moving on -- new creative project

So they'll be discharging me from group a week from Friday. I was wondering if perhaps I would feel All Better. The answer to this question would be nay. What I've gleaned is that all this time (all this time) spent in group was to give me the skills to enable me to process the emotions --especially regarding my mom, what she chose and how it ended --while taking responsibility for my own safety. I have to say that before I started I was pushing emotions away. Some of you who know me may that is ridiculous --you see an expressive person who is in touch with her emotions. I have been through so much therapy that I can talk about my emotions on an intellectual level. But feeling them is a different matter. I could talk about the origin of the problem, but right now it does not seem appropriate. The point is, the therps stripped off some layers of varnish and I got my emotions back.

But between the times when I'm forced to reckon with Mom and It, I need a bigger-than-ever creative project to pull my attention and charge my brain to do its very best work.

So I had an idea a few weeks ago.

Not gonna tell you what it is yet, but here's some notes as I was thinking about a mission statement, Submission Guidelines, and/or a letter from the editor.

People have bodies. Animals have bodies. Hybrid human animal-bodies exist in the realm of myth or just beyond your closed eyelids. A body can be a force of locomotion, or a body may require augmentation to move itself. A body can be a metaphor. A body can be a source of pleasure. Pain can be a muse. Not psychic pain but actual visceral pain pain. Where does psychic pain end and visceral pain begin? When I say sensuality does that connote pain or pleasure? Senses. Viscera. Writing the body = writing what we know because we inhabit it. Writing your lover’s body so you can keep it on paper. From three dimensions into two. When I hold your hand do you feel it? Do you feel it with your brain or your skin?  Our bodies can make us feel like amateurs. Strength in vulnerability. Taking a risk and writing about the body can make you feel like an amateur. When I wake and put my feet on the floor I feel like an amateur. I would like to reclaim the word amateur to mean risk-taker. Yang energy pushes us forward while Yin energy causes us to reflect. What does that mean? I am forever striving. I’m not good at being. I mistyped there and had to correct it. For a second it said I am not god at being. We are gods of our own bodies. We are slaves of our own bodies. I watch your body when you sit across from me on the bus. I was mainstreamed and then I started to use a white cane, then stopped, then started, now I’ve stopped again. Am I blind or not? Our bodies are signifiers. Our bodies are false signifiers. Our bodies are liars. Our bodies are storytellers. I want to tell stories about the body. I want to hear your stories about the poem that is the body.

Where my poems at.

A few people have requested me to be more forthcoming about where my poems are currently published, providing links and such. Yeah, I can be a bit lackadaisical about that, so here's a blog post just with links to my stuff. Thanks, readers, for giving me the nudge.

My most recent pub, and one of my favorite ones this year, at Escape into Life. Rather than starting at my feature, you should really take some time, begin at the main page. The site is more than it seems on the surface. It has an amazing origin story and it's like a hybrid-art wonderland. Don't forget to check out the complete feature of Viktoria Sorochinski, the woman who took the photos my poems were paired with.

What I like about all of these journals is that they each are so different. I'm honored to be among such great company!



Menacing Hedge
MiPOesias
Rufous City Review
The Shwibly
Thirteen Myna Birds (my work is no longer up and she doesn't do archives, but you should check out the journal anyway)
Wordgathering

More coming in autumn and winter from Blood Lotus, Prick of the Spindle, right hand pointing, and RHINO.

What I did and didn't do on my summer vacation

Although I was completely bummed about dad changing shore plans last minute so Mike and I couldn't go, I do want to say that I got to do some pretty cool things this week instead of being at the ocean. I actually skipped two readings because I was rather fatigued. Which means I could have done cool things four out of five nights of the week. Actually, there were two on Friday night, but I was dead-exhausted and opted for neither.

What I did do: I went to the Beauty Is A Verb reading on Thursday. I'd been anticipating this reading since last April, when the date had to be moved because of the f*ing bomb threats at Pitt. Usually I find academic venues a bit dry and difficult, lacking in ambiance. This was still the case at the O'Hara Student Center, but the readings were fantastic. And and AND I got to meet three people who I'd been wanting to meet for quite awhile: the smart and sassy Jennifer Bartlett (she's really funny too, and kind) the fierce and feisty Kathi Wolfe (I think I have a crush on one of her new personae, and she said she likes my work and I should email her) and ... Mike Northen, who was rather laid back and professorial and I felt a little awkward because I'm shy and I wonder if he is too. I had that magnets-repelling feeling that I get when two shy people, myself being one of them, try to have a conversation. Nonetheless, he recognized my name from having a poem in Wordgathering this month, and he told me to keep sending... which is really a moment of validation I needed and I sooooo appreciated it.

ASIDE: I had this convo with Mike (husband Mike not editor Mike) about my ridiculous neuroticisms whenever I have poems accepted. For example: an editor quickly accepts four out of five or six poems I sent. My response, although I'm very happy about it, is also tinged with OMG, that editor wasn't very discriminating. They're probably just desperate. They need to fill in some space. It couldn't possibly be because they liked my work that much. If an editor accepts one out of five or six poems that I send, especially if it's an online venue, my reaction, although I'm quite pleased, is tempered with really, only one poem? Wow, I just barely got in. The editor must just barely like me. Why did they choose this poem at all? What about the others? Were they bad? REALLY bad? It was probably a pity-acceptance.  I mean, what is wrong with my self-esteem that I can't win either way? But really. Acceptances are winning. Period-end-of-discussion. Even rejections are winning, because it means I actually sent stuff out instead of procrastinating on it. Now if only someone would pick up the manuscript...

Anyway, then on Friday Pitt had a roundtable discussion about dis-studies in the humanities. I guess right now their dis-studies program sort of follows the medical model (grumble, cure, etc.). But they want to parlez. So good on them. I hope this panel got the ball rolling as far as a possible program at Pitt. But it'll be years, I bet. It was a good, stimulating discussion though. I felt like my brain had been to a mini-conference. This is a good feeling. I haven't gotten to go to conferences in quite some time, due to health stuff and work stuff. But... Multiple Perspectives in April and AWP in February. I think I have the months right. Anyone wanna split a room for AWP?

Taking stock halfway through the year

It's about quarter after four in the morning. I can't sleep because the cat has parked his large self in front of the window a/c and is taking up all the good cold air. Why, you may ask, do I not just toss him? Because he is older, and his kidneys are iffy, and he sort of has this grudge against the world, and I am his favorite person, and he only lets two people pet him besides me. He is a huge cat, with large intimidating fangs that he has used in the past. I can wrap my arms around him, play with his paws, look in his ears, feed him unpleasant things. He will snuggle with me in the bed. Not at my feet like many cats, or in the crook of my knees, but he wants his back against my chest. His head under my chin. And then he purrs.

It is rather flattering, in an odd way, to be the preferred, nearly exclusive  company of such a... I don't want to say unpleasant, because he's not unpleasant to me... such an idiosyncratic animal. I know that he wishes he were the only cat in the world, and that I were the only human. He's really neurotic. The vet says he should maybe be on prozac. But I've held off. I worry about him in the heat. He's spent most of the last two days wrapped around the water bowl. I'm scared that somehow the heat is going to make his kidneys go south. I will dip my hand in the water and spread it over his ears, his head, down his back to cool him off. I am probably the only person he would let do this. So he has discovered the window a/c we've turned on for sleeping, and he's, like, RIGHT up in there. And he is a huge cat. Long, tall, broad, muscular. Some people think he's overweight but I don't think he technically is any more. Still, he takes up all the damn room. So I can't sleep. I came down to get an ice pack for my neck, which has been in pain since this afternoon. Oh bones. Oh muscles. Oh delicious cold.

What does one do with insomnia? I don't have it too-too much anymore since the med switch. Years ago, I used to do dishes in the middle of the night. Ha! not anymore. So of course I just sit in the dark and think and think and think and think and think.... and apparently tonight I blog.

June just ended. It's halfway through my year of not-working. It's easy to go down the vortex of rumination tonight.

A surprising envelope arrived in the mail yesterday. Shocking, really. After I politely declined to teach this past spring (which was really really really really hard to turn down), *and* they took my picture off the adjunct faculty page (you can see a little blank space in the web page where I used to be), lo, do I get a contract for the fall. Mind you, I've never spoken with anyone about my schedule or whether I was teaching in the fall. The contract just mysteriously showed up.

It's still sitting on my desk.

The familiarity of it, the structure, the certainty of what I would be doing, is appealing. Without teaching, somehow I don't feel legitimate --although I am starting a temporary CW teaching gig on Monday that makes me super-excited (not comp! not comp! not comp!). But, my neurotic brain says, it's not at (cue choir of angels) the Almighty University. I don't know when I'm going to have another university job. I don't know when I'm going to want said job. Adjuncting was absolutely draining for me.

And, I'm going to say this next part out loud (well, type it out loud) even though it scares the crap out of me: I don't know, with the combined forces (forces? sigh. it's 4:30 am) of my multiple disabilities, if I will ever be able to handle the rigors of a full-time university job. But I probably won't ever get to teach anything but comp without one. Thinking about this for too long takes me to a very bad, lonely, anxious place. I cannot predict the future. So I just need to not go there.

[I push off with my feet so that my desk chair rolls to the low spot in the floor --this house is 100 years old; nothing is plumb. Away from the monitor, I can't see anything in the absolute darkness of the living room except the amber globs (globs?! it's 4:55 am) of the streetlights, or maybe those lights are from the cemetery...]

I think about turning off the monitor and lying on my back on the floor in the very-dark. Sometimes my back likes the unyielding wood surface. But the other two cats will think this is a game. They will come and climb on me. After 5 now. It's their hunting time. They amuse each other but I am the ultimate amusement.

I am trying to keep the following things in mind. Since January (the start of my year off)

Sent to 45 journals. 34 rejections, 9 pending, 6 acceptances, with 13 poems taken.
4 MSS sent. 2 rejections, 2 pending.
Readings given: 4, with another one tomorrow night. And I have another tentative thing lined up for September.

I always want more than I have. I always know I could be doing more. Those journal subs fall short of my goals. I should have sent way more than 45 by now! And the MSS total... sad. The damn thing will never get published. I rarely pause and think, how great this is. I've accomplished more in six months than I did in six years of adjuncting.

I will turn off the monitor now after I press the "publish" button. I will lie on the floor in the dark to ease my back and neck. And the fucking cats will think it's awesome, and I will not think they are awesome. And I will stay there for as long as I can stand it. And then I'll get an ice pack, de-hair my shirt, and try for more sleep.

But I must also mention Teh Happy

I have three poems up on 13 Myna Birds! If you haven't checked out the journal from my post the other day, you should look now... Thank you Juliet for putting together such a well-designed little mag. I am proud to be featured among your new crop of poets.

Paranoia confirmed

So I wrote that yesterday I sent out a bunch of withdrawal notices, and talked about how paranoid I was that the editors will reject the entire MS just so they don't have to go through the trouble of pulling the one poem. WELL, this morning in my inbox what did I find... ? Two of the journals I sent w/d notices to yesterday "coincidentally" rejected me by this morning. The whole MS.

I hate when my cynicism is proven to be accurate.

I am not going to name names, although I am tempted.

I don't think I will ever submit to these particular journals again.

There's a third journal that I have a particular tenderness toward. A few years ago when I embarked upon this same project, this year of what I called "extreme submission," (it was 2005-2006, I think) this journal sent me a rejection but it was very flattering and encouraging. Small kindnesses mean a lot.

I am really hoping this journal does not add to the list of immediate rejectors.

a drop in temperature leads to

me not wanting to go outside today, even though it looks sunny. So:

This morning started off with an acquaintance telling me about a situation. This person is a guardian for two special-needs teens. The teens were molested repeatedly by a family member when they were growing up. The perpetrator was convicted and served his legal punishment for it, but now that he is out, he is being all stalky and intimidating to these teens. I am not mentioning any names/details here on purpose. If you know more about this situation, please keep it to yourself and not comment on the blog or fb. The only reason I bring it up is, my productivity was kinda trashed there for awhile. Listening to my friend go on about this story of violence reminded me of a time in my life when I was young and there was violence and what would happen to me if I told, etc. I sorta had a big ol' ptsd panic attack there. Every time my acquaintance updates me about this situation, I want to tell them, can we not talk about it? because it makes me freak out. But I want to be supportive. This conversation led into a longer one about victims' rights, how they have fewer rights than the prosecuted, then the Treyvon Martin case --for which I think there's a rally at CMU today... and I just ... didn't want to go there.

I read a cool article about meditating and almost did it but then did not. My mind was too stormy and I was alone... it was maybe a bad time to "go inward." So I answered 10,000 (approx) emails --this is what happens when you don't check your email over the weekend I guess. Then I went on YouTube and watched some jewelry tutorials that I had intended to get to. One video led to another and there I was for two hours watching videos. The last one(s) were of these pendants made out of watercolor paper --so amazingly gorgeous that i started to think how / why would anyone ever buy MY stuff on etsy this guy has an art degree from Pratt... and the self-esteem started to go into decline-mode.

After two potential knocks to my productivity I decided it was time for a shower. It must have helped because after the shower I submitted to Sixth Finch, which was a good idea I had been sitting on. Then I sent out a bunch of withdrawal notices.

Sending out w/d's is a good thing --it means acceptance. But I have this paranoia that when I send out the w/d, the editor is going to be like, "Okay, you really want me to go through my 4,096 submissions to find your ONE poem that you withdrew and keep looking at your other stuff? No thank you." And then they'll hit the REJECT button.

Mike points out that 1) The journal assumed the burden when they said sim subs are okay 2) The editors are probably writers too, who also sim sub, and thus they will be empathetic and 3) Sending a w/d makes you look Wanted, like "you waited too long to ask me to the prom; sorry."

I'm not sure I believe his relentless optimism. But I am glad it is there. In my life. Close to me.

13 Myna Birds

... is a journal you should check out. It's run by good people and it deserves more cred. Okay, ALL small journals / presses deserve more cred than they get but this is the one I'm talking about today because, yes, I squoze out another submission despite my brain's every attempt to blockade and distract me.


From their site:

WE ALMOST ALWAYS LIKE IT PROVOCATIVE. 

SOMETIMES WE LIKE IT ODDLY DARK BORDERLINE PARANORMAL. 

GLOSSY TRUMPS DULL. MACABRE TRUMPS MORBID. WE PRONOUNCE MACABRE WITH THREE SYLLABLES AND CRYPTIC WING SPANS. 


OUR FAVORITE KIND OF PIECES ARE POEMS, BUT WE ARE ALSO IN FAVOR OF OTHER POETIC BLURBS AND BLURTS AND BRAMBLES AND DARTS AND SNIPPETS SUCH AS DREAMSCAPES AND PETITE FICTIONS AND THE HYBRIDIZED INNARDS OF PRETTY BEASTS. 


If you like it like that too, or if you have some poems / blurts / brambles etc. maybe you should GO THERE RIGHT NOW.

Today's journal submission

... is to Juked.

I want to say nice things about Juked but I broke my reading glasses which has left me with a walloping head and shoulders ache and nooooo able stare @ computer anymore cnt c tny ltrs

Today's journal submission

... was to Salt Hill.

I'm trying to get back on it. I had lunch plans that fell through and the fact of it made me crumble completely and then have to re-assemble. Don't tell anyone.

I finally submitted...

... to another journal today. I'm hoping this is a break in my crisis of confidence. It would be nice to get back up to five subs a week. Or even a steady three. I think the waiting is the worst part. But then of course, the waiting can lead to rejection, so you don't really want the wait to be over. Ugh. Anyway. The journal is Fourth River : [from website] "We welcome submissions of creative writing that explore the relationship between humans and their environments, both natural and built, urban, rural or wild. We are looking for writing that is richly situated at the confluence of place, space and identity..."

Tuesday's journal submission

… is to Prime Number. This is a nifty online mag wherein they feature several linked poems by 5-ish poets, followed by a Q&A —a brief interview with the poet. It would SO rock to get my work in here.

Amidst this, they are finally installing the home security system. There is a lot of beeping and banging. The kitten is far too interested. The gentleman doing the installation is personable though. It’s cold and blowy out; thus cold in here. I wish I could go to bed now. Just for a little while. I squoze a submission out. Yay me.

Today's journal submission

… was to 32 Poems. “we publish shorter lyric poems that fit on a single page (under 32 lines)…” Good stuff. Fingers crossed.

Well, I lied.

Early last week I was all like, “Whee, I’m so under control even though someone just robbed our house! I’m back onto my project after eight days as if nothing happened…” Yeah… no. I was back on it for one day and then the rest of the week was spent wondering what the hell I was doing in this world. 

This is a typical response from me whenever anything bad happens. I allow myself [what I perceive that the outer world agrees is] the appropriate amount of feelings, and then I cram the rest back into my brain. 

Understand, I used to have a big problem with being self-destructive and letting my emotions rule me, often to harmful ends. This is the new (actually 13 years old) “recovery me” talking now.

I’m not fine and I’m not under control, and though I love my new, upgraded, expensive-and-paid-for-not-by-me laptop, it’s not the same as the old laptop. It’s faster, but the interface is ever so slightly different and it’s bugging the shit out of me. And I will never get back all my stuff.

So I haven’t been doing much submitting or art. Today I sent out to failbetter. Yay me. AND two people asked me to do readings. One is in April, the other in July. Rock on. Cos I can’t get my sorry ass together to ask someone else if I can read in their series. I write this because my husband told me I should try to enjoy my accomplishments more.

Annnnnd I might go after this one part-time research job even though I’m not supposed to even think about getting a job until the end of the semester. Maybe.

That is all.

Oh, those pesky journal subs, mounting the gibbet, etc.

Well, I’m back at it. New laptop, reconstructed most of Lost January. I know I will encounter unrecoverable losses and then I will have meltdowns and stay in bed. But my January work is 90-95% recovered and shit, I am dumb with gratitude.

I forgot to mention a journal or two right around the time we were robbed. I submitted to Blood Lotus. And then decomP on the 31st. 

I can’t believe I’m back on it in a week. I’m still massively dissociated though, or at least I lapse into it whenever I have to tell people what happened. Fucking fuck. I guess that coping mechanism has served me well in the past and my brain just does it, no choice. Still.

Finally, today’s sub was Mid-American Review. 

I have to say, I love this. I love getting to read as much poetry as I want, every day. I love reading all these journals, so that I feel like I’m right there at the edge of poetry, if that makes sense. I might not be making sense. I really want to go back to bed but I have to go to PT. Ugh, it’s snowing sideways. Maybe I can call off. That makes me feel guilty. But… /whine/ Snow. Bed. etc.

And the last journal sub for this week

... is to Cream City Review. Whew; I did it. One day off and I have to start another week. It really freaked me out that a process which is starting to get much easier for me, on the whole, became suddenly so challenging from Tues - Thurs. I kept running into stupid barriers. Like I would research the journal and find stuff of mine that seemed to fit their vibe, and then I’d click on the subs page and the reading period would be from Sept - Dec. Or I would research the journal etc. etc. and they would have a no sim subs policy + an 8 month response time. Come on people! It got so painful to sit in front of computer b/c of back. I start PT for back on Monday. I am nonplussed. 

Is that word one of those like cleave that mean the opposite thing at the same time? I should really look that up. Lazy writer. Lazy.

Why isn’t there a journal called Cleave? I googled cleave magazine and came up with nothing except a youtube video about some chick with huge those-can’t-be-real tits. Boring. Bad pun. No cookie.

Journal submissions

I’ve been behind on my journal subs this week since I haven’t been feeling so well. I caught up (mostly) today by sending to Eleven Eleven, kill author, and La Petite Zine. I need one more tomorrow and I’ll be caught up for the week.

Monday morning submission

Caketrain : amazing local journal by whom I eagerly anticipate being rejected.

Make-up submission for this week

… is to Puerto del Sol. A magazine that’s been on my periphery for a long time.  I was pleasantly surprised to find was AWESOME when I looked into it. Hard to type with cat jumping on hands.

Friday's journal submission

… is to Prick of the Spindle. Nice journal. Pretty. Good poems. :)