Very useful, this poetry class of mine. Not for increasing the quality of my mediocre poetry creations, unfortunately, but for the deeper, more profound ruminations on life. Let's see how well YOU would fit in to my poetry class:
1. Why is finding out that a "fake" fur coat is really made with dog hair so horrifying?
(a) We attribute higher ordered thinking and sentient being status to domesticated animals, such as dogs and cats; therefore, we find their use in things like clothing and soups more inhumane.
(b) It isn't. At least the country of origin is using the whole dog.
(c) Because, like, dogs, they are like soooooooooooooo fake - fer sure!
(d) Um, because they LIED about their product?
2. I would rather kill a...
(a) deer rather than a dog.
(b) mouse rather than a rat.
(c) prairie dog rather than a monkey or a cat.
(d) celery stalk than any of the above, and why are we talking about this anyways.
3. Your above answer is because....
(a) We attribute higher ordered thinking and sentient being status to domesticated animals, therefore making us prefer killing a wild horse or a deer to a cat or a dog or a monkey.
(b) We prefer to kill small beings over large beings, even though sometimes we are more repulsed by/less spiritually connected to the large beings, therefore making us prefer killing mice over rats.
(c) We understand that this is a sick and ridiculous argument and do not engage.
4. Tommy Hilfiger manufactures and distributes their own "fake" Tommy Hilfiger knock-off line of clothing.
(a) True
(b) False
(c) And there goes another few hundred previously useful memory brain cells.
5. When critiquing a poem that contains the line, "Sometimes fingers sever themselves," a REAL MFA poet declares:
(a) The omomatopœia of this poem strikes me.
(b) I am moved by the quiet sadness in this piece.
(c) That shit is sick [and not in the juvenile sense of that word]. Huh. I wonder how that works? [Tilt head and ponder.]
(d) I would like to know more about the choice of the word 'sometimes.'
"FIT INTO CLASS" ANSWERS:
1. a and occasionally b
2. a and c
3. a
4. a
5. a, b, d
"Yours Truly" Answers:
1. c[as a reflexively sarcastic comment], then d
2. weirdly, I declared b... before recovering to d
3. b [More reflexivity problems... please note that those answering b will immediately be labelled a"survivalist" by the rest of our class]. Erase that and in retrospect answer c.
4. c
5. c
Notice any patterns?
2.27.2007
2.22.2007
Smurfer Madness
Unbelievably, I have gotten chastized. Apparently, some people do not fully appreciate being called Smurfs.
Or rather, they don't like it when everyone who meets them elevator-eyes them quizzically and then turns to me and says, "I don't know, Sar. The little person makes sense. I mean I see the Peter Dinklage, but I don't see the smurf." Or rather, they are not totally on-board when this vocalized opinion is followed up by, "Sorry, what is your name? Sar only calls you Smurflette." Which is SO probably not totally true.
But let it be known that the hot toddy formerly known as the wee Smurf aka Smevil = Evil Smurf will now also be known as Whisaac = White + Isaac (Oakland-born Ted Lange), from the Love Boat.
There, now everyone can just chill. Oh, and his name is Adam. And for the record, I think he is just divine, k?
Oh, The Bay
As you may recall, last semester I learned (or was at least informed) that I AM an artist, I AM a healer. And now I receive such lov-e-ly emails:
"If you are a healer and interested in the campaign of Barak Obama
please read on.
I've just started a "Healers For Obama" group because I believe that
it's time for people who care about change on the most fundamental
level to get involved in shaping the political future of this country.
Like many others in Marin I worked very hard on the Howard Dean
campaign and was heartbroken to see how difficult it was for a person
of his moral convictions to get the Democratic nomination. This time
I'm determined to do better.
In this great so-called service economy of ours, it is we healers who
have the services that people most want and need. I believe that this
can make us a force for transformation not just on the personal level
but on the political as well. If you agree - or or just curious about
the possibility of this - please go up on the Obama website
(http://www.barackobama.com/) and join the Healers For Obama group. I
look forward to hearing from you, meeting with you and helping you
change the world - one president at a time."
Gotta heart the Bay; now go warm up those silkscreening machines...
"If you are a healer and interested in the campaign of Barak Obama
please read on.
I've just started a "Healers For Obama" group because I believe that
it's time for people who care about change on the most fundamental
level to get involved in shaping the political future of this country.
Like many others in Marin I worked very hard on the Howard Dean
campaign and was heartbroken to see how difficult it was for a person
of his moral convictions to get the Democratic nomination. This time
I'm determined to do better.
In this great so-called service economy of ours, it is we healers who
have the services that people most want and need. I believe that this
can make us a force for transformation not just on the personal level
but on the political as well. If you agree - or or just curious about
the possibility of this - please go up on the Obama website
(http://www.barackobama.com/) and join the Healers For Obama group. I
look forward to hearing from you, meeting with you and helping you
change the world - one president at a time."
Gotta heart the Bay; now go warm up those silkscreening machines...
2.21.2007
Momisms Go Off to the Airport
And you think your Jewish mother is paranoid?
I picked up my mom at her place to take her to the airport. Before getting in the car, she scanned the street, then started waving frantically at the windows of her place, shouting, "Oh Doug and Sherie, it was great to see you! I had a lovely time!" Shouting. Shouting to a window three floors up. I strained my eyes. Squinted a lot. Looked for some strangers so named. Who are Doug and Sherie? Yes, I asked this question, too. They are
NO ONE.
When my incredulous face greets my mother, she responds with her usual exasperated expression, which somehow I read to be, "Duh. It is so people think there is still someone in my place and I am not going on a trip leaving my abode unoccupied so robbers do not break in." Right, as though any thief is foolhardy enough to want to break into anyone's place who (1) believes the entire world is watching them and knows they are going to an airport and (2) waves her hands like a lunatic shouting at empty windows.
I have no doubt that all criminal minds are offering her a wide berth on this one. I certainly am.
I picked up my mom at her place to take her to the airport. Before getting in the car, she scanned the street, then started waving frantically at the windows of her place, shouting, "Oh Doug and Sherie, it was great to see you! I had a lovely time!" Shouting. Shouting to a window three floors up. I strained my eyes. Squinted a lot. Looked for some strangers so named. Who are Doug and Sherie? Yes, I asked this question, too. They are
NO ONE.
When my incredulous face greets my mother, she responds with her usual exasperated expression, which somehow I read to be, "Duh. It is so people think there is still someone in my place and I am not going on a trip leaving my abode unoccupied so robbers do not break in." Right, as though any thief is foolhardy enough to want to break into anyone's place who (1) believes the entire world is watching them and knows they are going to an airport and (2) waves her hands like a lunatic shouting at empty windows.
I have no doubt that all criminal minds are offering her a wide berth on this one. I certainly am.
2.20.2007
Poems, Poems, Everywhere, Poems, Poems, Up to Your Hair
It is said that the Year of the Golden Pig is the luckiest year around for miles, for EVERYONE (no hyperbole there). It is also said that anytime the year matches your animal, you are screwed. It is also said that the only reason people say the latter is that REALLY the year of "your" animal indicates a year of CHANGE and upheaval for folx and since folx - excepting me, who is all about the chaos whirly-pot - are so transform-a-phobic it gets mislabelled to, "Dude, you are sooooooo hosed this year. Bummer." So, I am a Pig. So what's a gal to believe?
On the one hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
On the other hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to
me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
If I had a third hand, it'd point out that I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
I receive my first clue as we read and reply to someone's poem.
The structure:
One MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with a slight Audre Lorde affectation and stumbles over Latinized pretentious word choices.
Shuffles in embarrassment at their own inadequacies.
Then Another MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with greater affectation.
Then we all silently write notes to the author.
Then we talk about the piece.
Then the writer gets to break their silence and speak.
And as we discuss the poem,
"The Realist" wonders about the feasibility of the poem's metaphor.
"The Jewish Buddhist" illuminates the poem's development as manifesting the interconnection between all humans that is realized through meditation.
"The Wonderer" wants to know why the poem feels a need to end with such a concretely closure focused final line.
"The Play Writer" notes the distinct lack of dialogue in the poem.
"The Environmentalist" adds that the parallels between this piece and the reality of what is happening in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, while subtle, are distinctly profound.
"I" laugh twice. The poem is funny. I think. "I" also wonder internally whether the misspelling of strawberries is accidental-typo, purposeful, or indicative the presence of a fellow dyslexic in the room.
I receive my mid-clue when it comes to my poem. MFA-candidate poets all scribble thoughts down. My poem is dissected, then awarded more depth, metaphorical meaning, and structural purposeness than it deserves. Finally the class comes to the title, "Seven Strikes Up a Conversation with Eight," which of course has NOTHING to do with the poem, only indicating which two seats on a MUNI 22 Fillmore the characters of this poem would be seated. "The Numerologist" starts us off by finding the numbers BREATHTAKING, as they surely have the deepest of meanings. "The Musicologist" purports the subtle connection of the numbers to the rhythms of a pantoum such as this one. "The Metaphorizer" muses on the Biblical significance of 7 and 8, as the poem is so obviously a religio-political satire. Eventually "The Professor" (I mean, the ACTUAL Professor) says, "I totally don't get the poem's title. Seriously. It means nothing to me." At which point all MFA-candidate poets hmmmmmmmmmmmmm in unison. From vociferous to languid are the noddings of various heads. When I can finally speak, I tell them about the title. The Professor says, "Oh god, I never would have gotten that out of context. Never. That was totally unclear to me. Thanks." Round two of the Choral Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.
All commented-on poem copies are passed back to me for my perusal. 10 of 12 copies have written on them something like, "Fascinating Title" or "Evocative Title!" or "What a perfect title for this piece!" etc. From this activity I learn that "evocative, perfect, fascinating" are all synonyms in Poetry Feedback Diction for "I have no idea WHAT this means." Well, at least when such comments have all been crossed out by their authors just before being passed my way. One copy says, "Title?" That person's name is noted, as they are now in my mind the only trustworthy opinion amongst the crowd.
I receive my final clue as two MFA-candidate poets leave the room:
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude, have you ever been the Bargain Bank, Duuuuude?"
MFA-candidate poet B: "Dude, I got so WASTED at the Bargain Bank one time. Shiiiit. Duuuuuuude."
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude."
[Door closes behind them.]
Golden Pig: Lucky or Ill Tidings Ahead for a Pig such as myself? Feel free to weigh in. I take all opinions from non MFA-candidate poets.
P.S. Update -- OK, cranky-pants-friends, here's the damned poem in question. Don't get yer panties all up in a wad...
And yes, I know it's not true to the classic pantoum structure. Get over it.
On the one hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
On the other hand, I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to
me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
If I had a third hand, it'd point out that I have 12 MFA-candidate poets scrutinizing and writing feedback to me about pantoums that I have managed to write, print, and make copies of all within a 60 minute span.
I receive my first clue as we read and reply to someone's poem.
The structure:
One MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with a slight Audre Lorde affectation and stumbles over Latinized pretentious word choices.
Shuffles in embarrassment at their own inadequacies.
Then Another MFA-candidate poet reads the poem with greater affectation.
Then we all silently write notes to the author.
Then we talk about the piece.
Then the writer gets to break their silence and speak.
And as we discuss the poem,
"The Realist" wonders about the feasibility of the poem's metaphor.
"The Jewish Buddhist" illuminates the poem's development as manifesting the interconnection between all humans that is realized through meditation.
"The Wonderer" wants to know why the poem feels a need to end with such a concretely closure focused final line.
"The Play Writer" notes the distinct lack of dialogue in the poem.
"The Environmentalist" adds that the parallels between this piece and the reality of what is happening in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, while subtle, are distinctly profound.
"I" laugh twice. The poem is funny. I think. "I" also wonder internally whether the misspelling of strawberries is accidental-typo, purposeful, or indicative the presence of a fellow dyslexic in the room.
I receive my mid-clue when it comes to my poem. MFA-candidate poets all scribble thoughts down. My poem is dissected, then awarded more depth, metaphorical meaning, and structural purposeness than it deserves. Finally the class comes to the title, "Seven Strikes Up a Conversation with Eight," which of course has NOTHING to do with the poem, only indicating which two seats on a MUNI 22 Fillmore the characters of this poem would be seated. "The Numerologist" starts us off by finding the numbers BREATHTAKING, as they surely have the deepest of meanings. "The Musicologist" purports the subtle connection of the numbers to the rhythms of a pantoum such as this one. "The Metaphorizer" muses on the Biblical significance of 7 and 8, as the poem is so obviously a religio-political satire. Eventually "The Professor" (I mean, the ACTUAL Professor) says, "I totally don't get the poem's title. Seriously. It means nothing to me." At which point all MFA-candidate poets hmmmmmmmmmmmmm in unison. From vociferous to languid are the noddings of various heads. When I can finally speak, I tell them about the title. The Professor says, "Oh god, I never would have gotten that out of context. Never. That was totally unclear to me. Thanks." Round two of the Choral Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.
All commented-on poem copies are passed back to me for my perusal. 10 of 12 copies have written on them something like, "Fascinating Title" or "Evocative Title!" or "What a perfect title for this piece!" etc. From this activity I learn that "evocative, perfect, fascinating" are all synonyms in Poetry Feedback Diction for "I have no idea WHAT this means." Well, at least when such comments have all been crossed out by their authors just before being passed my way. One copy says, "Title?" That person's name is noted, as they are now in my mind the only trustworthy opinion amongst the crowd.
I receive my final clue as two MFA-candidate poets leave the room:
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude, have you ever been the Bargain Bank, Duuuuude?"
MFA-candidate poet B: "Dude, I got so WASTED at the Bargain Bank one time. Shiiiit. Duuuuuuude."
MFA-candidate poet A: "Duuuuuuude."
[Door closes behind them.]
Golden Pig: Lucky or Ill Tidings Ahead for a Pig such as myself? Feel free to weigh in. I take all opinions from non MFA-candidate poets.
P.S. Update -- OK, cranky-pants-friends, here's the damned poem in question. Don't get yer panties all up in a wad...
Seven Strikes up a Conversation With Eight
Fillmore and Broadway
Strangers make a date to skate
Neither of us can stand
Such a faith nation circles make
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed
Neither of us can stand
Adverbs or divine intervention
We’ll wobble to a Hassid and Creed
Our god-obsession talk of a nation
Adverbs or divine intervention
Creative design one man’s intention
Our god-obsession talk of a nation
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands
Creative design one man’s intention
Weakened knees make rough passage rites
To steady the world we’ll anchor hands
Though calloused I newly won’t let go
Weakened knees make rough passage rites
Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Though calloused I newly won’t let go
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through
Your eyes opaque I stare to you
Seatmates make a date to skate
You’ll look at me I’ll glide right through
Such a faith nation
And yes, I know it's not true to the classic pantoum structure. Get over it.
2.19.2007
The Bear Whisperer... what a peach!
So I described my poetry-project-creation-related plight to my colleague, and while I went off to frolic at the Russian River he wrote this to me:
_______________________________________________________________________
This just came to me. You can do a whole series on the riders of the 22 as the major arcana of the Tarot. These two stanzas are just my initial ideas in a sudden bit of sleepy inspiration. And while it's kinda just a joke and makes my inner (and outer) literary geek chuckle, if I were in your position, this is where'd I'd go. Just for personal entertainment as much as having something done.
First drafty piece:
_____________________________________________________________________
Bless his dear sweet soul. The Bear Whisperer Rides Again.
_______________________________________________________________________
This just came to me. You can do a whole series on the riders of the 22 as the major arcana of the Tarot. These two stanzas are just my initial ideas in a sudden bit of sleepy inspiration. And while it's kinda just a joke and makes my inner (and outer) literary geek chuckle, if I were in your position, this is where'd I'd go. Just for personal entertainment as much as having something done.
First drafty piece:
curved plastic seats
imperial thrones
on the chariot
of the public transportation tarot
The Hanged Man
grips glumly the slightly bent
horizontal metal above
patiently pondering his passive
sacrifice
the seat surrendered
to The Empress
he sways
_____________________________________________________________________
Bless his dear sweet soul. The Bear Whisperer Rides Again.
2.08.2007
Blast From The Past: Photos That Keep Giving
This one goes out to A of A'n'AA, lest she think even for one second that her teaching life could not get worse. Like an apple on the desk, like the droppings of ever-present our nocturnal colleagues the School Mice, these were a little gift left for the teacher (not me) by an SFUSD substitute [thanks PQ for the snaps].
2.06.2007
And They Call This Grad School, Part Two
Yep, I might as well delete last week's posting about classes. Go ahead and VOID all that from your mind. This semester I have a new way to deal with graduate school: Attend a different class each week.
But first, a more general update from the novel Is It Bureaucracy or Is It Technology? You Decide (due out this Spring by SaveMe Press).
Thursday, I was unfrozen by the computer system because, woohoo, against all odds, bets and predictions to the contrary, the Human Subjects Protocol Full-On Committee approved my field research proposal. Depicted as ogres obsessed with minutiae who were going to demand I make 150 changes at least three times, their reputation for meddling was grossly over-exaggerated. They approved me on the first draft, asking that I make three tiny, logical changes.
No problem. Done.
Gig of joy. I could officially sign up for all the classes that I need to take, which of course are now all full and not going to letting me. And then, since Murphy's Law was created by my grad school, it appears:
On Friday, I was REfrozen by the computer system.
Why?
I need a thesis advisor.
Wait a second, didn't you have a thesis advisor?
Rosa. Amazing. Instant bonding. The only person in the whole department I remotely like or respect. Also just a lovely lovely person albeit seemingly flaky, though that could've been the circumstances, and all-around generally a kick-ass spit-fire of a human being. Beautiful soul. Wanted to work with me on my thesis. Wanted to make it PhD work (fuggetaboutit). On leave last semester. To return this semester. Every time I saw her, four hour philosophically based practical discussions and mutual hugging society all around. Adore her.
Turns out she DIED. (This is a great loss, not the least to the weirdly conservative Ed. Dept at this particular institution. R.I.P.)
Yes, so now I need to file paperwork to change advisors... because mine died. And the computer won't let me sign up for classes until I do.
Sigh. On more levels than one of those hampster playground sets, sigh.
So tonight I went back to auditioning for classes.
And attended not Options 1-4 from last Tuesday, but somehow ended up in Option 5, which turns out to be called Advanced Poetry Creation. Not that I have taken Rudimentary, Introductory, Mediocre, or Semi-Competent Poetry Creation classes, some of which I am sure are required. And this is the class, it appears, that all Creative Writing Poetry Grad Students take during their LAST semester before getting their MFA. CW 800,000. Lots of pre-requisites that I blew just left of. Grrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
Which explains why I spent the whole night looking around like an alien in a guppy costume that found itself trying to look innocent to all the other fish while suspiciously looking in from OUTSIDE of the guppy tank.
Huh?
Yep, now you feel like me.
So this class?
It isn't full.
I love I mean love the poetry of the fella teaching this class.
The fellow teaching this class is a kickass poet, and when I greet him, his hands sweat on both sides, visibly.
He will let me add the class.
There are maybe 8 people in it. They have a lot of opinions though, and perhaps a few more egos, so really it operates like a class of 12-15.
And it went a little something like this:
Prof: Everyone who was here last week [Editor's Note: That means everyone except for me], please pull out the notebooks I gave you to write in.
Everyone pulls out these 1" x 1" Hello Kitty-esque spiral "notebooks." They have all been pregnantly ruffled and written in.
Prof: What was it like to write in these?
Student One: It induced within me different state of mind in my writing because it was so small and definitive.
[Students nod.]
Student Two: I was compelled to write less metaphors for lack of space.
[Students nod.]
Student Three: Constrained by the shape, I was forced to write sideways, despite the lines. This introduced new subject matter for my writing life.
[Students nod.]
Student Four: It freed me from my inner critic. It's diminutive stature opened me up to write anything for I understood that in this little box it would not be judged.
[Students nod.]
Student Five: The nature of this assignment drew my gaze to the details of my life. I found myself often thinking about my ankles as I walked to work.
[Students nod.]
Student Six: I hated it. I hated it. I drew little men in all the corners. I wrote all subsequent poems during this dark period of anger.
Prof: This reminds me of Some Famous Writer who would purposefully not eat for two days and then write while starving to bring about a change in perception in her writing.
[Students nod. I shake my head and think: You make me do that, I will freak the fuck out.]
Prof: Of course, I would not make you all starve for two days to change the vision of your writing. You are MFA students; you most likely don't have enough money to eat anyways, nor will you ever, if you seek to do this professionally. Let's move on to your proposals. You have been asked for this week to bring in your proposal for your final project and its working title. The final project will consist of at least 30 poems and be thematic. Who would like to start?
Student A: My final project proposes a juxtaposition between blah and blech, this and that, blah blah blah blah blah and green will always be indicative of the youth of character J while red will always announce the arrival of character Q, who will always be silent, in the collection. I have been working on this project for the past two years. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis.
[Students nod.]
Student B: My final project is austensibly about the relationship between love, death, politics, and hindsight, with a metaphorical undercurrent of blah blah blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. The pieces that will be contained within it I have been working on since 2001, when I started this program.
[Students nod.]
Student C: While figuratively about blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, on a more fundamental level this will utilize creative syntax and imagery to yadda yadda blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. I have been writing these pieces since I was born.
[Students nod.]
[Students D - K... You get the point]
Professor: Oh, and we have a new student. Please introduce yourself. Any ideas on your Final Class Project? I am sure not, since you only just came here.
Me: Well, I am a teacher, so I am used to talking about things before they are actually formed in my head. Now, I don't know much about poetry, I never write the stuff really, and I am not writing anything related to a creative writing thesis unless you count my urge to make up all my Masters' Field Study research (that unfortunately I end up actually doing for real because I am ethical, sigh) but I am totally fuckin obsessed, I mean deeply, profoundly in love and in fascination, with folks on MUNI. So I guess I would write some pieces showing what I think goes on in the heads of various people on the 22 Fillmore. The folks on the 22? Crazy. Complete madness. I love the 22 Fillmore. Oh and the 19 and 49 Missions. Those buses are HOT. So that could be my project. I have been working on my Project for the last two minutes, when I jotted down this 3x3x3 poem:
The 22 Fillmore
I love I
Mean I looooooooove
The 22 Fillmore
Dramas rushing odorific
Adrenaline junky fixes
Everyone knows someone
Hills to flats
And back Traversing
Old time SF.
[Students stare. Students blink.]
Me: It needs some work.
Professor: Huh. OK, let's take a break.
Well said. Stay Tuned...
But first, a more general update from the novel Is It Bureaucracy or Is It Technology? You Decide (due out this Spring by SaveMe Press).
Thursday, I was unfrozen by the computer system because, woohoo, against all odds, bets and predictions to the contrary, the Human Subjects Protocol Full-On Committee approved my field research proposal. Depicted as ogres obsessed with minutiae who were going to demand I make 150 changes at least three times, their reputation for meddling was grossly over-exaggerated. They approved me on the first draft, asking that I make three tiny, logical changes.
No problem. Done.
Gig of joy. I could officially sign up for all the classes that I need to take, which of course are now all full and not going to letting me. And then, since Murphy's Law was created by my grad school, it appears:
On Friday, I was REfrozen by the computer system.
Why?
I need a thesis advisor.
Wait a second, didn't you have a thesis advisor?
Rosa. Amazing. Instant bonding. The only person in the whole department I remotely like or respect. Also just a lovely lovely person albeit seemingly flaky, though that could've been the circumstances, and all-around generally a kick-ass spit-fire of a human being. Beautiful soul. Wanted to work with me on my thesis. Wanted to make it PhD work (fuggetaboutit). On leave last semester. To return this semester. Every time I saw her, four hour philosophically based practical discussions and mutual hugging society all around. Adore her.
Turns out she DIED. (This is a great loss, not the least to the weirdly conservative Ed. Dept at this particular institution. R.I.P.)
Yes, so now I need to file paperwork to change advisors... because mine died. And the computer won't let me sign up for classes until I do.
Sigh. On more levels than one of those hampster playground sets, sigh.
So tonight I went back to auditioning for classes.
And attended not Options 1-4 from last Tuesday, but somehow ended up in Option 5, which turns out to be called Advanced Poetry Creation. Not that I have taken Rudimentary, Introductory, Mediocre, or Semi-Competent Poetry Creation classes, some of which I am sure are required. And this is the class, it appears, that all Creative Writing Poetry Grad Students take during their LAST semester before getting their MFA. CW 800,000. Lots of pre-requisites that I blew just left of. Grrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
Which explains why I spent the whole night looking around like an alien in a guppy costume that found itself trying to look innocent to all the other fish while suspiciously looking in from OUTSIDE of the guppy tank.
Huh?
Yep, now you feel like me.
So this class?
It isn't full.
I love I mean love the poetry of the fella teaching this class.
The fellow teaching this class is a kickass poet, and when I greet him, his hands sweat on both sides, visibly.
He will let me add the class.
There are maybe 8 people in it. They have a lot of opinions though, and perhaps a few more egos, so really it operates like a class of 12-15.
And it went a little something like this:
Prof: Everyone who was here last week [Editor's Note: That means everyone except for me], please pull out the notebooks I gave you to write in.
Everyone pulls out these 1" x 1" Hello Kitty-esque spiral "notebooks." They have all been pregnantly ruffled and written in.
Prof: What was it like to write in these?
Student One: It induced within me different state of mind in my writing because it was so small and definitive.
[Students nod.]
Student Two: I was compelled to write less metaphors for lack of space.
[Students nod.]
Student Three: Constrained by the shape, I was forced to write sideways, despite the lines. This introduced new subject matter for my writing life.
[Students nod.]
Student Four: It freed me from my inner critic. It's diminutive stature opened me up to write anything for I understood that in this little box it would not be judged.
[Students nod.]
Student Five: The nature of this assignment drew my gaze to the details of my life. I found myself often thinking about my ankles as I walked to work.
[Students nod.]
Student Six: I hated it. I hated it. I drew little men in all the corners. I wrote all subsequent poems during this dark period of anger.
Prof: This reminds me of Some Famous Writer who would purposefully not eat for two days and then write while starving to bring about a change in perception in her writing.
[Students nod. I shake my head and think: You make me do that, I will freak the fuck out.]
Prof: Of course, I would not make you all starve for two days to change the vision of your writing. You are MFA students; you most likely don't have enough money to eat anyways, nor will you ever, if you seek to do this professionally. Let's move on to your proposals. You have been asked for this week to bring in your proposal for your final project and its working title. The final project will consist of at least 30 poems and be thematic. Who would like to start?
Student A: My final project proposes a juxtaposition between blah and blech, this and that, blah blah blah blah blah and green will always be indicative of the youth of character J while red will always announce the arrival of character Q, who will always be silent, in the collection. I have been working on this project for the past two years. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis.
[Students nod.]
Student B: My final project is austensibly about the relationship between love, death, politics, and hindsight, with a metaphorical undercurrent of blah blah blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. The pieces that will be contained within it I have been working on since 2001, when I started this program.
[Students nod.]
Student C: While figuratively about blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, on a more fundamental level this will utilize creative syntax and imagery to yadda yadda blah blah blah. As I am in my last semester of my MFA program, the project for this class is actually my Masters' Thesis. I have been writing these pieces since I was born.
[Students nod.]
[Students D - K... You get the point]
Professor: Oh, and we have a new student. Please introduce yourself. Any ideas on your Final Class Project? I am sure not, since you only just came here.
Me: Well, I am a teacher, so I am used to talking about things before they are actually formed in my head. Now, I don't know much about poetry, I never write the stuff really, and I am not writing anything related to a creative writing thesis unless you count my urge to make up all my Masters' Field Study research (that unfortunately I end up actually doing for real because I am ethical, sigh) but I am totally fuckin obsessed, I mean deeply, profoundly in love and in fascination, with folks on MUNI. So I guess I would write some pieces showing what I think goes on in the heads of various people on the 22 Fillmore. The folks on the 22? Crazy. Complete madness. I love the 22 Fillmore. Oh and the 19 and 49 Missions. Those buses are HOT. So that could be my project. I have been working on my Project for the last two minutes, when I jotted down this 3x3x3 poem:
The 22 Fillmore
I love I
Mean I looooooooove
The 22 Fillmore
Dramas rushing odorific
Adrenaline junky fixes
Everyone knows someone
Hills to flats
And back Traversing
Old time SF.
[Students stare. Students blink.]
Me: It needs some work.
Professor: Huh. OK, let's take a break.
Well said. Stay Tuned...
2.02.2007
You Know You Are Beyond Tired When
You lose your wallet.
More accurately, you lose your wallet and it doesn't even phase you.
You remember putting your fuchsia colored wallet in a black backpack the size of a bread box. So you look in there.
There is nothing in there. Unless you count air.
You put your hand in there. Nothin'.
You turn the backpack inside out. Nothin'.
You dump it upside down. Nothin'.
You think, aw fer gawd's sake fukket.
You go to sleep. 6 whole hours.
You get up the next morning.
Give that backpack one more try.
You unzip the backpack.
Look in.
Air. And a fuchsia wallet.
Sitting on the floor of the backpack. Innocent. Waiting.
You know you are beyond tired when you hallucinate things into NOT being there.
Hmmm.
More accurately, you lose your wallet and it doesn't even phase you.
You remember putting your fuchsia colored wallet in a black backpack the size of a bread box. So you look in there.
There is nothing in there. Unless you count air.
You put your hand in there. Nothin'.
You turn the backpack inside out. Nothin'.
You dump it upside down. Nothin'.
You think, aw fer gawd's sake fukket.
You go to sleep. 6 whole hours.
You get up the next morning.
Give that backpack one more try.
You unzip the backpack.
Look in.
Air. And a fuchsia wallet.
Sitting on the floor of the backpack. Innocent. Waiting.
You know you are beyond tired when you hallucinate things into NOT being there.
Hmmm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)