Four jobs you’ve had in your life: JC Penny gift wrapper, stock boy, green house worker, intake worker for abused children.
Four movies you could watch over and over: Home for the Holidays, Boys on The Side, Peter Pan, Camille Claudel.
Four places you’ve lived: Haiti, Maine, Belgium, England.
Four TV shows you love to watch: 7th Heaven, Gilmore Girls and sadly that is about it. I watch both those things with my daughters. I don’t watch much t.v.
Four places you’ve been on vacation: Switzerland, Denmark, Mexico, Nova Scotia
Four websites you visit daily: radish king, dictionary. com, google and posey galore.
Four of your favorite foods: sushi, cheesecake, steamers and spinach
Four places you’d rather be: at a beach on the Atlantic ocean, Paris, Istanbul and Seal Island…this list could go on for about three miles.
Four (POEMS) you can’t live without: Anne Sexton’s Her Kind; Margot Schillip Manifesto; John Colburn’s Burning Up and everything by Paul Celan (don’t make me pick a poem)
Tag: Laurel, Lee and Ali
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Friday, January 13, 2006
swim
I am beginning to realize that I am one of those people who can make an incredible amount of movement and not actually GO ANYWHERE—I do not consider it a gift.
My daughters love this story:
When Olivia was four she almost drowned. I was nursing Isabel behind one of those glass mirrors, during swim lessons. The instructor wanted the class of three and four years old to jump in the deep end of the pool. The teacher had them wear life jackets, go down the slide and my little girl did that just perfectly and without fear. Then while the instructor was getting out of the pool, my child unzipped her life jacket, climbed back up the stairs and went down alone.
No one saw her. She bobbled there for a minute then went under--there’s still a small crack in the mirror where I broke the glass. (My daughter’s favorite part: I had one bare breast pressed against the mirror, holding Bella, my fist banging.)
Olivia was pale, still...she did not breathe and then she did. I made them take her back into the water. I carried her to the instructor who had forgotten her and I said, you need to swim with her, you need to laugh and make it fun. Do not let her be afraid. The teacher denied me, grew frightened of me then did actually what I said.
Olivia loves to tell me this story. After she has won a ribbon or a metal from a swim meet she always tells me this tale on the way home. Isn’t it amazing mom, I have come this far?
I want you to tell me this when I old about these last few years. I want it to make sense some day, feel like I have gotten somewhere---all this movement has not been in vain. I am tired of treading water. I need to swim.
I am also tired of white walls.
My daughters love this story:
When Olivia was four she almost drowned. I was nursing Isabel behind one of those glass mirrors, during swim lessons. The instructor wanted the class of three and four years old to jump in the deep end of the pool. The teacher had them wear life jackets, go down the slide and my little girl did that just perfectly and without fear. Then while the instructor was getting out of the pool, my child unzipped her life jacket, climbed back up the stairs and went down alone.
No one saw her. She bobbled there for a minute then went under--there’s still a small crack in the mirror where I broke the glass. (My daughter’s favorite part: I had one bare breast pressed against the mirror, holding Bella, my fist banging.)
Olivia was pale, still...she did not breathe and then she did. I made them take her back into the water. I carried her to the instructor who had forgotten her and I said, you need to swim with her, you need to laugh and make it fun. Do not let her be afraid. The teacher denied me, grew frightened of me then did actually what I said.
Olivia loves to tell me this story. After she has won a ribbon or a metal from a swim meet she always tells me this tale on the way home. Isn’t it amazing mom, I have come this far?
I want you to tell me this when I old about these last few years. I want it to make sense some day, feel like I have gotten somewhere---all this movement has not been in vain. I am tired of treading water. I need to swim.
I am also tired of white walls.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
I am very fragile today. Do you ever wish you could wear the orange tape that goes around boxes? I went to the grocery store and was memorized by the candle alters for sale. I want a Jesus with three bleeding hearts, a wing baby, or a woman with blue hair, open arms. But I have no energy to be forgiven and when the man asked me in Spanish what I needed I could not answer, when he asked me in English I still did not say a word.
My yellow tape is not still showing.
My yellow tape is not still showing.
I still want to be a cancer
LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): On behalf of Saturn, the Lord of Karma, I hereby invite you to take advantage of a very ripe opportunity to make substantial reductions in your debt—your karmic debt, that is, not your financial debt. (Though I have it on good authority that lowering your karmic IOU will have a ripple effect that will ultimately alleviate the struggles with money you might be suffering from.) But to return to the main point: This is one of the best times ever for fixing the mistakes you made in the past, atoning for the pain you have caused, and correcting the imbalances that resulted from your careless behavior.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Owls are nesting in trees. Their young are born before spring so that the little owlings can live off other bird’s hatchlings. For some reason, I find this strangely comforting, with the full moon and those little furry babies waiting for the birth of others to survive.
Tonight I need to read Owl Moon to my girls. I need to sit outside in the January cold and see if I can hear their wings in the distance. I miss camping and spring, the walks in the dark and the sun. I miss the sun. I always try to tell myself this is the month to work, to submit but I think my deeper self truly believes in hibernation.
Tonight I need to read Owl Moon to my girls. I need to sit outside in the January cold and see if I can hear their wings in the distance. I miss camping and spring, the walks in the dark and the sun. I miss the sun. I always try to tell myself this is the month to work, to submit but I think my deeper self truly believes in hibernation.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
It's time for 2006 Split Rock Preview which not only offers wonderful writing classes but painting and fiber arts as well. I am taking the poetry class with Tess Gallagher (I’m going to ask her if I can ride her horse.) I actually woke up the cat with my small shrieks when I realized she was teaching. There’s also another poetry class with Bob Hicok but I don’t think he has a horse….
Plus the good news is, if your not a stalker-- we can a have beer and a fire in my back yard because it's ten minutes from my house.
And if you’re Suzanne Frischkorn, you get a free, red-cross certified 12 year old babysitter to watch Emily and Jack and if you are NOT her, well I’m very sorry but we are picky about babies in our house.
Plus the good news is, if your not a stalker-- we can a have beer and a fire in my back yard because it's ten minutes from my house.
And if you’re Suzanne Frischkorn, you get a free, red-cross certified 12 year old babysitter to watch Emily and Jack and if you are NOT her, well I’m very sorry but we are picky about babies in our house.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Last night I dreamt
of an endless well by my feet
and I was at a podium like a preacher
with a book in my hand. People came
to ask me questions, permission to dive.
I kept waiting for the water, growing
impatient because the general populous
did not know what to ask, so I waited
told myself, if you were there, if you
joined the line, this whole tired business
of hearing the wrong thing, bitter
in my ear would be over.
Even when I awoke, checked
the clock three times I kept waiting
for your voice to ask me something
so I could sleep. Then I began to wonder
if the whole mirage was somehow tied
to your existence. You were gone
and my body, the conductor
picking up a sound wave
like a metal rod in the middle
of the desert began to shake.
of an endless well by my feet
and I was at a podium like a preacher
with a book in my hand. People came
to ask me questions, permission to dive.
I kept waiting for the water, growing
impatient because the general populous
did not know what to ask, so I waited
told myself, if you were there, if you
joined the line, this whole tired business
of hearing the wrong thing, bitter
in my ear would be over.
Even when I awoke, checked
the clock three times I kept waiting
for your voice to ask me something
so I could sleep. Then I began to wonder
if the whole mirage was somehow tied
to your existence. You were gone
and my body, the conductor
picking up a sound wave
like a metal rod in the middle
of the desert began to shake.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Bedtime at the Ballard House
Some Satan worshipper gave Bella a watch as a late Christmas Present today…
Mom its 8:57….Mom it’s 8:59…Mom it’s 9:02…now it is 9:03
and I think the damn thing is water proof so I can’t even wash it by mistake.
Mom its 8:57….Mom it’s 8:59…Mom it’s 9:02…now it is 9:03
and I think the damn thing is water proof so I can’t even wash it by mistake.
Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.
I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond- Andre Breton, Nadja
There was a time when I would have claimed this as my own. I recognize myself, wave to her, as if she is across the room but I no longer have a need to live in glass. No longer consider it that fragile—my ability.
Today oak is a good way to begin. I am ready for the uneven language of trees, the bare floor. I am ready for my wood house, my fire, the orchard and the clutter of children. I am ready in a way I have never been before. It is exciting to be solid and yes, terrifying.
Today: An interesting article in Poetry about Women’s Poetry, it very definition, existence, survival. I will write more when I know more.
Alice Munro’s new book Runaway. The first story made me cry and question—that’s always a good sign.
There are ten white tulips by my bed. A cup of rose tea which comes in a clear packet with rose petals, plum blossoms, sugar cubes. It is Chinese. I cannot tell you where to buy it b/c you do not live here. You just point and smile, the older woman who sells it, will also point and smile. You don’t speak the same language but you both understand.
This is the year where I have said your name three times---
I no longer live in a glass house.
I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond- Andre Breton, Nadja
There was a time when I would have claimed this as my own. I recognize myself, wave to her, as if she is across the room but I no longer have a need to live in glass. No longer consider it that fragile—my ability.
Today oak is a good way to begin. I am ready for the uneven language of trees, the bare floor. I am ready for my wood house, my fire, the orchard and the clutter of children. I am ready in a way I have never been before. It is exciting to be solid and yes, terrifying.
Today: An interesting article in Poetry about Women’s Poetry, it very definition, existence, survival. I will write more when I know more.
Alice Munro’s new book Runaway. The first story made me cry and question—that’s always a good sign.
There are ten white tulips by my bed. A cup of rose tea which comes in a clear packet with rose petals, plum blossoms, sugar cubes. It is Chinese. I cannot tell you where to buy it b/c you do not live here. You just point and smile, the older woman who sells it, will also point and smile. You don’t speak the same language but you both understand.
This is the year where I have said your name three times---
I no longer live in a glass house.
Friday, January 06, 2006
amen
LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): Recently someone asked me, "What do you look for in an ally, Rob?" Here's what I said: "I favor people who take responsibility for their unripe qualities and don't spew their undigested angst on me when they're feeling low." I think this approach should become a priority for you, Leo. In 2006, you will have striking opportunities to upgrade your relationship to relationships. One of the best ways to do that is to give special preference to connections with emotionally intelligent people who work hard to transmute their own darkness.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Note to self: do not play red rover with girl power class after you’ve eaten lunch b/c you are almost forty (38) and when you run really fast it makes you want to puke. Okay, when you ran really fast at twelve, it did the same thing but it sounds better now.
I am hopefully going out with the dancing blogger boy tonight. You know who he is. I don’t know whether to wear my new cute plaid skirt with black leather boots or my new purple velvet pants. Yes, velvet. My preschoolers are going to go wild when I wear them to teach. I know it’s wrong to wear your dancing clothes to work but I can’t help myself.
So if you are in Minneapolis tonight, if you see some wild poets (one wearing black boots, another wearing a hard hat) well say hello and join the party.
I am hopefully going out with the dancing blogger boy tonight. You know who he is. I don’t know whether to wear my new cute plaid skirt with black leather boots or my new purple velvet pants. Yes, velvet. My preschoolers are going to go wild when I wear them to teach. I know it’s wrong to wear your dancing clothes to work but I can’t help myself.
So if you are in Minneapolis tonight, if you see some wild poets (one wearing black boots, another wearing a hard hat) well say hello and join the party.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
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