I’m working on school stuff, work stuff, and thinking about whether I’d like to go out before my appointment and get a little sun, or feel a little better about myself by working harder here.

I have no desire to write poetry. For once, I think that’s a good thing.

Whatever my decisions, I know they will be for the best in the long run.

I am glad the Ken Hunt Prize was accepted by PSI as a feature of the competition. I have a lot of work to do now to make it happen.

Now I have to go, and work on a paper for at least a little while. More later.

I do not like walking around ashamed. But I don’t know how to make it right.

I don’t recognize myself.

What the hell do I do now?

The last line of this poem refers to the title of a chapbook by Paul Gagnon, “The Darkness Is Habitable.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The child at the top
of the cellar stairs
is still ready to fall into the dark.
You haven’t got your arms up to catch me
and I’m too large
to make a safe landing on my own.

I wonder:
did you think I’d be
in love with you forever,
even after you let me fall?
Is it remotely possible
that you believe I am

that easy to please?
I wanted a family. I got a disease.
There had to come a time
when I chose health instead of you.
(You stare at me. Nothing
can make me feel different.)

There was a time
when I would have
allowed myself to die for you.
There was a time
when it would have been worth it
to hit every stair all the way down.

It is not remotely possible
that I will not walk away now,
once I learn to stand on unschooled feet.
The way home is not down the stairs.
I’m going up and over,
out and through, away instead.

The face of things will be the same.
We’ll talk. We’ll be cordial.
We’ll even snuggle up from
time to time;
but we’ll never be
one blood again.

This is the nature of
remote possibility.
The toddler flies
when the stairs rot through.
Darkness can become habitable,
if never safe.

OK. I’m closing down the shop for the time being…Off to school, then Canada.

I am taking a tiny, old, slow laptop with me for writing purposes, but not sure what kind of access I’ll have, so I will not be on much no matter what.

Hope you all have a great week, and I’ll talk to you when I can. Back with some frequency on Saturday next.

Well…the papers are done. The outline is done. And I’m done. Sorta.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now then: the schedule for the next week.

Tomorrow — work followed by school till 10.
Saturday — school 9-5.
Sunday — school 9-5. Then, flight to Toronto at 9 PM.

While in Toronto:

Monday: Train Project Management course, 9-5. Business dinner that night.
Tuesday: Train Objectives class 9-1 at the Toronto warehouse. Do something that night — jazz?
Wednesday: Train day one of a management class 9-5. Weep quietly at night.
Thursday: Train day two of a management class 9-5. Weep loudly at night.

Homeward bound:

Friday: fly home from Toronto. Go to wedding Friday night (yay flapper_girl and penny_player !). Be joyful and make merry.

Saturday, Sunday: Obliteration.

Monday: Back at work, teach an all day class.

This is tailor-made to set me into a cycle. I need to marshall my energies carefully.

I suspect I won’t be here much after tomorrow, so good luck to all.

that the paper was done?

All I had to do tonight was go through and make sure all the citations were correct, etc.?

Well…

a note from one of my classmates came through.

We also have to present an outline of the ten page paper we have due on May 10.

Guess who doesn’t have one written yet? Me…and pretty much everyone else. It’s not on the syllabus and he only mentioned it once in class; most of us thought he was talking about a certain percentage of class who were presenting their info from those papers, while the rest of us were doing something else.

Guess who’ll be up later than he wanted to be tonight?

Just for that, I’m going to get drunk for my presentation on Sunday. That’ll show them.

All this sadness lately. Just some thoughts. Hope they help.

Spring must arrive before
the frogs can sing. They can only speak
when it becomes clear
that there is something that must be said.

When there is nothing
to say, say nothing.
There are worse things to do
than stand mute before grief
and learn that giving comfort
is not always comfortable.
When there is nothing to be said,
nothing said is a comfort.

A hand on a shoulder
is a branch leaning on its neighbors.
An embrace is a breeze that stirs without chilling.
A face turned upward against the dark
is a prophecy of fireflies.

The way spring comes on — slowly,
until it is everywhere all at once —
that’s the nature of the love others have for us.
What loves us remains present, even when we turn from it,
as spring spreads while we sleep.

owned
by shadows

reviled,
skipped

left behind and
sought off the map

licking your heels
while you run

sudden needle
in your hand in a haystack

wax heart
in a bum’s pocket

invisible tar and blood-flavored nicotine
stained lips

a glance past the barrel of a gun
a restaurant in a reptile graveyard

breathes in your ear
when you sleep

doesn’t move unless seen
from the wrong end

Ah. The Anthony Braxton paper is done.

I will now listen to Cannonball Adderley out of sheer orneriness. Take that, O cerebral one!

Fuck all things writerly, slammery, and poetry.
Fuck all things workerly, playerly, and loverly.
Fuck the sound of one hand clapping and one lung napping.
Fuck the sight of the ripe apples and the first robin bobbin.
The finest of fine things sucks out loud like bad wind in a church
and the world smells like a jock stretched over a cesspool.

All I want now is the nothing brought about
by not having, not doing, not speaking, not hearing.
The listening ends here, the arguing ends here,
the willingness to compromise and the need to win end here.

Fuck all the kisses, fuck wounds and simple gestures.
Fuck the sweet edge of just before sex that begins when it is assured
and the rejection that leaves the tang of dead roses in your tongue.
Fuck the way I move, the way you move, the way movies move
and the way past the way the movies move.

Fuck you, you, you, you, you, you. You ought to know better
than to not be a problem. How will I ever learn to deal with you
when you don’t bother me at all? I’m just a paper pony
and I crush when you ride me. Fuck the way I fall over.
Fuck the nature of things. Fuck things.

I’m not alone here. Others are saying it too, even if
it’s not to you. We are all worthy of unworthiness.
We deserve nothing…

Fuck the holy hell out of this life
and it still keeps coming back for more.
I want to lie down and weep. What am I doing wrong?
What am I doing?

by writing a paper about Anthony Braxton while listening to the Dresden Dolls.

Strangely (or not so strangely) Sonic Youth seems fine for this experiment, as does King Crimson’s “Red” album.

Not so the Jorma Kaukonnen, or the Bash and Pop.

I left the Braxton at work, or I’d be listening to that, of course.

Received this earlier tonight from a longtime local poet and all around cool person.
____________________________________________________________

Dear poets, hosts, and writing workshop leaders,

My name is Angela DiVeglia, and I am helping to run a poetry and spoken word event called Words 4 Change. We are in need of poets, storytellers, etc. to read at the event, and I was hoping that you could share the announcement (below) at your readings/workshops. Also, as I know most (if not all) of you are writers yourselves, I wanted to invite all of you to perform as well. Thank you for your help!

Words 4 Change is a poetry and spoken word event being held on Saturday, April 30, from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. It is a fundraiser for the Boston Adult Literacy Fund, and will take place at the Boston University College of General Studies, 871 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston. We need poets and spoken word artists to perform at the event! If you are interested in sharing your words for a great cause, or if you have any questions, please email words_4_change@yahoo.com.

____________________________

Angela’s good people. Please do your thing.

I’m working on the NEXT paper, but had to pass this along:

At the end of Antiques Roadshow tonight (I played a little hooky) when they were doing the cute lil’ thing about people looking into the camera and talking about what a gas the whole shindig was, one woman held up a pistol (pointing it directly at her friend the whole time) and said,

“I learned all about this antique pistol which belonged to my late husband. He only fired it once.”

I’m numb these days.

It’s not that I feel bad, or that I feel good; it’s that I don’t really feel. It’s Virginia Woolf’s “cotton wool” in full effect: life lived through gauze.

I know it’s keeping me from the spike and the downward spiral, but I’m not sure flat is better.

I seem to be able to write, at least. It’s hard, but it’s doable.

The old myth about psychiatric drugs robbing you of your creativity is thus again disproved. I’ve always held it in contempt, as a creation of those who believe that artists must be miserable in order to create.

See, I’ve always believed that myth was created at least in part to scare people away from creative pursuits. The more you teach people that misery, poverty, and art go together, the less attractive it will seem.

This is not to say that I don’t acknowledge the established link between bipolar illness and literary success. I do. But to suggest that to treat the disorder will eliminate the creative spark? Horseshit.

If the only time you can write is when you’re depressed, you’re not a writer. You’re someone using writing as therapy. Which is fine, but it’s not the same.

And if you aren’t taking your drugs because you’re afraid of losing your edge…
Horseshit. You may have to work harder, but it’ll still be there.

Remember: you can’t write well in a catatonic state. You can’t write coherently in a psychotic state.

And you can’t write at all if you’re dead.