberg machine. I edited comments and removed the poem link because I was notified by a dear reader to a strongly worded comment on the blog I linked to. The poet commented to express annoyance that his work was posted entirely and without permission. I am now communicating with the poet and actually quite fond of him;  but this series of events got me thinking (and worrying) that all this time I’ve been sharing something which might not be mine to share: the work of others.

I believed that promoting the work of writers I adore and “spreading the gospel” of poetry is a good thing. I believed that if someone falls in love with a poem or if a single book of poetry is sold because of a poem I’ve linked to here, I’ve done a good job. I believed I was respecting the work of poets I admire by linking to poems rather than posting the entire poem. I don’t receive any benefit from sharing poems other than the joy of passing on love. Some poets might even appreciate it. But the smidge of guilt I felt upon reading the poet’s comment regarding reprint permission niggles at me, and I can’t deny the feeling of heartburn and dread.  I’m tangled up wondering what the right, true thing to do is, if such a thing as “right” and “true” exists.

I wonder what Rilke or Rumi would say about this.

The truth is I’m not really sure where to go from here. Should I cease posting links to the work of others? Am I taking something that doesn’t belong to me and giving it away? I love poetry. It sits inside of me, at the core of who I am, and I want to share it. Because poetry is generally not a commercial endeavor nor a commercial success, the rights, work, and meager profits of poets must be carefully protected. But for those very same reasons, successful work should be shared and celebrated. So I’m in a bit of a moral quandary.

My heart has a thumbtack in it right now: no poem today. I may have reached the end of lizislifelines in its current incarnation. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to post a link to a published poem of mine. Until then, or until my heart knows where to go, I’ll sit in silence and wait. Thoughts, ideas, and suggestions are welcome.

All creation holds its breath, listening within me, because, to hear you, I keep silent. -Rainer Maria Rilke

Ice cream is turned out back.

One could compose an autobiography mentioning every memorable meal in one’s life and it would probably make better reading than what one ordinarily gets. Honestly, what would you rather have, the description of a first kiss or of a stuffed cabbage done to perfection? -Charles Simic

Even though the place I live sometimes makes me cry, there are certainly more than a few pockets of fun that make living here bearable wonderful. The Ramos House Cafe is one of these magical palm-frond-becomes-a fairy-wand pockets.

Ramos House is located in San Juan Capistrano on a tiny, weed-lined road, so narrow that two cars going in opposite directions must decide which one is going to pass first. Train tracks border the restaurant and the neighboring houses date back to the 19th century.  It’s a warm, inviting place with no indoor seating: all tables are set on the patio, and it’s cozy even in winter when guests can shawl themselves with heavy  blankets. It’s casual but pricey, so we only eat here about once a year, saving it up special like a first day of school outfit. The charm would feel hollow as a rusted watering can if the food wasn’t good. But it’s delicious. It’s the kind of food your mama would feed you if she was an incredible cook with a great sense of humor and a lot of extra time to bake fall-apart fluffy biscuits served with soft butter and strawberry jam, to cure her own salmon, and to bottle her own balsamic vinegar, thick as slow syrup.

The menu is printed each day, but the front always remains the same:

The idea of Ramos House is simple. Like the old days, its owner lives and works at the house. The wines are kept in the cellar, the herbs are grown in the garden and the ice cream is turned out back. The menu changes daily and everything is made from scratch. Welcome to my home, John Q.

(hover mouse over picture for caption)

Here’s the thing. I write odes to the desert and pray to the gods of graffiti to be redeemed from a fate of suburban purgatory and now I’m taking you down a dusty little back road; confusing, I know. But everything that grabs me has a common denominator: the ability to make me think and feel. The people and places and things I love all share the ability to spark me out of a numbingly soft, cotton ball-plain existence. Poetry does that. It opens the window to fresh images, provides new eyes with which to see the world. There’s something interesting or heart-thumping or laughter-inducing or mind-rearranging to see this very moment, even in the suburbs.

Locate yourself. Anything interesting to see or hear right now? Please feed this hungry voyeur.

Water is dark at night, and other ignored headlines.

You know the neglected headline I’m referring to, right? The anti-sensationalist news.

Philip Levine named next U.S. poet laureate.

I know this headline doesn’t grab much attention, but in our house it did. S was about to board a plane to head home from Humboldt County when he texted me: about to take off. did u c who the new poet laureate is? guess! someone you recently mentioned. that’s the only hint…

Not much of a hint, my love, when I come drooling every other day with another poem you must read now.

But we had been talking about Mr. Levine only a few weeks ago when I mentioned to S that if I had the chance, I’d move to Fresno just to study with the man. Of course my magical mind love had nothing to do with Philip Levine’s appointment as poet laureate (maybe a little? no?), but I’m celebrating as if I had nominated him myself.

I’ve been waiting for the right moment to post today’s poem, one I’ve long-loved. It makes me a little less afraid of swimming in the dark.

Belle Isle, 1949 by Philip Levine

We stripped in the first warm spring night

and ran down into the Detroit River

to baptize ourselves in the brine…

34.

This is how I celebrated 34 years of this life…

Los Feliz/a neighborhood in Los Angeles named for a land grant owner/feliz in Spanish means happy/can’t hear the name without thinking of happiness/coffee free birthday upgrade/blue sky afternoon for lunch with loves/pickle plate because i love my salty/mexican coke in glass bottle and hoegaarden/a bookstore worth loving/dinner with mother father brother angel S/laughinglaughinglaughing/have you ever tried to get your family to all fit on one chair for a picture/funny face pictures/kisses from S/story from the angel/presents/phonecallsmessagescards from friends near and far/facebook wishes peppered the day with exclamation points/crap maybe I’m not the loner I’ve always considered myself to be/sunshine and rain: love pouring down on me/(fuck you 37)/wrote: my birthday felt like a memorial/but so much better because I am alive to feel the love.

A few highlights…

A poetry section not relegated to the dark corner in the back.

Pickle plate at Umami. Mmmm salty!

Refreshment.

The token insane lady. Insanely happy.

I felt loved.

How fun indeed.

———————-

Although I hope to harass you indefinitely with mind dribbles and “today’s poem”s, today’s poem is the poem I’d give you if this birthday would be my last.

Moose In the Morning, Northern Maine by Mona van Duyn

At six a.m. the log cabins

nose an immense cow-pie of mist

that lies on the lake…

Sandcastles.

To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.- William Blake

Yesterday we went to the mall to buy a pair of shorts for the angel. The store didn’t have any shorts, but they were fully stocked in sweatshirts and back-to-school gear. The countdown to the end of summer and beginning of school has started. Didn’t we just finish counting down to the end of school and the beginning of summer? I won’t join this countdown because I want my now.

I don’t always want my now. The end of summer brings with it an autumnal adherence to clock and calendar, shorter days, and a tumble down whatever meager distance I’ve managed to climb on Health Mountain. December is dark. January finds me at the bottom of the mountain, heaped in pieces and hungry for air and energy. I wish I could accept and fully inhabit all the moments of my life, but rough roads and darkness send my mind traveling to the past, the future, and anywhere but the here and now.

Now, though, I am here. And summer isn’t over. So I’m moving slowly, trying to make summer last as long as possible.  I’m enjoying the long light and scooping the sand of small pleasures into my little plastic bucket of a heart. Storing up for winter.

Where are you today? Are you wanting your now? 

———————-

Today’s poem is for nothing.

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz by Alicia Ostriker

As if there could be a world

of absolute innocence

in which we forget ourselves…

Found.

Another innocent tree has died because of me. You see, I had a ridiculous inane absurd challenging burst of inspiration: compose a poem by utilizing the search terms that lead people to my blog. A found poem. It seemed like a great idea at first but it’s difficult to attempt a finely wrought creation with phrases like “girls gone wild”, “wild and freaky spring break”, and “sex statistics 2011″. It’s interesting to observe how people stumble upon my blog. I’ve written here before about blog stats, traffic, and the way these relate to sex  but it never ceases to amaze me that apparently, the majority of traffic to my blog comes from sex fiends and perverts. Not you, though. Of course not you.

So back to the sacrificial tree. I wrote and crumpled about 50 sheets of paper, but instead of alleyooping the crinkled-chip legal pad sheets straight into the purgatory of the recycling bin, I decided to uncrumple a few of the ideas and share some of my failed attempts with you (actual search terms are in italics)…

The most solid attempt was the poem about the older couple at the movies: they’re waiting to see Midnight in Paris, shoulders touching, her hair is smooth and gray (cat gray, pebble gray), she holds the tub of popcorn with the potholder of her cold palm; all of it– the hair, the wrinkled hands in the tub of buttery popcorn, the touching, his frequent need to get up and pee– all of it, a celebration of surviving. Found poem, strike 1.

Next attempt was the poem about a young couple divorcing: the husband leaves to go fishing for the first time while she tends to their young son who is sick with a sinus infection for five days, the bactrim isn’t helping, her life feels like a zoo frenzy but what do you pack for a day at the zoo she wonders (the first aid kit is useless with injury of the body and of the heart), no answers in reply to questions, the couple is apart, scared, and angry, standing on opposite sides of the fault line. Clearly, this is strike 2.

I had some fun with the poem about  the couple that meets on spring break: she has sex with various men (Chuck, Charles, Stanley) and then one night she meets Frank. There’s a dark moon, a deep sea, and she’s prettier without her glasses. She tries to help him with the condom and he yells calm down, I f’in got this. A wild and freaky spring break indeed. Strike 3 for me, for Frank, and for the girl who is prettier without her glasses (she came home from Spring Break with an STD).

It’s easy to see that found poetry is not my forte. So why am I playing with the found poem this week? Because I’m a little bit lost. A little dried out. A little unsure and a little doubtful. I need to take a couple of weeks to uncrumple myself and smooth my creases. I  have some projects at home to take care of, some doctors appointments, and some decisions to make. I will also be strengthening my poetry muscle in a workshop with a poet, Kim Addonizio, who I have long loved. I received an email from Kim on July 4th weekend letting me know I had been accepted to join her workshop. I have read her work, appreciated it, studied it (especially this book of poems); and there I was, exchanging emails with Kim like no big thing. The holiday’s zoom snap crack of fireworks matched my buzzing heart.

I’ll be back here in a few weeks, as soon as my “wild and freaky” summer break ends. In the meantime I hope you find delight in the most unexpected places and treasures in your trash heaps; I hope you stumble your way to unplanned adventures and fill your pockets with stories to tell.

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Today’s Poem is for the many nights we’ve lain here like this.

The Numbers by Kim Addonizio

How many nights have I lain here like this,  feverish with plans,

with fears, with the last sentence someone spoke, still trying to finish…