Too Sad

On the heels of this sad, sad news in the saddest of times I can remember, my dad and I shared uncontrollable tears on the phone, unshakable grief that we laughed and choked through as we listed our favorite Robin Williams roles, scenes, wept in genuine, deep sadness for this deeply saddened man.  I cannot blame him for taking his own life; I’ve certainly wanted to end my own, more often than I like to admit. I’m tired of this world, its razor sharp edges, the dull ones, too, cut deeply, scar the heart and mind if you dare stare into the abyss.  And while I have no authority to dicker about the difference between sadness and depression, I believe it is far too easy to say, “He was depressed.”  Quite frankly, I have come to believe that if you’re not depressed, at least sometimes, then maybe there’s something wrong with YOU.

One of my grandma’s brothers took his own life.  It was a long, long time ago, so none of us knew him, and we don't talk about it.  But anymore, many people wear their diagnoses on their sleeves, talk about their pills, their addictions, their guilt and shame, their transgressions, their battles.  And yes, this is brave.  But I’m sick of doctors and drug companies and even the heart-hurt themselves, blaming the chemical imbalances, treating them as causes instead of symptoms.  Sick of it.  Of course he was depressed; we ALL should be, compounding harm as we do, turning away from anything that does not aid our pursuits of happiness.  We can’t even say what happiness is—at least I can’t, not today—and we can’t believe our own memes of what it isn’t.  Money can’t buy it.  It comes from within.  It is love and sharing—such empty clichés; yet, I bet you thought or hoped for a second there that I meant them, didn’t you? 

And a part of me wants to, wants to believe that there are mostly-happy people, but even babies cry and they know NOTHING of the atrocities.  We would be remiss to be anything but sad for all the starving children, all the wars and their refugees, the twenty-three soldiers who take their own lives each day.  Maybe we are even sadder still if we do not support the wars they wage.  And then there is the ravaged earth we tread upon.

Undoubtedly Robin Williams was sad about all of this too, so last night I cried for him.  I’d like to cry some more because he, too, is a casualty of war, there in his ocean-side mansion with his private pool and pretty wife, children, that sparkle in his blue eyes snuffed out at his own hand.  I’m sad because I never met him, and I’m especially sad because now I know for sure I never will.  And yet for most of my life he made me feel like I knew him, the slices of him he shared so freely.  He made me happy and will continue to, but I’m sad because there are no dads like Mrs. Doubtfire, and there are no teachers like John Keating or psychologists like Sean Maguire, or maybe there are, but I haven’t met them either.  Even Oliver Sacks was no Malcolm Sayer.  I’m sad because there are no Genies like that nameless magic friend he voiced to life.  No matter how hard I rub every lamp in every thrift store, I have no drag-queen friends like the Goldmans.  There is no Peter Pan, no alien like Mork from Ork.  Fiction.  Like the “Pretty good!” I cheerfully offered to a man on the sidewalk this morning when he asked how I was doing.  Fiction. 

Late last night, I watched his hour-and-a-half stand-up show, Methods of Self Destruction, drank four glasses of wine, laughed out loud and chain smoked, then went for a swim beneath the waning super moon.  I blame the moon, too big, too bright, too close, a pull so strong towards madness.  I stayed in the pool for another hour and a half, and just like with his movies and his life, the time passed too quickly.  I lapped and lapped in limp reaches and kicks.  I communed with the dead, left a soft wake that shimmered and slapped the trap.  This life is a trap, and I’m sad because he slipped it.  He made it more worth living.  I’m sad because no has ever or will ever improvise like him, donning faces and voices, lightning quick and smart as the sun, dark as the back of the moon.

J'ai de la chance.

"I went to Paris a couple of times..."

Alyssandra Nighswonger sings a French classic at Gatsby Books to celebrate The Bastille no.2.  She was so very Spoken Word Paris, if you ask me.

Watch the video here: "Oh, Champs Elysées !"

I must admit, I never much paid attention to the lyrics of this song, until now.  I don't think I really even liked it until this... I still don't like that particular avenue any more than before, but the sentiment is sweet and true enough.  Paris is a city of strangers and chance encounters.

And apparently, so is Long Beach!  Thank you, Alyssandra Nighswonger, for coming out to Gatsby Books and sharing your amazing self like this.  Nice to meet you <3 p="">

Vlogosophy

Hassle-free Home Movies and Video Archival

Amateurs have been filming since always, but never before has video archival been so prevalent and accessible, and never before have our time and attention been in such high demand.

Born and raised on a Panasonic point-n-shoot, my service is for anyone who wants to capture and share the moments and movement of life without having to spend an eternity in front of the computer, and without having to pay the high price of “professional” videography.

Video Scrapbook Sample:

Birthday Afternoon in Balboa Beach, CA

No occasion is too small.

Baby showers, family get-togethers and reunions,

day-in-the-life montage, travel... 

Try a video scrapbook of your family photo shoot!

Or in addition to, throughout the year.

Perfect for birthday parties, parties of all kinds, actually. We love to party! 

If you want to remember it, I can film and edit it.

(No weddings.  Sorry.)

For easy sharing with friends and loved ones, videos can be posted on line

and/or purchased on DVD as the ultimate personalized gift. 

Filming:

• $50 session fee, up to two hours
• In a hurry?  Scrapbooks can be filmed in less than 30 minutes!
• $20 each additional hour (plus travel expenses if beyond 30 miles from Long Beach, CA.)

Note: The actual number of minutes filmed will vary depending on the event and the intended purpose of the footage.

Archival

• Video Scrapbooks on DVD: $150 up to 4 minutes (you provide the music)
• Additional DVDs: $10 each
• Custom soundtracks: $100 and up
• On-line sharing: free on YouTube, with your permission...
• Raw video clips on CD: $25

"A Valentine for You" from Paris


Got footage but no time to review and edit? 
We can do that.  Contact us at Vlogosophy at gmail dot com.

*Are you a poet, musician or some other kind of performer?  Let's collaborate!

See previously featured artists here:  Vlogosophy on YouTube



What I Did This Week/end... Sorta.

People watching in Amsterdam and Paris... 

Recollected in tranquility with Ellyn Maybe and her band.  

An honor and a pleasure.

Uncle Roy

My Uncle Roy was a sweet and humble man, handsome and healthy. He worked hard, and he was there for me at certain dark times in my life. Not RIGHT there, but softly there. Strong and handy, he had a knack for tents and tools and four-wheel drives on the beach or in the desert. He liked pecan sandies and Fritos dipped in peanut butter, beers in the garage, vodka in the armchair watching football, and other dangerous stuff like body surfing.  I didn't know him all that well, not like his wife and sons did, not like my dad did. To my dad, my uncle was a little brother. And all the red beans and rice in the world couldn't save him. Fuck you, cancer.

   

 …and the end of day is aquarium colored 

—Colette “Le Miroir”* 

 for emily 

 We believe we will live forever until 

 we can’t believe it again. 

—Cecilia Woloch 

 “Stars in the Mouth of the Wolf” 

Fortunately, breathing under water

is easier, now that I admit to the drowning.

Even in this blue-green half-light, the cancer

stinks up the room—floats—covered in the white

sheets of nostalgia.  The quiet is blinding.

Someone’s nephew is someplace else now, and we

are here remembering—fast cars from another world,

racing.  The quiet is not as blinding as it is heavy,

heavy as a Hemi at the bottom of a

fish tank.  The old blowfish is alive and well,

just not here, in this restaurant, in this desert

where fish are a tourist attraction.  The brothers

will argue over who gets to pay the bill and be

thankful to be able.  They like the blowfish story.

Don’t talk about the liver, the poisonous ovaries,

the sleeping pills of denial.  Such tales keep me

up at night.  All this sand is just tumbled rocks

slowly releasing their fossils into the currents. 

Motor homes whir out of town, comforting

their passengers with the promise of blue-green

landscapes, but there cannot be enough water,

not anywhere in the world, to console this caravan.

*In this short story, an older, and presumably wiser Colette has

a conversation with her fictional double, Claudine, about youth and aging.

Previously published in Tears in the Fence, No. 55, summer 2012

Manuscript

I do not remember these things
— they remember me,
not as child or woman but as their last excuse
to stay, not wholly to die.
~ Janet Frame's "The Place"

The shuffling and banging together of poems has quieted, the slipping almost stopped. As I piece together these bits of thoughts that I call poems, they make all kinds of racket ("a systematised element of organized crime," Wikipedia ;) New threads emerge, old ones seem raveled and frayed. Being home has been like this. Settling back into an old life that no longer exists, dusting, baking, finding new homes for things from my most recent past life, missing things and people.

How to talk (briefly) about my own manuscript. Today is my niece's fourth birthday and I feel like I just met her two weeks ago. It's true, they grow up so fast. I didn't go to her party. Blame geography, the dog's dislike of children, this manuscript. But I am thinking of her. I am thinking of finding the stars uncountable with her in her back yard the day after Christmas, the playhouse lamp beckoning, bedtime fast approaching. The old chair in my kitchen that would look great in her room. I am thinking about helping her play Pac Man on her mother's iPhone. I am thinking of my sister and wondering how she does it all... so well.

These poems are certainly for them. Old love stories. Thresholds. I am thinking of Elizabeth Bishop's take on lost things. Dickenson's advice on telling the truth. Adrienne Rich's words on all the little lies we tell. These poems are certainly for them, too. There are airplanes and linens, manicures and landscapes. There is furniture. Even love. This is me, closing a chapter. There is nothing left to do but begin again. And vacuum up the pine needles. And put this manuscript in the mail.

Here's a video to hold you over.

Laundry

The cat almost snores on the clean sheets, papers and books under his head, and the next load of laundry is almost done. American washing machines are SO much faster… and bigger. And the dryers. If you’re even lucky/rich enough to have one in Paris, (usually a washer/dryer combo) you have to wait two hours for jeans and a couple of towels. I still air dry plenty of things—undergarments. My favorite tops, those new fuzzy sock slippers I got in my Christmas stocking, which I’m sure would combust from the heat or at least lose all the sticky dots on the bottom of the feet. Filou loves these socks but only when I’m wearing them.

He also “loves” the corner of the bedspread when it hangs long enough for him to hump. When it doesn’t, he looks at it, then at me, and whines. He also loves the throw blanket on the sofa.

I have a sheet fetish. Pure cotton. Mix-n-match. Folding fitted sheets so neatly you can’t tell they’re not flat. But I can. The worst part of doing the laundry is the socks, never coming clean enough, forever losing their mates, escaping the pile, all that pairing and tucking and stuffing into the only drawer I can spare for them. No. I prefer sheets, even towels, their plush stacks on the shelves. Something like my grandma’s linen closet, but never quite.

All of my (current) favorite blankets come from France, each with its own little history—where it came from, which beds it has dressed in which apartments, who slept beneath it. All of them increasingly soft and supple from use. I left only one behind, but it was as much his as it was mine. It was the only one that ever felt like “ours.”

Fif Walk - 2012!!!

Sat down to write to you today. This is what came out. I was tempted to turn it into poetry. Maybe it is. Anyway, hello from Long Beach… And happy 2012!

The first half of our walk around the block, I am thinking about work. Finding work. What I will write to whom and how. I start to develop a cover letter in my head. The dog darts back and forth across the sidewalk. Leaves crunch. Tree to shrub, sniffing all the way… “Dear Sir or Madam, I am writing in response to your request for applicants.” He stops predictably at the corner, by the lamppost, does his business, steps away and huffs, scratches at the pavement while I clean it up… “My experience in not only administration but also in sales, management, and training/teaching should fulfill nicely all of the job’s requirements.” We cross the street.

Coming back down the other side, he does more of the same. By the time I see a man—with two dogs, 150 yards or so away—he is crossing the street, then passing us. Filou smells them, then hears them, then sets his sights on them and leans into his huff and scruff. Though the street between us is not wide, the man and I do not speak. I am thinking about how much information to give in my cover letter. Do I mention my time in France? How there were always so many people on the streets? How that last day—on our way up Rue de la Roquette to buy new rings so we could put the old ones in a drawer and move on—how that German Shepard came after him, sensed his fear, and began to snap and snarl. How I lifted him into my arms and that German Shepard kept after him, sniffing his backside, and how those punk-rock homeless guys just stood around laughing and I didn’t find the French to yell at them. « Elle est ou, sa laisse ?! Control ton chien, merde. » No « monsieur. » They would never call me madame.

The man across the street probably would speak to me, if I spoke to him… or even looked at him. I second guess my etiquette. Rue de Lappe was a different crowd, cluttered and drunken at night, high heels on the cobblestones. You try not to make eye contact, which is hard when you like to watch people like I do. Only in the morning was that street ever quiet, littered with broken glass and a feel of propriety. Paris wakes up slowly, especially Rue de Lappe. But I was thinking about work, about rewriting my resume for the fourth time this year. I was walking the dog and letting the coffee sink in.

When we get home, the Rose Parade is being rebroadcast. The surfing bulldog on the most anticipated float of the year can’t catch a wave. The wave maker seems to be giving them troubles, but the TV is on mute so I’m not really sure. No troubles this year, please. You, up there. Maybe a budget trip to Paris, a couple of part-time jobs to cobble together. A little spare time for writing, lots of reading. I don’t ask a lot. Maybe I should.

But I was talking about walking the dog, how it’s different here.

Oh, Champs Elysées

A metaphorical experience

Last night, he had an after-work social hour just off the Champs Elysées. When I met him there, he was two gin and tonics into a very good mood and I was tired and sobered, having finished my happy hours across town before making the trek to my least favorite place in all of Paris. Don’t get me wrong. The Champs Elysées is gorgeous—wide and tree-lined, cobble-stoned, with classy storefronts and cafes along both sides and the impressive Arc de Triomphe at the end. But no sooner had I come out of the Metro at Avenue Hoche than two Chinese tourists approached me and asked if I knew where the Louis Vuitton store was. “No,” I said plainly, and “I’m sorry… It must be on the Champs Elysées.” But they insisted that it was somewhere else and so what I didn’t say was that I couldn’t care less where it was or is or will be.

This is what I hate about the Champs Elysées: The tourists. All the luxury boutiques—cars, jewelry, clothes that would never fit me—high-priced restaurants and cafes where people go to be seen, where you will be scolded for not having made a reservation even if the restaurant is half empty, the nightclubs that pick and choose their patrons at the door. I can walk for hours and find nothing of interest. Not even the beggars are authentic, and the street dancers that draw large circles of on lookers are too cheesy for words.

He usually walks a couple of paces ahead of me… no matter how many times I ask him to walk beside me. He blames the dog, his Paris tempo, but not last night. Last night we strolled—well, I dragged and he strolled. The weather was not so cold and, as usual, we had no idea where we were going. We were hungry and he was high on life. When we went to cross the wide street—four lanes in each direction, or is it five?—he stopped half-way across the eastbound side to tie his shoe, which took him a while so I waited at the median until the pedestrian signs turned red in both directions. He had just seconds left to get out of the street when what does he do? He walks on across the westbound lanes too, passing me patiently waiting for him in the middle. The light had been red long enough that I knew we would get caught in front of the twin Mercedes already revving their engines, the scooters rocking back and forth. So I waited and he walked. He walked as if he owned the Avenue and all the cars waited for him and there I was standing in the middle, having waited there for him to tie his shoe.

As the cars zoomed past in both directions, I knew that this was a metaphor for my entire life. Patience and caution and observation, people passing me by. He’s right when he says I belong in the past. He usually says that I need to be more assertive. But last night he just laughed. From across the wide street, he pointed and laughed and looked around him at all the pretty things while he waited for me. When the light finally turned, I did not hurry to him. I did not even put my arm around him until he made me. “C’mon!” he prodded. “This is the best street in the world!” I gave him a look that prompted the question, “What’s the best street in the world for you?”

“Pacific Coast Highway,” I replied, though really I’d prefer any late night street in this city. Emptied of cars, emptied of tourists, with just my own footsteps setting the pace.

Anti Bio

A 300-word poem I wrote for Cecilia Woloch's Paris Poetry Workshop last May.

Suzanne (Allen) never knows if she’s coming or going. She used to think this was only a statement about emotions or where she stood with certain friends or family, but now she understands that things like jet lag, weather, and living in a second language can keep one quite off balance. So she craves sleep, sleep like a princess sleeps, especially in the afternoon. With the washing machine humming along in the next room like a train softly going. Her home is a place of linens and paper, creaking chairs and bread crumbs, sunlight and socks, where she dare not sit too long. So much to do. There are draperies and dresses to sew, decorative pillows to fluff and throw. Dishes to wash and old truths to unknow. She likes pink and white roses and is also rather prickly—like so many of her favorite women. She never wanted more than an old convertible and a back house, still doesn’t really, though she has so much more. Cats and Long Beach, a Filou in Paris. A man with Mediterranean eyes. Lucky. She’s just lucky. Her kindergarten teacher, Miss Able, sent prayers and Christian love—enough to last a lifetime—home in every report card; and at naptime, she moved about in the cool of the blue-green-gray classroom, putting it back in order, backlit by the wide wall of windows. Suzanne began playing teacher after that, lined up her dolls and stuffed animals in attentive rows, took attendance. By the time she was nine, she was dragging and pushing her Sears Roebucks, Country French bedroom furniture around in her room, which ultimately lead to a whirlwind career in interior design. She can space-plan any room out of a conundrum, and she makes a mean omelet, but her favorite projects are always the poems.

Catch up

I know this is not a vlog, but...


Well, well, well. An embarrassing hiatus to say the least, mostly because I can't believe it's been SEVEN MONTHS!!!

It feels more like two. What have I been up to? The usual back and forth, winter, spring, and now all of the sudden it's summer. The sun came out in Paris right on schedule. Time to shop for my summer flight back home.

I've certainly been relying too heavily on the short cut that is Facebook, but ask any of my friends and they'll tell you: Even Facebook is no guarantee that you'll find me.

I've been planning workshops, writing poems, attending readings and other events. And, I've been filming. Not everything, but enough to tap out the memory on my external hard drive. I can't make the videos fast enough, but I have made quite a few since we last talked.

Most recently, my youngest sister Lisa came to town for my 40th birthday! Watch here.

I got to see Shaun and Eric (all the way from New Zealand!) in LA in April. Watch here.

And did I mention that WE MOVED?! This is a video of me killing a winter morning in our new hood just after we moved in in February.

I made this video when the brothers in-law and their families came to visit us here for the first time. And the last, so far. Apparently, Mehdi watches this video repeatedly and has learned the song by heart. Stay tuned for another video from his recent performance in his school's Diversity Dance Program last week.

And before all that happened, the man joined me for Christmas and New Year's in LA. We road tripped all over--this video almost captures that. And we made it to Cayucos for their annual Polar Bear Dip on New Year's morning. The song is about a car full of people trying to find a party... this auto route, that roundabout.

After he left me and the Fif in Cali, we visited my older younger sister and my niece in Santa Barbara. Maybe this isn't what every Sunday looks like there, but at least it's always an option.

Also in the works are videos of this year's Paris Poetry Workshop with Cecilia Woloch and several poetry videos... if I ever end up happy with the audio. Audio is hard. But at least I managed to get some decent recordings to start with. The workshop was amazing for me this year. It was a pleasure to be able to host it at our new apartment and there were, as there always are, some very talented poets involved. I guess I had met most of them in previous years, but there are always new friends to make, aren't there?

Which always makes me nostalgic for my old ones, the ones who are far away, or just gone. I miss my Grandma everyday recently. Again, her birthday just passed; and soon, though I don't want to know exactly when, the anniversary of her death will pass. Seven years.

Seven months. I'm sorry. I'll try not to stay away so long.

Window Licking

a new tradition?

Two years ago, we spent our first Christmas together in Paris. We didn't get a tree or make a turkey... didn't even exchange gifts. In fact, I can't remember what we did on Christmas eve or day. Truth is, it didn't feel much like Christmas at all, but at some point we did discover the spectacle of store windows at les grands magasins--the two major department stores near Opera Garnier. (Remember that video?)

Now around the time that I lost the drive to sell, sell, sell furniture, I also seem to have lost the urge to shop. I can list a dozen arguments against it under almost any circumstance, all designed to put my starving poet's mind at ease for her failure at all things capitalist consumer. And department stores are the worst offenders on my anti-shopping list. But these stores, these urban landscapes of fashion and class seem to come almost all undone around the holidays.

And I do love me some window shopping, or "window licking" from the French lèche les vitrines. The windows are so heavily animated that I rarely even notice the products they are probably trying to sell. Of course I suspect them of being very subversive, as are ads in any other medium, but I so enjoy the displays and the people watching that I can't be bothered to put my finger on any of the ways I should be offended... at least not exactly. In other words, I am somehow able to put my cynical, critical habits aside in favor of a sort of suspension of disbelief.

This year, I wanted to spend my last night in town wandering the boulevard, so after burgers and Bud at Hard Rock Cafe, we walked... sleeting rain and whipping wind be damned! Really, it wasn't that bad. See for yourself. The passing storm picked up just as we crossed the street between the two giant stores. The "first" video is posted here, just for you my dear readers. An expat_chats exclusive world premier ;)



And if you want to see the "second" one, go to my You Tube channel.

Marry Kissmas, y'all ;)

Passing Through

A Happy Landing in Long Beach

So here I am in sunny California. Jet lag still has me up early and the mornings are gorgeous out my second floor windows. Yesterday, I even vacuumed the wood blinds, something I usually don't do until just before I leave again. Next stop: The kitchen!

Besides housework, I've been doing a lot of reading in the week since I arrived. I received two chapbooks in the mail while I was away--winners of the contests I lost last year. One is VERY good--Bar Napkin Sonnets by Moira Egan who lives in Italy and is a FAR more accomplished poet than I. It's published by The Ledge Press and you should probably buy it.

I also read two short story collections and am working my way through (the poetry, for starters) Pushcart Prize XXXIV, because, well I HAVE BEEN NOMINATED FOR A PUSHCART PRIZE! Yes. It's true. And I'm just sorta reveling in the old cliché that it's an honor just to be nominated, because by the looks of things, I won't be getting in there any time soon ;) and April will come soon enough and all of my secret hopes will be dashed to the rocks. But it IS an honor just to be nominated.

Funny thing is, the poem that was nominated--by Cider Press Review, btw--was one of the easiest poems I've ever written. It was my last semester of grad school. My thesis had been turned in and the last of my student loans had been spent. We had just finished reading James Tate's Memoir of the Hawk with Suzanne Greenberg in our Directed Reading seminar. I wasn't even sure I liked it, but SO under the influence was I that I wrote a little response, more off-the-cuff than anything I had ever been willing to call finished. I read it in class.

Truth is, I never thought much of it after that... Not even when Cecilia Woloch picked it out of my manuscript last summer--along with a couple others--and told me she thought they would like it at Cider Press... Not really even when it got accepted and published in their volume 10 earlier this year.

It's called "Free Refills," and while I can remember certain influences for the poem's subject matter, I have never felt that this poem was my own. I was channeling James Tate, much the way I was channeling Alan Ginsberg when I wrote "Wail"--the one anthologized in Not a Muse from Haven Books. It looks like I'll be reading a lot more again.

So I skimmed through Memoir of the Hawk... just to be sure that I hadn't ripped anything off or done some slant discredit to his good name, and I noticed some similarities and some differences. Nothing alarming. Just enough to help me reclaim the poem, which got me to thinking: What the heck is this poem about? As I wrote it, it felt so automatic. The language is plain. One thought led to the next without complications or contemplation. I let my imagination play in the surreal fashion that I had just read in Tate's little scenarios.

But it wasn't until just this morning, not until I started writing this blog entry, that I realized what this poem is about. What this blog is about. What, quite possibly, my whole life is about. Passing through. We are always all just passing through. Life takes such strange twists and turns that we never know when a state of being will be over, irreversibly over. Birth control fails. Friendships fail. Uncles and grandmas and nephews die. Jobs dry up and we move away, some of us farther and further than others. New homes. New loves. New visions of life. And then a blue seahorse rides off into the desert with an old woman on its back. Or maybe it isn't the desert after all. In any case, nothing is the same.

I may have just found the title of my new chapbook manuscript... and the confidence to try, try again ;)

Thanks for reading. And thanks to Caron Andregg, Ruth Foley, and Robert Wynne at Cider Press Review, and Cecilia Woloch... and James Tate and Suzanne Greenberg. I hear an acceptance speech in the makings!

Sleepless in Paris...

The honeymoon is over... at least for tonight.

12:42 a.m. and some blow hard on some late-night talk show is ranting about how only one of every two French people knows the words to the national anthem, Le Marseillaise. Is this such a bad thing? Have you heard the words? (Click here, and scroll down for the translation.) They're only slightly more gruesome than our bright rockets and bombs bursting in air shedding glorious light on our self-righteous flag.

He can't fall asleep without the T.V. He can't fall asleep with the T.V. So for the first time in my life I am seriously considering an eye mask and ear plugs. Every time one of us rolls over, the remote controls click together or just end up underneath me. Even after he drifts off, he'll wake up. And if I've turned off the T.V. he'll turn it back on. I suppose the upside of this is that I end up dreaming in French. If only it weren't such ridiculous crap all the time. From disputes about how national pride is on the decline to jingles and theme songs that inspire what can't quite be called nightmares. Always men. Mental masturbation all hours of the day. The French love their political debates. Apparently, so does my partner.

The flash of the changing channels, silent but unnerving. The most humane thing he watches is reruns of Fresh Prince. It's dubbed in French, of course, so at least I don't get sucked too far into the story. The thread of the theme song is more than annoying, but I guess it's better than his last favorite: space documentaries... black holes and big bangs, the inevitable self-destruction of Mother Earth. "In West Philadelphia, born and raised... Yo, homes! To Bel Air!"

Counting down the days until I go back to Cali... the sun, the kitties, my bed all to myself. No T.V. in the bedroom. (Who am I kidding?! A bedroom!!!) And downstairs on my twelve-year-old Sony, only digital T.V... not even worth turning on most of the time. Ahhhh....

But tonight, I'll sing myself to sleep in my head... some classic Charles Aznavour, I think:

Emmenez-moi au bout de la terre
Emmenez-moi au pays des merveilles
Il me semble que la misère
Serait moins pénible au soleil...

For my non French speaking friends, a sad little translation:

Take me to the end of the earth
Take me to wonderlands
It seems to me that misery
Would be less painful in the sun.

I wonder how many French people know the words to THAT song...

Members Only

WICE--The Women's Institute of Continuing Education.

That's what it started out as back in the day when so many corporate wives were here with their husbands... 1979, I think. And the demographics haven't really changed all that much, but they don't ever use the full name any more.

The year I was introduced to the organization, the idea of "World Institute of Continuing Education" was proposed--by a non-WICE member, but who can say if that's the reason it hasn't caught on... yet? It was 2007 and I was weeks away from graduating with my MFA, so as a graduation present, my parents paid for me to participate in Cecilia Woloch's Paris Poetry Workshop: 5 days of workshops and readings in the City of Light with which I had already had a long love affair... In which I had been carrying on a long distance love affair since living t/here for six months in 2005.

So now, here I am, two years later still, "working" in the unpaid sense for that organization over which we only glossed that week. Dependant on the unemployed status of many of its volunteers, WICE is a non-profit organization that offers courses in everything from wine tasting to German. Literature, studio arts, museum tours and walks in various arrondisements, parks and cemeteries, and of course, Creative Writing. This is the reason I joined WICE last year... I took a course called Writing From Dreams with Sandy Florian. I wrote a few poems, none of which I thought very highly at the time, and I made a few friends--the best side effect of every single workshop I've ever attended. I served as a poetry editor for their literary magazine... and will again this year.

I also tried to get involved as a volunteer but found that so many of the desirable assignments were snatched up by veteran volunteers. I once stood around all Sunday morning at the orientation for their annual Paris Writers Workshop... and met a participant... from Long Beach... who had graduated from my MFA just a couple of years before me! But apart from that, I never found my place at WICE, exactly.

Then late last summer, I went to the launch for the literary magazine, Upstairs at Duroc, where Barbara Beck, the editor, announced that WICE was looking for a new Creative Writing Program Director. I jumped at the opening, emailing Barbara, then the then President, and anyone else I knew of to ask for advice and information. This was the summer of change at WICE. Downsizing and relocation had turned everything on end. A few months of run-around and I gave up. Not the post for me, I said to myself.

Then the email came. WICE was ready for me. The program had been dead for a year and they were ready to jump start it again. Inquiries were coming in about writing classes from prospective students and instructors alike, and with fall on the way it was time to get someone on the job. They gave me a few weeks and the contact info for a favorite WICE instructor, and I was to schedule the first course. I guess they figured I should start out slow and easy, but when the first class sold out weeks before the open house, it was clear there needed to be more on the program.



I have been working at a work-a-holic's pace for the past couple of months and have managed to start up four creative writing options, including a second session of the sold out course and a third course to begin in November. I don't get to teach them because I don't have working papers. Argh! But to connect with the students for which I design the courses, I decided to create a Writers' Drop-in/happy hour... On Thursday evenings, guess where... Au Chien qui Fume, of course! A casual, non-committal forum for those who are unable or not quite ready to join WICE and/or enroll in courses. You see, only WICE members can enroll in the courses we offer, and membership costs 50 euros a year--30 for full time students with valid I.D. For people with time--and money--this poses little or no problem. I haven't renewed my membership since it lapsed this spring. After all, there were no writing classes.

And now that I'm working so hard for them--for free--I am reluctant to cough up the 50 euros. It's not that I don't have it. My partner has been more than generous and supportive, especially where my writing is concerned, but we agree that it seems unfair--like life--that I should have to pay to belong to the organization for which I work so hard, so wholeheartedly, for so many hours a week. Instead, I sit in on the occasional workshop, as my title permits, and feel the energy: so many interesting people, so much good material and discussion. I really wanted to participate, but ultimately--and after a call to my level headed, business minded dad--I have decided not to enroll or even join.

Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind ;)

No Reason, No Recourse

The rare blog entry from LA

It's my last day in So Cal, AGAIN, and all I want to do is blog and read blogs. I have a million errands to run, tons of people I didn't get to spend nearly enough time with, and all I want to do is linger in my little apartment with the kitties and my books and try to say something that matters... after six weeks of sunny CA.

This visit, I applied for an artist's visa, which would have allowed me not only to stay in Paris for longer stretches at a time, but also to work in conjunction with a proposed "project." So I gathered my strength and put together a proposal and the necessary multitude of triplicated documents required with the application, five passport photos, and the 150 US dollars it costs just to submit said application, and about the time I had recovered from the sunburn I got in the 3 hours I spent outside waiting, the phone call came: I was denied my carte de sejour and told that the reason was unknown and there is no phone number to call for further information as they are too busy to answer one.

At least I was a good citizen and served my jury duty. I was on call all week for the first week of August, rejoicing every night when I heard that I would not need to report the next day... until Thursday. I got the dreaded Friday duty. It really wasn't bad. I dodged the first and only call of the day--a murder trial expected to last 8 days, according to reports in the elevator at the lunch break. Two hours of wandering around downtown Long Beach was then followed by another hour of sitting--on the 6th floor terrace with a view of the harbor--chatting with my two jury duty pals and soaking up some sun.

I wish I could remember that woman's name. She was a riot! We were released early, one by one, and given our green proof-of-service slips. I was called before she was and I gave her two French cheek kisses. She thought that was really cute. Then I headed quickly out, not looking back. By the way, French authorities are urging people to forgo the catchy kisses. No more bisoux in France for fear of Swine Flu. La Grippe Porcine. The dreaded H1N1. Can you imagine?

I spent a lot of time with my family, adorable and germ-ridden as they may be ;) They are my favorite subjects--in videos, writing, conversation, and dreams. My new (and only) niece is like a fallen star from a strange and unimagined heaven. And I love the reason to watch that Blue's Clues! I brought her a French bikini. At her daycare, the kids must all wear hats to play outside. This is perhaps the cutest damn thing I've ever seen. A day in the life of Hailey Grace would make a superb little video...

Speaking of videos, the silver lining in being denied my visa was that in shaping my application, I actually harnessed my projects and decided to launch a poetry video site that I've been contemplating for many months now. awaywithwords I wanted to set these videos apart from most of the ones I've created so far because these are more honestly collaborative. I meet so many talented writers and artists that I wanted to capture even a fraction of what I hear and put it together with things I've seen. Sometimes the correspondences are uncanny. I especially like how my personal life invariably seeps into the finished product.

I like art that is a bit sublime: Beaudelaire, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Pink Martini. I haven't really thought of this "like" in relation to my own writing. I remember I want to read Kant, Jane Austen, and more Jeanette Winterson. What to pack this time? What to abandon until December? It's so much easier to go than it is to leave. And even as I write that, I see that it's a lie. Going takes courage, hunger, and passion. It isn't always clear that it's the right thing to do. Surely, it isn't always the right thing to do.

But I'm leaving, and I can't wait to get back. I'm going back to my tourist life, to my Filou and my man. Maybe to a new apartment. And there is a dangling job possibility like the proverbial carrot, luring me back to the City of Light--no S, please. Writing workshops and fall, the most sublime season of all. Once it sets in, there is no reason, no recourse.

The street sweeper passes down one street then the next here in Long Beach. I mentally confirm that I parked on the right side of the street last night. Seafood enchiladas leftover in the fridge. Silver left to polish. Laundry. My little yard and the coolest day since I decided to stay. I'm gong to go soak it all in.

Bastille Day

It's the people that you meet...

I'm still awed and amazed by this city sometimes. It happens by chance... an intersection of time, place, and people. It happens often, actually.

Last night I ended up at a Bastille Day celebration in Montmartre where I met JoJo from China who was flirting with her gorgeous German colleague--they work for a Swedish company--and Ingrid from Sweden but living in the northeastern US somewhere but I forget where, and her sons Daniel and Niels--ages 13 and 8--who like the Arc de Triomphe best, so far. Georges, the sometimes driver of Le Petit Train de Montmartre--the tram-like train that winds and whirs around that mountain--his Portuguese wife and their handsome young son. (I am old ;) Anna from Michigan. Florence from Paris--he's pretty sure she's Algerian. Yes, he came. It took some convincing but he ended up venturing out with me and my gal pal Theresa--from the LBC. Hehe.

All this after an afternoon spent lunching at Le Relais Gascon and girl-talking at Theresa's "Lola Studio" with Paris rooftops and blue sky out her window. We even had Ellen Fujioka for those precious hours! But when she left us, early evening, Theresa and I went for rum and fromage off the rue Lepic before deciding how our Bastille Day evening would be spent, all the while spending it. Her rental agent had invited her to a party further up the hill... at her 7th floor apartment over looking the whole of the city.

And do you know? I didn't take one picture. Sorry! It happens, especially when so many others are taking pictures. There was a guy with a ponytail and a super professional video camera who finished the evening by playing and singing "Halleluja" on the white upright piano in the mirrored dining area. This was after the fireworks so he had our full attention and got a flattering applause when he finished, which made me feel kinda bad for the guy who had been playing for most of the night--a less sexy character who didn't sing. We stood by the nuts on the clear glass table. A toddler with white blond locks of curls hit his head at least twice near the graciously angled corner. I didn't say anything to either one of them then. What do you say at moments like that?

Speaking of fireworks, the Eiffel Tower--clearly visible from the four french-doored terraces--stood ready to the south. JoJo and Theresa took those pictures where you hold it in the palm of your hand, and the sun went down to the west in its customary blazing glory, Monday morning passing in California. Once the fireworks began, the sky looked more like sea than air, high clouds like foam in moonlight. A cool breeze carried the smoke quickly and predictably to the northeast as everything always blows. I thought of the dust and paper casings from some 15,000 explosions--most ending up in the Seine, Johnny Hallyday--the French Bruce Springsteen--crooning to the million-or-so people trampling the grass that rests all year across the Champ de Mars, so that as I stood at that threshold--so close to the clouds with that plastic flute of Veuve Clicquot--I felt lucky. Even the piano player stopped... soft voices, the occasional ooh or ah--especially when the Tour sparkled with all her usual panache--and the delayed sound of light being made, flames thrown and burned brightly out.

When it was over, we clapped and clung to the few distant and lingering displays outside the city. George and his wife seemed to know which outlying cities these might be. I was happy just to be able to point out to Daniel and Niels the Arc de Triomphe rising like a stage in-the-round and lit-up above the darkening rooftops. Inside, though we tried to regain our earlier conversations, other guests had arrived and the champagne had stopped flowing. Guests took turns at the piano. Daniel and Niels sat next to Ingrid on one of the white leather sofas while she exchanged phone numbers with Anna. Others gathered around the generous remains of nuts, chips, sliced sausage, olives, cherries, and at the center--a gorgeous tray of middle-eastern pastries which went quickly, marking the last movements of the evening.

The table base of giant glass blocks was lined with books, stacks and rows of them, red hardbacks with script and impressionistic painting on the covers wrapped in plastic. One sat open on the table, an illustrated account of one woman's love affair with that mountain and its people... Paris Montmartre avec amour written by the hostess, Theresa's rental agent, Eva Leandre. The images--Cezanne-like studies of the locals--had been framed to cover the two walls not windowed or mirrored in that well-lit space. The artist, an old friend of Ms. Leandre's, Jean-Marc Gueroux was also in attendance. As we said our goodbyes and gave out cheek kisses, Ms. Leandre said I should stop by any time.

We got home after midnight and I finally walked the Filou at around 2. Two guys drove up and asked the way to the Marais ;) An Asian woman was dragged by the arm in halfhearted protest into the Hotel Chatelet by a uniformed officer. A couple argues by their car. Filou grumbled and growled at a group of young drunk guys trotting up his tree-lined avenue, their arms around each other's shoulders. The night seemed darker than usual despite the large half-moon at Saint Jacques' back. Maybe I still had fireworks in my eyes.

Reporting from...

Amsterdam.

A little rain shower just moved quickly through and we're ready for Sunday, part two.

We did a lot of shopping today, gifts mostly... a few for me and many for people in our other cities. The daytime sky is not as poetic as the Parisian one, but the night sky is sublime... so I'm on a blue kick. Got a Lapis Lazuli ring at the Sunday flea market. And a clutch purse, but that's brown, orange and red floral print upholstery fabric... with tiny pink flowers on one side, too. With a little luck, we'll catch a canal tour this evening. Hope the clouds clear.

All of my web browsers are slowly switching to Dutch, so I'm going to get back to real life. I posted a few photos here... stay tuned for the video(s).

Shakin' Loose

At last!

I knew there was a good reason I was sleepless tonight. Just finished chatting with my little sis, my favorite sister... though she hasn't been my favorite for months now, not since she told me she was going to see Depeche Mode in August at the Hollywood Bowl--coolest of all LA venues--with SOMEONE ELSE! But now he can't go, so I'm in! I do hope Dave Gahan wears his leather pants!

And that's not all that's super cool tonight. I've finally begun my stint as, get this, the Creative Writing Program Director for WICE--a continuing education institute here in Paris--and our first course is all but on the books for this fall. This responsibility is the main reason why I didn't go home last month, but I'll make good use of my time since I also have a great lead on a job a language school. Thank you, Ellen Fujioka--my little go getter friend! I might have to go see her psychic while I'm in Long Beach.

I'll also be sitting in for David Barnes at The Other Writers' Group at Shakespeare & Co on July 11th and 18th. Come if you can... five copies of a work in progress, or just listen to the fine writing that others bring in. We can always use fresh eyes and ears.

Other great things that have happened in recent months: This spring I had the honor of working with Cecilia Woloch again to organize her Paris Poetry Workshop--click to see the video I made. Cecilia has such a great group of friends and poets every year. The themes of place, image, and collaboration always make for a very rewarding experience, so if you ever need a(nother) reason to come to Paris, I can highly recommend this week-long workshop. This year we also did photography with Jennifer Huxta, the Montparnasse Cemetery with Heather Hartley, a day in the country with Jeffrey Green--read French Spirits!--and an afternoon of collage poetry with Jen K. Dick. We finished up the week with a participants' reading at S&C, then dinner--Au Chien Qui Fume, where else?! The highlight of my week was reading my recently anthologized tribute to Alan Ginsberg's "Howl"--it's called "Wail"--at a reading we organized at Berkeley Books. There was thunderous applause and the owner of the bookstore complimented me on my bravery... They didn't put me in the "Woman as Freedom Figter" section for nothing! I left him a copy to read and/or sell, but if you can't stop in there, buy it here! The anthology is called Not a Muse, a global anthology of post-feminist poetry published by Haven Books in Hong Kong.

Then... I had my 39th birthday. He took me on a dinner cruise on the Bateaux Mouches--not even overrated. Can't believe it's taken us four years to finally do it! He even muscled us up to a table at the front of the boat, which made for a lovely video ;) Miles Davis' Blue In Green made the perfect soundtrack, even the title, given the colors of that evening. The clouds cleared when night fell, and then it was over.

But not my birthday! It went on all weekend long 'cause he took me to Amsterdam the next day. We just showed up at the train station and boarded the next train, wandered around town for two hours looking for a hotel that would allow Filou to stay, too. Then I got sick. Boooo... So, we're going back tomorrow/today. Seriously, does it get any better?! Ok. Depeche Mode at The Hollywood Bowl is pretty damn good.

Oh yeah, and this week Filou turned two. Of course we had a little party... and two of my MFA gal pals came! Thank you, Filou, for the great excuse to open up the Old El Paso Burrito Kit. He even got to lick his Raspberry Charlotte birthday cake. Oh yeah, and I made a video to celebrate his first two years. See it here.

I guess that just about catches you all up. 5am... time to go take my bath and head for Gare du Nord. See you soon!

New Moon on Monday

Or rather, Tuesday morning

The night before last, my insomnia was further complicated by the most jarring nightmare(s) I can remember. My growing frustrations with our small, top-floor apartment were clearly the inspiration behind the heart stopping energy of the dreams that forced me awake at 4:30... after only one REM cycle of sleep. Rustic charm aside, the sloping roof lines, wood beams, and dormer windows are bad Feng Shui, clearly--all that enclosure and weight, the angles, the sag of the ancient walls and ceilings. The drawers of our dresser have to be wedged closed or they slide open toward the decline of the floors, clothes exposed. Don't get me started on the terrible stairs.

But the dream was, as most dreams are, a mix of lives and epochs--past and present colliding in illogic--faces that are, according to some psychoanalysts, all representations only of the dreamer's self. I tried after each startled waking to go back to sleep only to fall back into the dream, until finally, too afraid to keep trying, I got up, turned on my favorite lamp, and wrote it all down... or at least as much as I could lasso in words:

Way, way, way too scary in my head to go back to sleep. What the hell? Not quite this apartment, not this town. And my old neighbor Paula lives across the hall. She and her friend are feeling it, too--strange and scary energy. Each time we try to light a lamp, it blows, until eventually there are none left to light. Even the communal corridor is reduced to a darkened spiral. The friend asks me if I noticed the spots on the carpet. "No. I mean, just now, yes, but they weren't there before." Large, bird-shit white spots that come into focus and fade with our mounting fear.

When we run outside--to find a hotel and some solitude--there are a few kids, maybe ten to sixteen-years old, throwing things at my windows. Rocks? We sort of chase them off but end up back inside. The TV works. (I can't remember the images.)

We call the landlord, [our real-life Italian slumlord,] because we smell, not smoke exactly, but something like it... something almost electrical. He's annoyed and dismissive, reminds us that last time he came there was nothing. The apartment is our responsibility. We can't talk sense to him and hang up. There are cats. One of mine is black and freaking out. I guess I don't have another, but Paula has at least four--mostly black and one white--that chase and swirl in and out the front door, up and down the stairs after mine. When I gather her up she scratches and claws but I don't let her go, close the door on the others.

We all climb into bed together and begin to feel things in there with us, but see nothing. Something lifts me into the air against the ceiling. I can't scream. I can't even talk. I am struck dumb. My mind spins like a vortex has opened.

Throughout the dream I am dialing and dialing, speed-dialing M on my cell phone, but I never reach him. There is an interference, the intangible energy that fucks with us. It keeps cutting the connection short of any response.

When I turned out the light, I stood at the window watching the Seine. Usually smooth as glass at such hours, its surface looked more like TV snow in olive green--agitated, confused, spots of calm beaten back by the glitter and shimmy that hadn't even sense enough to run west toward the sea. I wrote one last paragraph in the moonless dark:

If I re-enter this dream I will fight. We will not think ourselves crazy for all that we feel. We are among the living with loved ones, each other, all present in the darkest night. We will summon our dead if we must. We will take back the night until it is no longer dark, for we, too, are forces of nature.

Ps) Then, blaming the universe, I slept until nine, nightmare free.