siouxsiepoetuncensored

so, i'm bringing some very strong poems to residency. who wouldn't? they are going to be scrutinzed. we are told not to bring finished poems, per se. but to bring poems in process. not first drafts.

ha!

can you call what i do a first draft? it is as near a final draft as anything. we'll see. i plan on choosing a tough advisor this semester. it is what i must do. i figure, being guided down some path (and, arguably struggling through it), is better than fighting phantoms alone.

i am tired of fighting phantoms.

it comes up all the time, and i considered driving away in the middle of our day together because she said i am conjuring you. which may in fact be true.

but i can't not want you with me even in misty form.

however, i'm ready now to move on. ready for the tangible. i've loved the intangible for too long.

and now, while she tells me to cast you away, i determine to look at you one last long gaze. and if you walk out of shadow, so be it.

if not, i will find the strength to move on. i must.

fare thee well beloved.

it was important for me to rest up, because today, i have to work on my belly dance. since my class was cancelled last night, and last week, i need to tighten this up and make sure i have everything ready. two weeks until arizona.

i think i know which poems i'll read. we'll see.

as far as the trip, i need it. i'll likely take time to go up to my ex's reservation and visit his family, say goodbye to them, as i won't likely see them again.

i need to get up and tidy up the apt but i'm quite comfortable and that is the problem. but there is much to do before i meet with my cohort in play.

tomorrow we go to the farm and my girl has her last lesson before leaving for texas. it will be so strange, and being alone for christmas is an interesting idea. wonder what i'll do. know i'm going to work that day or night (not sure) at my old store. my old boss, a favorite guy, and me will make up the crew that day. it will be fun. seems they miss me there. and i'm glad. i took the exit i needed to take, and i'm very content at my new store.

being constantly busy is something.

though, sometimes, at six am on sunday mornings, we are still and quiet and the store is kind of nice. my young friend said,

this is the store they come for, it's not the store they get.

nope. it's not. it's quite a noisy place.

and i think i've lost my headphones.

ah well. it is what it is.

for technically being less busy, i'm exhausted.

got my paper back from my prof yesterday, haven't even glanced at it. no time. have been passing out as soon as i get home, then i'm up at times like now. which is produtive when i've got schoolwork, but not so much now. my schedule hast mostly shifted to a days schedule, with one close. now some of the other kids are closing all the time, and i have to just be cool with that. i did it for a long time.

we had a really nice, slow day. but then, a tidal wave of people came through, of course just as one left for the day, one left for break, leaving me and the new guy. it always happens like that. poor planning on my part probably, but i'd rather be slammin busy, than standing around. stood around a lot today. had a good time with customers, which isn't always something i do, but should. i know.

friday i have a manuscript due for next critique session at residency. haven't even begun to figure out what to compile. i'll likely just throw some things together and send it in. chum the waters so they can attack if they'd like. but my work generates little by way of sound critique. mostly people don't get what i'm doing (and therefore, can take a hike), or don't have anything bad to say. which i find interestingly consistent in my experience.

i'm up because i've wanted to tell you that while i disagree with your means, i appreciate the ends. particularly since i've known. i've known all along. quite the conundrum for me though, only in that i can't keep waiting forever. i'm tired of it.

nothing has changed, though i try to force myself to walk a different road. and when my heart cries out for you, i just shake my head but understand, it's how i'm wired. it has been happening a lot lately, and i didn't understand it.

perhaps there are a lot of reasons.

so much has changed, everything has changed. yet, nothing has changed.

and i long for that place, that white sand beach of my dreams.

there are few things that geninely shock me. but this did. is this how you want me to find out? how i'm supposed to gather that what i believed is true? bad form. that's all i've got to say. piss poor form.

i've wasted too much time on this.

there is some relief in it, finishing. having jumped through all the hoops set before me. i floundered this semester, didn't perform to my own expectations and that is a hard load for me to carry. i want to surpass my own expectations. but they are high.

even at work, i don't compliment much, until it is earned. i don't bullshit and tell people their work is the bomb when it simply isn't. i can't start now making bullshit my rule, because it never will be.

i pose a question to my prof this last time around, which i believe is the source of some of my confusion. what is expected of the writing in this short semester window? of the sixty poems i produce, that they be original and current, or that they be the strongest i've got. because, what i create in the crunch of a semester cannot all be publishable. never is that my goal, i think it beyond the reach of many writers. so i went with, an accurate, honest window into my writing, which is the more vulnerable place for me.

i think what these professors forget from time to time is that we are actually artists. that this is more than just a craft class. that the emotional core of our work resides in us, not on the page. shut me down and it's tough to regain that momentum. my work in semester was compared to my pre-semester residency packet which was culled from at least two years work. the best of two years will always be better than sixty under the gun in semester poems. the comparison is unfair. as much as i hate that word. professors should know this.

if there is some tempering of souls that needs to take place, if we are supposed to toughen up to withstand this process, then i say that is bullshit too. what is needed is trust. violate it and it is hardwon a second time.

i went straight to a book i'd been checking and rechecking all semester in hopes of reading, but finally gave up a couple weeks ago and returned. it was nice today to sit with it and delve in. definately what i need to be reading right now.

i am intrigued by certain things, this being one of them.

now to the endings i must write. the words will come. they have begun.

and the tip leaf tree's scar from where the limb was removed has weathered and toughened. proud flesh. and i wish it were that time again when the memory lived. i wish that more than you know. but for me, now, the key, i think is letting the memory go. that is not accomplished by denial, but rather, acknowledgement. today felt like the beginning of that.

i must go back to the old places and leave your memory there.

just put the last period on my critical paper. what a load off.

now i'll let it set for a couple days and read it again. usually i just lauch them out the door, off my plate, but i'm trying not to be hasty. (again, the zebra line comes to mind).

i can't help it that i think academia is a load of crap. i don't think we are the sum total of our works alone. the works are an expression, merely that. it's hard to say what i'm getting at. but i think so many writers out there think they are what they write. i don't buy that.

reviews, good or bad, don't make a writer.

passing an mfa program, does not an artist make.

i don't know how to say it other than, there are a lot of artists out there without one scrap of training or technique.

the critics can pick them apart, but it brings me back to my basic question, the premise of my life, what is the function of art? is it a soul expression, an attribute of who we are, an expression of our being? or is it merely a skill we develop and hone?

there is something to be said for working at the craft. there is something to be said for using ten dollar words appropriately. but the world does not revolve around expert critique.

neither does it thrive on inspiration alone.

i don't know the answer. it is yes and no. this and that. the middle road, which is where i always find myself.

here, at the end of my first semester i am no closer to my answers. no nearer my goal. but i am nearer the prize. or, the prized credential, as it were.

just yesterday i was invited to study under a great poet whom i love, to obtain my ph.d. why would i do that? do i want to do that?

what purpose would it serve?

i do not know. but it is an interesting question. and for one who seems to both love and hate academia, it is one i will have to consider.

peace out kids.

so, the last thing left on my rather sizeable plate is a critical paper. i started it. strange how i write, i just pour it out. like a glass of water. rarely do i go back and change anything. very rarely, i think that's what freaks people out most about my process. so i partially fill this glass, then walk away. when i return, i will pour some more, then more, then the glass will be full and off my plate. but i need an infusion of beauty now.

i just wrote five poems, and while i can't say if they will live or die (that has never been my decision to make) i can only wait and see. which while garner respect, which will command the breath of life, which will live and be strong enough to take to a reading.

maybe what i just wrote is strong. i never know. before the last student reading i still wasn't certain they were strong poems that i was going to read. that is, until i read them and the place went mad. this is my experience at readings. the place responds to my work. i don't know that i have anything of that ilk, but i will try to bring something this semester, most likely in a different vein, because i don't write only smutty poetry, some of it is actually decent.

once i punt this paper off my plate, i need to get a manuscript together for our three hour a day poetry workshops. where we critique each other's work and explore the subtleties of misinterpretation and inane suggestion. where i grow disagreeable and facetious. that is my hydean aspect. i guess. though, maybe i am always disagreeable and facetious. who knows.

one more end to write, that epic tale i have yet to conclude.

but i'm growing tired of the unrequited. and won't carry the burden, yes, that is what it has become to me, much longer. i will leave it off for the good that is coming my way.

i'm tired now. only enough strength to carry the viable. the rest will have to make its own way. or languish on the roadside.

these are my crossroads. this is my course. i will finish this paper and pass this semester. and try, with all my might, to rest while my girl is away.

but mostly, i just want to play.

teehheeeheee.