Derailed

So the plan was that Chad and Lily would go to the matinee and then when they returned I would head out to coffee shop loiter and write. Only, this plan had #FAIL on it from the start because the movie was 2 hours and 40 minutes long, plus the 15 minute drive home AND Chad didn't think about what to feed the kids for dinner AND THEN I DEVASTATED HOLLY WHEN SHE DISCOVERED I TOOK HER LEGO HORSE BARN APART TO PUT IT AWAY. Seriously, I thought legos were all about the build and rebuild. So tears and sobs and broken hearts along with death glares and Mom, I am hungry! That kid, by the way, did not touch a bite of food on her dinner plate. Not one bite.

I was all geared up to go. Because of the holiday I have not had away time to write in almost a week. After bedtime sessions with restless kids flopping over my keyboard are frustrating and not having the light on to read my textbook means I have to work on other things. Other things= drudge and dribble from inside my own head.

I also feel a huge anxiety of getting all geared up and excited and then having it fall through. Late summer I had struggled to arrange a writing retreat for myself. I had to save money for it, 2 days of hotel and food, arrange child care, then actually get to book a hotel that I could afford. I finally thought I had it all lined up and then the money needed to be used for something else. I had to call and cancel reservations. I was so sad that I sobbed for an hour and it took me a week to get my feet under me and get back on schedule with daily writing since there were things I put off, looking forward to 48 hours of alone time.  The main project still has not been touched since then. My chest gets tight just thinking about it because I need to immerse myself for about 6-8 hours to get it finished and the edits reworked. I need that 6-8 hours to be continuous. Either I pull an all nighter here (yeah, not going to happen) or I just wait.

So this got me thinking. This Spring I did not seek out extra classes to teach, though I really enjoyed the Women's History class I taught last Spring, perhaps the most I have ever enjoyed teaching. Some how this extra class time not being designated to something was parallel in my thoughts to another idea.

• Class in Spring Creation and Teaching
• The feeling like I missed the chance to learn the classics and technique of poetry

Gosh, anytime any of the places I teach for could say, "Hey, we need you to teach a Poetry class...." and what then? Do I tell them I know nothing but intuitive free verse? That I flowed through my college classes on youthful ego and caffeine alone? That at times I feel like labelling myself a poet is a cruel joke? None of those responses would go over well, I imagine.

So? It is never to late to learn. I tell that to people all the time. ALL THE TIME. Time to walk the walk, self.

So, why not create a grad level poetry class for myself? Crazy? Well, most of my ideas usually are and as far as track records go, I have a pretty nice success rate. I spent an hour gathering writing and poetry books from all over my house. Geesh. I need more bookcases. Just the poetry books from undergrad, counted 25 books. Of course I held on to each one of them, what else would I do? At least 100 of my own choosing. I clearly have enough to make a decent self study course.

My plan is this: When I sit down to finalise the two Literature courses I am teaching, I will also draft up this one. Then as the 16 weeks progress, I will complete my own assignments and coursework. No grading involved, of course. That leaves me with the accountability factor left open ended though.... I would like to start a blog for it, post the poems and exercises there but an experience of one of my grad school professors haunts me- he had his work stolen. Poems are so precious and personal to me. How do I copyright them if I self publish on a blog? Or should I make the blog private and only invite a few friends I trust to read there at first? I don't know. I have two weeks to figure this out. 

I need this. I needs this to not have the self hating mirror narrative to include my insecurities about not having mastered the tools of the craft. This is my new year resolution. Will 16 weeks be enough to undo the last 15 years? I have no idea.

If you are interested in being a reader, email me or comment on this blog post itself (not on the FB share).

Cheers!

Laugh Lines

I know, I know. Dreams are the most boring things to read/hear about. Sleeping dreams, day dreams, goal dreams. I love the imagery and the hope these wishes bring with them. Chad, not so much. So, to all the folks like Chad.....move along. This one is for those of us who revel in the magic of dreams.

Last night I woke up in the darkness from a strange dream. It was one of those life like experience dreams.  

It started at a coffee house where I confided in a friend that I was concerned about the lines around my eyes, laugh lines, crows feet- those lines. I said I was feeling....not old....not wise....but faded and tired.

He responded, "Stop calling me your gay friend in that annoying ironic way and then I will introduce you to Ana."

So, to pause here. I would never worry about facial lines or call someone my gay friend. Dreams, eh?

So in the dream we walk through an urban streetscape and down a lane and then into a wooded neighborhood to a cabin house that is surrounded by water landscaping, like a river moat with a mill generator. In the water is a women, middle aged with wild golden hair, pulling a giant log through the current and up to the side of the house where she opens a giant metal door and reveals a roaring fire. In goes the log, the door slams shut.

I realize there is ice in the water and it is snowing.

My friend says, "That's Ana. She'll let you warm up inside."

Inside we see that the fire fuels a giant kiln for pottery. Ana is soaked and has ice forming in her hair. She laughs at my look of concern and silent wonder. She tells me, "It is strange now, but you'll grow into this life. You know. What would the city girl think of the farmer you are now? You know."

I do. I see. We sip strong tea. We wander her halls and look at art. She shows us her solar generators and her indoor greenhouse. It is warm and clean and inspiring. Tile floors that she handmade and set, living plants everywhere, and sweet smells of fruit and spice.

Then she says, "You can come back. I charge 50$/hour for art lessons. I agree that I should take you as my student."

I am sad at that. I am tired of paying people to have company. I then think of all the ways that I pay for friendship. I retreat out the door and walk home, lonely through the neighborhoods and into the rural township all the way home to the farm.

I do not know what this dream means, though I am pulling at bits of the wisdom. I had a very powerful urge to gather up all my writing books and take another look at the craft of poetry. I also felt very lonely in the darkness, though my toddler son had decided that sleeping perpendicular and across my chest was the most idea for dreaming soundly while my 5 year old daughter needed her feet by my face.

This new year is bringing with it art and inspiration where it is found and as it presents itself.

Mermaids

A few months back I had a close friend say I reminded her of a mermaid. The comment has stuck with me in a way that has been haunting my dreams and waking reflection.

I have often, let's be honest here, my whole life, felt out of water. I have felt like an alien on a strange planet. I don't understand people. I don't understand the way they think, act, or do the things the so many call "normal". None of it makes sense to me immediately, so I observe.

Like a mermaid, I sometimes long to have legs and walk with them, like a normal person. Sometimes I have a deep longing for the ocean, to find more people like me that "swim".  Caught on dry land with fins and gills.

Growing up I dealt with everyone thinking I was a freak. I was a prodigy, a writer/poet, that instinctively knew how to turn a phrase and make an artful metaphor.

Now, understand that I am not really saying I am a mermaid. It is a metaphor. I have to state this disclosure because in the past I have been accused of being crazy for using metaphors or story telling.

But what I am saying, is that life is hard. Maybe it is harder for quirky people with poor social skills? I don't know. What I do know it that it is really hard to thrive out of water. It took time, growing up some.

I recently read an article about child prodigies and how as adults they fade and flop and struggle. The article, to sum it up, says that they are all intuition and that early success comes so easy to them that they never learn to actually master the craft or work to improve. I could not find the article but this one says similar things.

Yes. That. I flowed through writing classes and to this day I still don't know how many syllables in a haiku- I have to look it up. I have no idea what kind of verse Shakespeare used. I graduated with a degree in creative writing and published poetry and I should know these things! I should have studied them, paid attention, mastered the craft. Instead, I just walked away from it.

So now, I feel like I am drowning. I feel like I am not very good at any of it. I feel like Garth Brooks- a country music super star who's passion was really rock and roll. I'm good at making pork and farming- but that's not really what I want to be good at. That's not what I want to do. I am paddling upstream in murky alligator snapping turtle infested muck, my own insecurities and incompetence like a bag of cannon balls weighted and tied to my legs.

I have to make peace with that. For right now, I have to make this swamp and mire my home. I have to make friends with those beasts in the river, my tail, and either drown or emerge queen of the swamp.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays From the Stamps Kids