never be a prisoner to your poems

I try so hard not to talk pobiz here. Usually that's pretty easy, but every once in a while I slip up and here I go dancing on that banana peel. I'm in the mode because I've been up all night working on the lecture I'm going to give next week at UC Riverside. When I was a kid, low-residency MFA programs meant staying in dumpy dorms, eating cafeteria food and hoping nobody walked into the bathroom while you were having a moment after ingesting the cuisine. But now there are low-res programs that are held at spa resorts. If that's not what God intended, I don't know what is.

Anyhoo, anyone who followed my old blog knows I'm not a fan of book contests. I think it's a crummy way to publish books. I think there are a lot of better options. I also understand why so many presses hold contests--because not enough poets buy enough poetry books. So some presses changed their business models to sell hope instead. Hope sells a lot better. As far as I'm concerned, it's a vicious cycle that too many people participate in. Poets should buy more books, review more books, in general do more to support poems by other poets in addition to their own. Clearly the money exists, if poets have the means to afford all of these entry fees, they have the means to buy books. I've written about this extensively and it's a subject I'm pretty tired of these days. Just so you know, some of my best friends have won book contests and you and I can still be friends, even if you do participate in contests. I kind of view it the same as smoking: it's a dirty, disgusting habit that will eventually kill you, but as long as you don't do it around my kid, whatevs. Free country.

Yesterday I came to this article expecting to nod my head and be all, right on, glad more people are writing about this topic. I'm not sure why I assumed that, I've read enough articles by this writer to know I generally don't agree with his assertions or logic. But we can't disagree on everything, can we?

Well, I don't know, maybe we can disagree on everything. For instance, this is flat out false:

Poetry contests are about the only remaining way to publish a first poetry book.

Not true! Every year hundreds of first collections are published outside of the contest system--in a variety of ways. I don't have hard statistics, just the books on my own shelves, but it seems to me that more first books are published sans contests than by them. Certainly a sizable percentage. If you don't know of these books, my friend, you are not reading enough. You can start with my Goodreads shelf for some suggestions. There are certainly some contest winners included, but they are by no means the majority--even in the category of first books. This list is just my personal library, not even a complete list at that. Expand your reading.

Yes, the contest system is sucky. But we are NOT prisoners to it. Not if we don't want to be.

Nobody is killing poetry.

Poetry cannot be killed.

Poetry is the cockroach of literature.

recently inherited baubles

Here's a few pieces that Gideon rescued from the Goodwill box -- including my original pre-engagement ring from high school.

more downsizing efforts

Above is the jewelry that I'm donating to Goodwill today.

Gideon says that when I die he will open a jewelry museum of me.

There's always something to look forward to.

moving on up

Looks like we're moving into a new home. We don't have a closing date yet, but sometime this summer. My paring down in multiple aspects of my life this past year appears to be my process to prepare for this momentous change. It is a big deal for me and for Chris and Gideon as well. Chris and I lived in our townhouse for over 15 years -- the longest either of us have ever lived in one place. This is the only home Gideon has ever known. It feels like both yesterday and a lifetime. These past few years we've discussed moving and the conversation usually turned to staying put and being frugal, not being house poor, which are all very smart ideas. Living in this smaller, less expensive house is the main reason I've been able to publish 14 titles (and one more later this summer) at No Tell Books, among other things. But now being frugal feels more like complacency. If not now, when? Every time I get a book in the mail, I stress a little -- where am I going to put it? In the past 6 months we've done 4 massive Goodwill donations, given a great deal to friends and family, organized closets and the basement and thrown out countless useless things being held onto for lord knows why, and still mind-assaulting clutter. Why did I save a box full of alumni magazines? Or all my undergraduate papers and reading handouts? Our basement reeked of the 90's.

So we have a contract on a really lovely 42 year-old (positively ancient in this neck of the woods) split level home a little over 4 miles away. It has a wooded yard for Gideon. It has a garage so Chris won't be parking his bicycles in our dining room. Chris' office won't be the storage room. There's a walk-in closet so large that I am positive Chris and I will never argue again. It's on a very quiet street. I recently came to realize how much I hate noise and busyness. I think because I grew up in a loud, screamy, frantic house, I learned to act like it was normal and OK, but it isn't OK with me. I never got used to it, I just learned to act like it didn't bother me. A few months back when I was in NYC I became really conscious how much I hated being there, just for a couple days. I remarked to my friend how agitated I felt and he said he had the opposite experience. He felt energized every time he spent time there. I can't imagine feeling anything other than exhaustion. It's not anything specific to NYC, just amplified because of its size. I feel the same way when I go into any busy part of DC or any other city for that matter. And while my current street isn't exactly noisy, it is often busy. There's always soccer and baseballs games across the street and tennis matches a few feet over. A community path is just a few feet behind our house. To work, I either have to disconnect from my environment or be scattered and distracted. I think this is why I work better at night. Less going on around me. I hope this will be less of an issue in our new home. Of all the many thing I love about this new home, I think the seclusion is what attracts me the most. When we talk about fantasies, mine tend revolve around a quasi-hermit lifestyle, except I still shave my legs and brush my teeth and I don't live in a cave or a shed, but in a lovely cabin deep in a forest.

This life I created for myself when I began blogging almost 8 years ago, then starting No Tell Motel and No Tell Books, and participating in both online and flesh (in-flesh ?, fleshy ?) communities offers a lot of benefits. I certainly get a lot out of it--many wonderful friends for one. It's made my life more connected than I ever thought, or considered, in both good and bad ways. Last night I was on Facebook, looking at my 10 million "friends" and was like, HTF did I let happen? My policy has always been, friend people I both like and know and accept friend requests from poets, because, hey, it's nice being part of the many communities. Also, I don't always remember every single person (or their names) I meet at readings and conferences, so it's good to err on the side of caution. But the truth is that my idea of community now overwhelms me. For a long time I'd been filtering out hundreds of people in the feed, so I can get updates from people I'm interested in hearing from. Every time I figure out a system to manage all the updates, announcements and Jesus, those fucking event invites, there's a redesign or a new "feature" and all of my organizing is out-the-window. Chris laughs at my frustration. But he's not on FB and if he was, he'd be smart enough not to accept friend requests from 10 million poets. So last night I unfriended over 300 people and organizations. Nothing personal. It was like cleaning out another closet. Then I dreamed all night of culling my FB list. I woke this morning in a mild panic that perhaps my slash and burn created some unintended enemies. Then I told myself, I get unfriended by people for no obvious reason all the time. That's life on FB and we all need to get over it.

But if you're someone who reads this blog, and if I did unfriend you and if that hurt your feelings or made you feel bad, I am sorry. Last night wasn't about you, it was all about me. I'm getting ready to move and it's making me unsettled.

some recent celebrity dreams

Steve Martin is starting a new career as an ice cream man. He's deciding between two kinds of cones and asks me what I think. His wife prefers the regular sugar cone. He prefers the strange cone, it's flatter with some kind of shape (hexagon?) on it and lightly dusted with cinnamon. I prefer the strange cone too. It tastes better. There's a mother who agrees with Steve Martin's wife because she isn't sure her child would like, or even know what to do with, the strange cone. These women seem ridiculously conservative. Steve Martin is going to be an ice cream man. Steve Martin should be unique and have his own ice cream style.

* * *

I'm supposed to give at talk at a poetry panel. In this talk I quote poems from 5 poets, e.e.cumming, a latino (dream) poet and others. I have copies of my talk (same one I gave two year ago) in hard copy, but not enough for the entire audience. I misplaced my laptop and am looking all over the hotel for it, so I can print out more copies of my handouts. While I'm looking, a creepy, leering Charlie Sheen keeps trying to get my attention. I avoid him as best I can. I go up a set of stairs that lead to the women's gym/spa. It's for women only, so Charlie Sheen can't follow me.

* * *

Ryan Phillippe is a vulgar high school jock and making vulgar, high school jock jokes to a popular girl who went to my high school. He starts talking to Gideon and I'm terrified Gideon might say the wrong thing and incur the wrath of Ryan Phillippe. I'm on edge. But Ryan Phillippe cuts Gideon a break and moves on.

* * *

I go into President Obama's closet and bathroom. There's a nice armoire and a very nice bath. Then I go into Michelle Obama's closet and bath. It's not as nice as the president's, but it still pretty nice.

* * *

Roger Ebert is a woman with smooth legs. Roger Ebert is both man and woman. Or maybe he can go back and forth. Some people have difficulty accepting this. Roger Ebert is serving giant, pinata-looking snacks, made out of something like popcorn. Robert Ebert sprays cheese on these pinata-looking snacks for texture. Chris would rather have his snack without the spraycheese. We might have paid for two, but we only get one pinata-looking snack covered in spraycheese.

* * *

Something about Bill Cosby. Something about Bill Cosby being a grumpy, but wise, old man.

* * *

I interview Howard Stern. He's not taking this interview seriously. Or maybe the questions I ask are too in-depth. We go down into a basement level. He becomes a little round creature and begins to answer my questions, but he's hard to hear. I ask him about how he both loves women and doesn't, how he seems to both respect and humiliate them. There's a sexy woman standing in front of a storefront. The sexy woman has Howard Stern's attention.

* * *

I go up to my office to find Emilio Estavez's memoir called______. I had it for a while and it's supposed to be pretty good. I look for it on the shelf and find it hidden behind something else. The flap says Emilio Estavez writes about how he ended up on a jet plane with Gaddafi.

* * *

Vanilla Ice is accused of raping 18 people after a sporting event. He denies the charges and seems genuinely shocked he's being accused. His lawyer informs him that there have been hundreds of accusations and over 60 were made with veracity (tenacity ?). Things do not look good for Vanilla Ice.

* * *

Paris Hilton is meeting her family outside a coffee shop. They all have very blonde hair. A dark-haired, possibly balding, average-looking man (not a Hilton) is sitting with their group. He stands up and they all seem surprised that he's there.

napowrimo #1

[snip]

I don't think I'll be doing this after all.

kampa island, kampa museum