a sense of urgency?

Despite the general discomfort of riding a bus, I love the trip between Cleveland and Chicago because of views like this one. The megabus is a double decker, so the perspective is totally different than in a car and I just can't get enough of it. It's hard to take good pictures, though...

*

Anyway. I'm back in my teeny tiny studio after having spent 5 days with my parents in Chatham, hanging out with Mom, playing with Maxi, the river dog (who is in the jumping/biting phase of puppy-hood, which means my arms look like I've been through a shredder), and arguing with my dad about, well, everything. As you can tell from my earlier post, Dad's a republican, and he likes to watch the news. Now that the election/inaugruation is over, I've gone back to my general disinterest in politics, but when I'm around him, I remember why I cared so much about the election, and think maybe I should start paying more attention the rest of the time.

My time in Ohio was not in any way relaxing (despite the fact that I managed to get about 10 hours of sleep each night) because of all the errand running and trying to see folks I hadn't seen since August (apologies to anyone I missed! There's just never enough time!), and trying to keep up with my homework as well (also a major fail). But it was good, nonetheless, to be home, where places and faces are familiar and people know my history. Had a long talk with a prof who's known me since my undergrad days who gave me some really good advice on how to deal with my angst over my new program--and it was advice that someone who hasn't known me for 8 years wouldn't have been able to give, I don't think. Also spent one evening with my bff since 5th grade which was long, long over due.

But now I'm back. And strangely enough, feeling quite at home. I was oddly proud of myself last night for my ease in hailing a cab at Union Station, and also for knowing a couple of different ways to get home if I hadn't felt like taking a cab (but it was 11pm, cold, and I was dragging a giant suitcase, so I did feel like taking a cab). I'll never give up my self-identification as a country-bumpkin or small town girl, but I guess I'm getting pretty good at playing the part of a city girl when I need to. Everyone I saw in Ohio (who were, for the most part, people I hadn't seen since I moved) wanted to know if I liked Chicago...and I feel like a traitor to myself when I want to say yes. So here you go (esp. Brandi & Mary): I like Chicago. I get fed up with Chicago pretty quickly sometimes, but I get fed up with my parents and my sisters, too, and I would lay down in front of a CTA bus for them. I won't deny that the transition has been difficult--exhausting and soul-crushing at times, even--but I'm okay with where I'm at, finally. It only took seven months...

*

And that brings me back to the present, and the impetus for this post's title. I made a tiny little dent in my gargantuan to do list for spring break, and now have less than 48 hours until I'm back on campus for Week 11. I don't think it's possible to conquer the to do list in that time, and I'm wondering when my sense of urgency is going to kick in. The problem is that a lot of what I planned to accomplish is based on my own deadlines, not deadlines that anyone will force me to meet. However...if I don't do these things now, they're just going to pile up, and when else am I going to have time? It's 9:24 on Saturday morning and already, I'm procrastinating (is it really necessary to write a blog post this long ever--let alone when I'm swamped?). Twilight is sitting on top of the pile of mail begging me to watch it (even though everyone says it's crap) and I'd really like to spend today lounging around...but class identity (paper 1) and neo-confessional poetry (if there is such a thing) (paper 2) and grading are all calling my name. Blah! I don't wanna.

So, trying right now, thisverysecond, to motivate myself to stop loafing in my pjs and go to the library (which, by the way, will be at least a 45 minute commute each way) to pick up a couple of key sources (one for each paper), which I then must force myself to read today so that tomorrow I can start my rough drafts. Or something like that. But I just poured a fresh cup of coffee.

Yep, still can't find that sense of urgency I'm looking for.

The Baby is Hungry

A couple of nights ago, I had a dream that I had a baby--well, a toddler--and I didn't know how to feed it. When I realized the child was hungry and I couldn't do anything about it, I was so overcome with guilt that it woke me up. So, no, I'm not pregnant...and I think the baby is a stand-in for poetry.

When I signed on for the crazy BBQ job, I imagined myself grabbing every spare minute to read or write, but I found myself doing very little of that. OK, I did read a few books this summer, but for the most part, I spent my down time sleeping, going out to eat with the crew, and on the phone with people at home. Many, many things were working against me: the 14-16 hour workdays, my crazy, spoiled, Russian princess of a roommate, the homesickness. And when I was home, well, it was usually for less than 48 hours and I spent most of it doing laundry and sleeping. The longer breaks didn't come until the end of the summer when it was time to start packing.

Anyhow, you, dear readers, are not my mother (well, one of you is) and are not my priest, so I guess I don't have to explain my guilt away like this. The point is, poetry got bumped this summer, and not because I didn't feel it was important, but because I couldn't find the emotional or physical energy to dedicate to it. And now, it's the day before fall semester begins and I don't feel like a poet at all.

I'm currently inundated with theory: Kant, Hegel, various composition texts, and still trying to adjust to this new city, which is, to say the least, overwhelming. I want to write, but I feel that other things are more pressing. I want to write, but I'm afraid I've forgotten how. I don't know how to feed the baby.

I've been joking to Boyfriend that my second ms is going to be called Lonely Country Girl in Chicago. Not a great title, and I imagine a pretty boring read...but the weird thing is that I can't even seem to eek out one of my old-style, overly sentimental poems. It's pretty bad when writer's block extends to the narcissitic, catharsis-inducing poems I've always reverted to in the past.

So, here's my question, folks: what do you do when the muse has taken a leave of absence? How do you tap into your inner poet when things like practicality and critical texts get in the way of your imagination? And, for those of you who have done or are doing the PhD thing...how do you balance being a scholar and an artist?

Prompt answers are appreciated...I have to have a new poem for workshop on Wednesday. : )

On advice from 18-year-old boys

When I was sixteen, I met a boy whose name was Nick. He was about to graduate from high school and go to USMC boot camp. For the next two years, we wrote letters to each other religiously. This wasn't "before" email exactly, but early enough that we never considered it an alternative. Anyhow, the point is, I still have the letters.

At sixteen, I was a very sad girl. My sister Carla had recently left for college, leaving me at home with mom and dad, except that mom got a job to help pay Carla's tuition, which left me at home with dad. And Dad and I were at each other's throats that year. I was also having trouble with my friends at school and in general feeling isolated and unwelcome everywhere I went. Except when I was writing or reading a letter to/from Nick. I told him how I was feeling, and being the older, wiser, 18-year-old Marine, he wrote back to give me advice. One letter went like this (and to the left, Nick and I, circa 1997):

You keep telling me how you don't know where you fit in. Don't fit it! When you make an effort to fit in, you change at least a small part of yourself to accomodate the group. Don't sell yourself out--even a little--to fit in. Have more integrity. It'll be a little lonely for a while but you'll find that there are others who don't want to fit in as well. Those are the people you want as friends.

Reading this today, it sounds a little cliched, a little trite, a little too easy. But when I read it for the first time during the spring of my sophomore year of high school, I thought it was brilliant.

I've been thinking about this letter a lot lately. About how I'm still just like I was then, wanting everyone to like me and wondering if there's something wrong with me if someone doesn't. Wanting to fit in. Grad school was the first time when I felt like I knew what Nick was talking about in that letter. My friends are odd-balls. In the real world, some of us don't look quite right: long hair, mowhawks, tattoos. Some of us don't dress quite right. Some of us get thrown out of bars. Some of us never get called for a second date. Some of our families think we're weird because we like to sit in the dark and think. But together, we fit. We make each other better.

So I guess it doesn't matter if some people still don't like me.

better

another false alarm.

*

I was dropping off some handouts for copies in the English office and AA came by and asked me for help on his syllabus. For a class I took from him my senior year. He wanted to know when papers should be due, and how long between the abstract and the final paper. I said it didn't matter when I got a paper assignment, I was going to start it two weeks before it was due.

He didn't like that answer very much. So I said something about how well I work under pressure. He rolled his eyes. I said, "I don't remember ever getting anything below an A from you." His response? "I seem to remember an A-"

The truth? I think there was a B+ once.

Just another manic Monday

Yesterday, at my best friend's bridal shower, there were a lot of teachers around (elementary school teachers) and they were all getting calls that their schools would be closed today. The kids have to walk to school, and since the wind chill is -20, they don't have to go. I have to walk to class! Why isn't my school closed??

I'm exhausted from planning the shower and putting it together yesterday. I don't like telling other adults what to do (I'm the youngest child and used to deferring) so I was very tense about "being in charge" of the whole thing, and I'm just drained. I would really love a day off. Instead, I have to brave the artic tundra for freshman comp, thesis meeting, and brides-maid-dress fitting.

Speaking of my thesis meeting...I just came across some interesting advice on putting together a chapbook (which is the goal of my 1st semester of thesis hours) over at B00k of Kells. She said:

If I have any advice for other poets working on a chapbook, my mind returns to my class with Ann Spiers:

1) Focus on a strict theme or telling a story
2) Look at your chapbook and instead of taking poems out to make it stronger, start with your strongest poems and write the ones that are missing.
3) Write, Revise, Repeat.

Let the story or theme emerge in your chapbook then focus on it completely. Decide what needs to be written and when it comes to poems you’re not sure are strong enough I follow this advice—when in doubt, leave it out.

This sounds like wonderful, thoughtful advice, but I'm a little terrified by it, especially that strict theme or story, since my family series seems to be unravelling rather than growing. I guess I'll just cross my fingers and start typing.