For the past 7 months of my life as a student of creative writing, I’ve found that the most difficult aspect of writing fiction is getting started. Even with half-formed ideas, or characters swirling in my head, the act of beginning, of putting that first swath of blue ink on college ruled paper is the hardest. (Note: Every writer has their ritual, and mine seems to be blue ink on lined paper to start. I never would have guessed after all these years of avid computer use.)

Then, a few weeks ago, my fiction professor shared her own ritual for starting to write—reading poetry.

I instantly grasped the brilliance of this idea when we did an exercise in class. Several of us read a different, random poem aloud to the class, and the listening students jotted down phrases or words that caught their attention or for whatever reason particularly touched them. There is the vivid imagery of poetry, the way in which poets intermingle words as if the poem is a party and every person on earth is invited, no matter their race, religion, gender, sexual preference, political view, or creed. This idea excites me—inspiration to create words coming from words.

I’ve purchased two poetry anthologies from Amazon, and await their arrival.

Here is the poem I selected to read in class that day. A poem that seemed to say things I had thought of a dozen times before.

Alice Walker’s "Even as I Hold You"

Even as I hold you
I think of you as someone gone
far, far away. Your eyes the color
of pennies in a bowl of dark honey
bringing sweet light to someone else
your black hair slipping through my fingers
is the flash of your head going
around a corner
your smile, breaking before me,
the flippant last turn
of a revolving door,
emptying you out, changed,
away from me.

Even as I hold you
I am letting go.

I am a fan. There I admit it. It may be a sin, but I’ll never repent.

There is this band, Flickerstick, that some people know well and usually like, that other people have heard of or seen on that VH1 show they did and instantly think they are like the Monkeys or O-Town—neither of which is true—or that some people have never heard of before. They were creating and playing their own music long before they were on “Bands on the Run”, and they have continued long after the camera crews powered down and went on their merry way. They were never made for TV. They were always just 5 guys who loved to play their music.

An article in Rag Magazine pretty much sums up how I feel about the band’s live performance - they always blow me away. It is lead singer, Brandin Lea, that drew me in with his voice. As Crystal Clark writes in the above-mentioned article,

"From the get-go, Brandin’s voice revealed a dedication in tonal range and timbre that has long been absent with the addition of more recent, up and coming rock bands. Though distinctly male sounding, Brandin’s voice exuded a subtle intensity that was so strong and emotionally passionate it is essentially impossible to describe. Though I am not usually a fan of comparisons in articles, I feel it necessary to do so in this instance if only to get my point across of how incredibly proficient this guy’s voice truly is. Imagine the hyperactivity and statue of Bono (U2), combined with the heartfelt balladering of Jon Bon Jovi, the rocking good time of Johnny Rzeznik (Goo Goo Dolls) topped off with the cool, clean, and clear delivery of Robin Zander (Cheap Trick). Got that? Now, add the raw sex appeal sound of Simon Le Bon (Duran Duran) and you have a closer idea with what we are dealing with here: this voice is monstrous, it is massive, and it is mind-blowing. Now only if his band members and his family could convince his of this so that he would stop smoking. Although I highly doubt this, since Flickerstick went as far as to thank their fans on the linear notes of their debut CD, for ultimately sharing cigarettes and alcohol with them both before and after shows."

This first time I ever heard him sing, I got a vision that his voice was like a circle of rice paper floating ever higher on a current of air, pure and strong but seemingly fragile as if it would tear at any moment, but it never did, and with relief I realized that it wouldn’t. It just seemed to continue remain aloft, that powerful voice, and then I noticed that it had seeped through my skin, more like a thickening mist than paper-thin, and it was in me and I couldn’t shake it loose no matter how I tried. And for the first time in a long time I fell in love with a voice and its songs, and I appreciated the man with such talent and the ability to share that gift with the rest of us. And I became a Flickerfan.

My plea to everyone is to ignore their stint on that VH1 show, and listen to their music, give it all a try. And then when you are done, know that what you just heard was only about 1/4 of the intensity you will experience from a live show. So if you enjoy their music even a little bit, catch them in person on their next tour. I bet they will come to a city around you, and if not, their manager, Paul Bassman, is always open to suggestions for new places to play. And you can find him interacting with the Flickerstick Street Team if you need to catch his ear.

And one last plug for their merchandise, and I’ll stop.

What makes us feel like worthwhile people? Is it something that comes from within us? Something ingrained from our parents, teachers, and community? Or is it something we have to discover? Something that takes effort to develop?

Maybe it is different for each person. I don’t have the answers, and in fact, I have more questions then anything else. There is information everywhere and statistics there for the retrieval. Suicide is "the third leading cause of death among young adults, and the eighth leading cause of death among all people in the United States.” (according to URMC, 10/29/2001) This figure doesn’t take into account attempts which don’t result in death, of course.

If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, call a local suicide hotline. Please.

And if you find you have extra time on your hands, think about volunteering in your community. I know I feel good about myself when I have helped someone else.

Good luck out there. Stay strong.

A man committed suicide. I met this man several months ago. He was a client. I know he had no family, because his mother died of illness and his dad and brother both committed suicide before him. I know he had only one friend, and that one friend had a wife who didn’t like this man. I know he had a girlfriend who was breaking off their relationship around the time I met him. I bailed him out of jail on a domestic violence charge. I know he liked to drink. The first time I met him he was at least half drunk and slurred every other word. The second time I met him, he was completely sober, but that exchange only lasted 30 seconds. He handed me a check for his final payment of our services. His dog was much more talkative then he was. A good-sized dog, possibly a labrador.

This man owned a home, had a trust with money from his other deceased family members, and didn’t work. He owned around 4 older model cars. I think he must have liked cars. His house was on the corner of a main road, often traveled in this city, and a smaller residential street. Some railroad tracks crossed that main street less than 100 yards away from his house.

He was drunk when he walked onto the tracks, in front of a train. He did it just like he told his ex-girlfriend he would.

There’s nothing more I can do or say for this man, but I do wonder what happened to his dog.

Since I was a child I was always searching for that thing - that thing that would make me happy, complete, loved, electric - searching for it outside of myself, and outside of what I already knew. I find myself searching still, even when somehow I know it’s not going to be found out there, but in here in me. The grass isn’t greener. It’s just more grass.

I was the mascot for my parent’s company coed softball team. I was happy. I was special. I was 6. I was among the adults, in territory that seemed so mysterious with its coded adult language, there were no elucidations to make me, a child, understand, and yet I felt like I understood. This was what I thought I wanted—to feel like I belonged where no one else my age, like me, belonged.

My first real boyfriend lived fifty minutes away. He was a year older. He wasn’t like any of the boys I’d known my entire life—the ones who knew me when I kissed Cory under the mistle-toe in 2nd grade, who knew me from grade school, who knew me from my very awkward adolescence. I was 16 and still seeking out my identity, my future. There was that distance over which our words traveled more than our bodies and the phone receiver that craddled new love, as much as a phone call could hold. Those conversations were my joy. I was happy. I was special. This was what I thought I wanted, because I had something that no one I knew had.

Then there were those words from another boy trying to be a man. Later. They made me happy. “I need you. I want you. I love you.” I felt special. Two months and it was over. Those words, all of his words, were repeated to someone else, and would be said over and over to other women. He just couldn’t help himself. He fell in love so easily, so quickly. And I could always forgive, but I didn’t feel special. I was one name on a list of names.

There was that year I stopped dating, took time for myself. I felt empowered. I made a decision, a healthy decision and didn’t waver… well, except for the guy in the hottub after a friend’s wedding, but not much happened, and it wasn’t a date. I was still desirable, and I didn’t need to be, didn’t need to force it. That felt good.

The first vacation with my husband, before we got married, was a road trip to northern California. We swam to the center of the lake where the wooden platform floated, and we sunned--wet, laughing, in love. It was someplace we hadn’t been before, but a place that had been before our coming and would keep on being after we were long gone. I felt special. I was happy. This was something no one else at that moment had.

I look at where I am today, and I want something else, someplace else. I long for the unknown. The possibilities waiting to be discovered in the getting-to-know.

Is this common? Does everyone feel this at one time or another? I’m not sure, but I have this strange suspicion that I’m just like everyone else. But like that child I was, I want to feel special. I want to be happy.

Girl Come Undone Is Good For You.

The Biggest Girl Come Undone Pennies Can Buy.

Yes, it is another attack of the Sloganizer, though the first from me. Minutes of fun!

Merce Cunningham Dance Company comes to Los Angeles at the end of this month. Merce is an institution of modern dance. A Legend. One of the Giants. His age always comes up in discussions. He’s over 80 now, and still working, still creating dance.

There are millions of people who don’t have an inkling what modern or contemporary dance is. I can accept this. There was a time when I didn’t know. If my husband hadn’t ever met me, he’d probably never know. My dad still has no idea. And the only explanation I can seem to give to the blank looks I receive when I mention it to others is that it is decendent from ballet, but more as a revolutionary reaction to ballet. Aaaah-aaaaaah-aah. But what does that really mean? Nothing much if a person hasn’t seen several different concerts of modern dance, at the very least.

There was Martha Graham - a major contributor not only to dance but also acting and its art of portraying emotion through bodily contraction. Her influence continues to live on. Those who learned from her and continued to shape and change dance were Merce, Alvin Ailey, Paul Taylor, Twyla Tharp, and so many more. And from these there are more students, and more. There is this (spider)web connecting technique and style, ever changing and adapting to new bodies, but that can be traced back to its predecessors.

And speaking of linking folks, this is an interesting thing I found on the PBS American Masters webpage: Six Degrees Game. I tried John Cage and Albert Einstein and found that they were both involved with Black Mountain College.

I grew up without much of an influence from the arts. And that may be why I wish more folks went to art museums, exhibits, dance and music concerts, and theater productions. I wish that people knew how art could feed the soul. I wish people didn’t think that they had to “get it” in order to appreciate art. There may be historical, cultural or psychological underlying meanings to any art, but with an open mind anyone can absorb the beauty, the pain, the ugliness, the love or whatever their minds see in the art. At the very least, anyone can appreciate the time and effort of art. It is just like any other work. It comes from us, from our hands, from our minds. It is that small twist in thinking that makes a person not only appreciate a photograph of a flowered field, a majestic mountain or the sweet smile of a child, but also to appreciate the photographer’s sense and need to capture that moment.

Does it all come down to investment? Are people not willing to take a risk with their money and time to see a play that may not move them? Some are. And I can only hope that more learn to take that risk with the arts.

I was watching a show on Animal Planet or possibly on The Discovery Channel (even I’m a victim of the vicious claws of television), and it was about the history of dogs. How they were bred from the wild into varying types. Lap dog, herding dog, hunting dog, and on and on… The most suitable ones were bred over and over to make them the loyal, obedient, tail-wagging, best friends of today. Which makes me wonder, are we doing this to the human species? Are we (in America) breeding people who are more apt to spend time on television, popular music, mass media paperbacks, all thrill-seeking adventures, Starbucks coffee, video games, cell phones, lunchables, and everything that has the term “maxpack” “supersaver” and “bonusbuy”? I’m sure there is some heated discussion out there about the influences of advertising and media and all of that on American consumerism and such. All sides probably have some validity to their arguments. (I’m a firm believer in gray, not black and white issues) And I don’t mean to take a stand for any specific argument. It’s really just me wondering if the way society is today is some result of breeding. And if it is, I’m not sure I’m all too pleased with the result.

Today was that one day of the year that I don’t really look forward to, but it is mandatory if I want to keep my licensing for my job. Continuing Education Day. I even had to miss a college class.

Strangely, I had some fun. Firstly, I must say that only in L.A. would I not be surprised to find the actor, Larry Thomas, who is known for his portrayal of the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld (TV Sitcom) at my Bail Agent’s Licensing Renewal class. Who knew the Soup Nazi was a California Bail Agent?! I sure didn’t.

Oh, by the way… That’s my source of income. To dispell most confusion, I’d also like to add that it isn’t all that interesting of work (mostly paperwork), and our service is usually to friends and family of the accused, so I’m not necessarily in contact with “the scum of the earth” as one person called them to my dismay. In fact, it is good to realize that very normal people get arrested, though they don’t usually talk about it.

Secondly, I met some decent, non-cranky bail professionals today. Usually, I take the course in my town, instead of driving the hour (or 2) into L.A.. The folks out here where I live, for whatever reason, are usually cantankerous and unabashedly verbal about it. It is as if the area not only breeds methamphetamine labs, but the fumes from the exploded labs mix with the smog to create tumult among the masses. The folks from L.A. and the Valley were so much more cheerful and warmly conversational. I spoke about books with one woman. Acting with Larry. Old bosses with another woman. My current writing pursuits and music with another woman who is a part-time jazz singer. I found people (outside of college) who are alive! Now, that’s fun.

Oh, and a couple days ago, Art Gibney, whose book of short stories (good read, thumbs up, btw) [I used to have] listed on the left [in my older version of this blog], sent me an email. A positive and friendly one. Can I just mention how very cool that is? I sound like I’m 13 saying that, but that’s how giddy I felt reading the email.

Some days come unexpectedly.

I’ve gotten words of encouragement from strangers, especially Jay and Ms. atBat. Every word, be it the tiniest hello, or a long verbal handshake, or something else totally unexpected, is and hopefully will always be appreciated by me.

So, why is it the things that have never gotten the recognition they deserve are the things that haunt me? The first time I recall this feeling I was around fourteen years old. Money was tight. My parents never said a word about it, but I knew. I made a special effort not to spend my allowance extravagantly, and not to ask for anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. No one asked me to do this. I simply decided that it was something I should do. After a few months or more (time seems a blur to me now from back then), I remember feeling angry when my mom purchased a large item (I can’t recall, but it could have very well been a car or something along those lines). She was pleased with her purchase. It made her happy, and I can only imagine what went through her head when her sullen-faced teenage daughter frowned in response.

I believe I cried and complained how I had been trying to spend less, and no one even noticed - she didn’t notice, and in fact, it didn’t even seem necessary for me to do so if money could be spent in such large amounts. I think she was shocked. She said she knew I had been extra careful with my own spending, which is recognition, sure. But I knew even then that she just said it to comfort me. I know she hadn’t noticed. And maybe that’s when it started feeling like it wasn’t true recognition if I had to point it out.

There are people, friendships that time has abandoned, distance has aborted, and I have willingly let them go. But, in my thoughts I dwell on them still. And I know they have shaped my vision of life and dreams, and if I could tell them I would, that I recognize their contribution to what makes up this being of me. But my mind fevorishly churns when time is still, and all is quiet. And I wonder do they recognize that part of me that has shaped them too?

One of my classes this quarter is titled Western Landscapes, and it is primarily a reading course for creative writers. Every professor I’ve had thus far has said that good writers are good (and hopefully voracious) readers. I didn’t even consider this before I decided that I wanted to head back to school, and pursue writing, but luckily I am a reading fiend. So, back to Western Landscapes.

If you noticed the books listed to the left of here, those are 3 of the 5 books on the reading list. And I know there are those who don’t or won’t enjoy McCarthy’s style, but I really loved All the Pretty Horses, and in fact, I was upset that I had seen the movie on HBO one lethargic Sunday afternoon (all because I was too lazy to find something else to do, or even change the channel). So, here’s my advice - Don’t let the movie prevent you from reading the book, and Don’t let the slow pace of the first 40-or-so pages keep you from reading on. Those of us who love to get absorbed into novels know that it sometimes takes the first 50 pages to hook a reader into the story. For other readers this is usually too many pages, and many good books don’t ever get read (my husband has the hardest time sticking with novels unless they are instantly funny or engaging).

But anyway, I did have a point...

Ah, yes. The style of this post, especially the fourth to the last paragraph is an intimation of McCarthy (runons and all!).

Am I a western writer? Or west of the west as California is often referred? Maybe I am. Heaven knows I’ve been wanting to leave this state or at least the region I’m in for a long while now. This has brought up some new questions about place and my realationship to place. I’ve been wondering if I really dislike the city in which I live, or if the past several years of unhappiness has tainted my vision of it. It’s only about half bad, I guess. And would any other city be any better? If I ever do move, I’ll make sure to give it some more thought.

There’s confident, pleasant me. She’s around a lot, thankfully. But then, occasionally, the doubtful, sullen me drops by for a visit.

Today, I felt confident until I started opening my mouth, and then comparing what I allowed myself to say against these other brilliant people with great verbal abilities. My words sounded jumbled and juvenile. My words were bland, careful, and only a scratch on the surface of what was inside my head. I was sitting there facing these other students, two-thirds of whom were strangers, and I realized I do actually have some extreme thoughts and opinions, but I censor them with the lightning speed of a professional. If only I got paid for playing it safe like that.

The rest of my day has consisted of my own internal dialogue (mostly berating). Not a fun time.

I’m wondering just when this programming took place in my head. Was I born with it? Was it learned? My mom and I recently talked about how we keep emotions and problems internalized, whereas, my step-father can externalize very well. Am I really so afraid of others’ perceptions of me? I didn’t think so, but now I’ve got doubt. What is it about words, about thoughts, and especially about extremes that come from inside of me that scares me? I think it’s time to find out.

There’s a throbbing
in my jaw, a reminder
of my liquid pulse
of my liquid heart

Or is it frozen
like someone once
said, who didn’t know
me, and never would

There’s a whirrrcrack
behind my left ear, but then
it ceases to exist, except
in a moment

In the past, my memory
of it I can recall
the only lingering
evidence of its existence

There’s a pinhole
in the pounding, meaty
flesh of my heart
no, make that several

Muscle-sewn-over pinholes
that I never see, but always
feel are there, breathing
tiny gasps
of blood, gurgling back
tiny muffled screams

Regrets (in general): The things done. The things not done. The things undone.

noun
1. A sense of loss and longing for someone or something gone.
2. A feeling of disappointment or distress about something that one wishes could be different.

verb trans
1. To feel sorry, disappointed, or distressed about.
2. To remember with a feeling of loss or sorrow; mourn.

There are so many things we can regret. We can regret the things we’ve done, the things we didn’t do, the things we undid.

A solution? We could put regret in a box with a lid (the lid is important) and we could walk away from it, at least several steps and we could look at it from the distance between there (the box) and here (our feet, our asses, etc.) and we could feel safe behind the buffer that air gives us and we could examine the contents of the box as if they were places on a map, roadblocks, pitfalls, unexplored terrain and we could examine the box and its contents as if they are just objects, immobile ones at that (because the box doesn’t move unless we pick it up and carry it with us) and we could put the lid back on the box and we could put the box away and we could live this moment, the one we are in right now, the one that is moving us ahead to the next moment as if it is the most important moment we know.

We could do all of that.

We don’t always succeed, but we are capable of it. When regret holds power over us, we need to remember that its place is in that box. That when it takes residence in our minds, claiming the space for its private romper room, the stay is temporary. Temporary residence. Its place is in that box. Its true use is as a map, a guide, nothing more.

So, I say… Regret: put it in a box. shut the lid. put it away. take it out only when useful, constructive and healthy.