Monday, February 26, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Retreating with Bibles
In a few moments, I will be off for a weekend at a "Ladies Bible Retreat." Now, if the weekend consisted of everyone retreating into corners with Bibles, I would perfectly happy.
Instead, I am anticipating lots of focus on the key passages (if you are a woman, you know what I mean) concerning women, and probably irritating exegesis of said passages. By irritating, I mean incorrect. For instance, using 1 Peter 3 to forbid all jewelry.
Still, there's more reasons to why I am apprehesive about this retreat. I have always found it much easier to debate or talk with men about religion. There's a very simple reason; men do not usually burst into tears and accuse you of being evil or hateful because of your argument. They usually tackle the argument. (Hopefully)
I am sure it will be better than I am anticipating.
Hopefully.
Instead, I am anticipating lots of focus on the key passages (if you are a woman, you know what I mean) concerning women, and probably irritating exegesis of said passages. By irritating, I mean incorrect. For instance, using 1 Peter 3 to forbid all jewelry.
Still, there's more reasons to why I am apprehesive about this retreat. I have always found it much easier to debate or talk with men about religion. There's a very simple reason; men do not usually burst into tears and accuse you of being evil or hateful because of your argument. They usually tackle the argument. (Hopefully)
I am sure it will be better than I am anticipating.
Hopefully.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
what draws us to create
what draws us to create
I really love that phrase for some reason. Now, I've ripped it totally out of context, but you can find it in context in my post Connections Between Art and The "Real" World here. Is there a way to explain to someone what draws you to your paticular art? What draws you to create anything, at all?
There's this wonderful DVD series out there, called the Life of Birds. not surprisingly, it's about birds, narrated by one of those random British gentlemen who seem to have nothing to do other than narrate documentaries. In any case, you'll soon find that the vast majority of a bird's attention is focused towards begetting baby birds. No, they don't love baby birds, they just want to make certain that their bloodline is carried on. Or DNA. Color me ignorant of what exactly those fluffy things want exactly.
In the same way that birds seem to be driven to leave their mark on the world (love the green and white ones they leave on the windshield) all people, carpenters, designers, poets don't want to think that the world will go unchanged without them.
As a writer of all forms, I find my best, most enjoyable expression lies in writing. In speaking. Words are my craft, to borrow an unspeakable cliche. A poem calls out different skills than a blog post. A letter requires other abilities---although it would not be a tragedy if someone wrote a poetic blog post, or brought the same common sense to a poem that they do to a poem.
Pleasure, then, is what calls me to create. Writing---paticularly poetry---is maddening. I don't care that I have absolutely no carpentry skills. I have no interest in carpentry. However, it can drive me to wild distraction when I'm pouring a poem onto the sacred page, it's flowing, and the end disappears. It's like yo-yoing, and then discovering that the wooden spool has rolled away. The right words do not come. And the poem withers, slowly, in your notebook.
I think, by the way, that I was born wanting to write. Even at the tender age of seven, my favorite possesion was one of those small, fat, 500 page notebooks with a swirly space cover. I eagerly filled it with poetic squiggles. Man, I just filled up 500 pages with stuff that looked like real writing! I always hate those smug author stories about how the author came from the womb with a pen clenched between their teeth----unfortunately, I fall into that category. Oh, yes, except for the published bit.
So, I suppose, it's all genetics. Or DNA. Or Fate. I'd much prefer Fate, it's more poetic.
I really love that phrase for some reason. Now, I've ripped it totally out of context, but you can find it in context in my post Connections Between Art and The "Real" World here. Is there a way to explain to someone what draws you to your paticular art? What draws you to create anything, at all?
There's this wonderful DVD series out there, called the Life of Birds. not surprisingly, it's about birds, narrated by one of those random British gentlemen who seem to have nothing to do other than narrate documentaries. In any case, you'll soon find that the vast majority of a bird's attention is focused towards begetting baby birds. No, they don't love baby birds, they just want to make certain that their bloodline is carried on. Or DNA. Color me ignorant of what exactly those fluffy things want exactly.
In the same way that birds seem to be driven to leave their mark on the world (love the green and white ones they leave on the windshield) all people, carpenters, designers, poets don't want to think that the world will go unchanged without them.
As a writer of all forms, I find my best, most enjoyable expression lies in writing. In speaking. Words are my craft, to borrow an unspeakable cliche. A poem calls out different skills than a blog post. A letter requires other abilities---although it would not be a tragedy if someone wrote a poetic blog post, or brought the same common sense to a poem that they do to a poem.
Pleasure, then, is what calls me to create. Writing---paticularly poetry---is maddening. I don't care that I have absolutely no carpentry skills. I have no interest in carpentry. However, it can drive me to wild distraction when I'm pouring a poem onto the sacred page, it's flowing, and the end disappears. It's like yo-yoing, and then discovering that the wooden spool has rolled away. The right words do not come. And the poem withers, slowly, in your notebook.
I think, by the way, that I was born wanting to write. Even at the tender age of seven, my favorite possesion was one of those small, fat, 500 page notebooks with a swirly space cover. I eagerly filled it with poetic squiggles. Man, I just filled up 500 pages with stuff that looked like real writing! I always hate those smug author stories about how the author came from the womb with a pen clenched between their teeth----unfortunately, I fall into that category. Oh, yes, except for the published bit.
So, I suppose, it's all genetics. Or DNA. Or Fate. I'd much prefer Fate, it's more poetic.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Connections Between Art and The "Real" World
I was skipping through the rosy pink world of the blogosphere (cough) when I ran across this request on Michael Spenser's blog, internetmonk.com. The post is called Blogs I’d Like to Read (or How To Perk Up A Boring Blogosphere)
I’d like to read blogs by artists discussing the artistic process, particularly writing poetry, acting and film-making. I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life. I don’t want to read technical, insider geek info. I want to understand the moments of insight and inspiration; what draws us to create in the first place.
I fit into the poetry writing category----and, well, writing every else, as well.
One particular statement caught my eye.
I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life.
I'm not sure how to get this across, so I'll put it bluntly; art is real life. Writing is not automatic, such as breathing, but it is as "real life" as using a hammer. But, I will try to oblige with a personal anecdote as to how those worlds intersect.
Real world: I am sitting in church. I am not listening to the sermon. In fact, I am, but trying to block it out. I am more interested in the swift snowfall outside. Finally, frustrated by what I do hear, I stop pretending to take sermon notes. The poem begins.
The Art---the poem that results.
God shudders with anticipations
as he pulls on his boots.
Ready to roam, explore the old
stomping grounds. Earth, freshly
spiced with snow,
settles into winter rhythm.
He tramples through drifts up to his knees
and his hair glitters
with snow; snow softening into water beads
as he sits down by the fire and
tugs off his boots and then settles back:
satisfied, drunk on weariness, winter-wine
running through his veins.
Yes, winter, beautiful, very beautiful.
It’s lovely to be alive
while everyone is asleep, sleeping
peaceful---sleep peacefully, my loves.
Now, this poem stems from my very real frustration with distant and fuzzy pictures of God and my personal interest in the snow. In the real world, does God wear boots and trample through snow drifts? Well, I might make a case that Jesus wore boots...anyway.... The art lies in the form. The real world seems absent, but it provided the foundation for the entire poem.
I almost think that the worst poetry results from when someone sits down and decides to write a poem. Cold. Starting with no idea, other than to "write a poem." It's a good exercise, and some people use it successfully, but if you have no ideas, you'll end up writing a revved version of roses are red, violets are blue.
I'll probably address his statement further, but I am attempting to avoid longer posts...bad habit.
Signing off.
I’d like to read blogs by artists discussing the artistic process, particularly writing poetry, acting and film-making. I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life. I don’t want to read technical, insider geek info. I want to understand the moments of insight and inspiration; what draws us to create in the first place.
I fit into the poetry writing category----and, well, writing every else, as well.
One particular statement caught my eye.
I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life.
I'm not sure how to get this across, so I'll put it bluntly; art is real life. Writing is not automatic, such as breathing, but it is as "real life" as using a hammer. But, I will try to oblige with a personal anecdote as to how those worlds intersect.
Real world: I am sitting in church. I am not listening to the sermon. In fact, I am, but trying to block it out. I am more interested in the swift snowfall outside. Finally, frustrated by what I do hear, I stop pretending to take sermon notes. The poem begins.
The Art---the poem that results.
God shudders with anticipations
as he pulls on his boots.
Ready to roam, explore the old
stomping grounds. Earth, freshly
spiced with snow,
settles into winter rhythm.
He tramples through drifts up to his knees
and his hair glitters
with snow; snow softening into water beads
as he sits down by the fire and
tugs off his boots and then settles back:
satisfied, drunk on weariness, winter-wine
running through his veins.
Yes, winter, beautiful, very beautiful.
It’s lovely to be alive
while everyone is asleep, sleeping
peaceful---sleep peacefully, my loves.
Now, this poem stems from my very real frustration with distant and fuzzy pictures of God and my personal interest in the snow. In the real world, does God wear boots and trample through snow drifts? Well, I might make a case that Jesus wore boots...anyway.... The art lies in the form. The real world seems absent, but it provided the foundation for the entire poem.
I almost think that the worst poetry results from when someone sits down and decides to write a poem. Cold. Starting with no idea, other than to "write a poem." It's a good exercise, and some people use it successfully, but if you have no ideas, you'll end up writing a revved version of roses are red, violets are blue.
I'll probably address his statement further, but I am attempting to avoid longer posts...bad habit.
Signing off.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Moleskine
It was with a curious sense of "Duh" that I realized that I managed to write about my writing and my horribly disorganized notebooks without mentioning WHAT notebook that I use.
I use the Moleskine. It comes in a million different formats. I used to use the large reporter format, but am currently 'stuck' on the book format.
I had to giggle when someone talked about my 'journal'--a giggle born of futility---I have no journal. I have journal/sermon-note/poetry/story/address hybrids that are born of a mind not diseased with disorganization, but born with that malady gently called by some, spontaneity, but a CURSE by those so afflicted!
Cough.
I have a question for my currently non-existent readers: How many Moleskine do you have? I currently own 13, and I am absolutely convinced that one has disappeared, thus pulling the total count to 14. I buy the things because
1. They're serious looking. No pink, Orlando Bloom, heart bespectacled 80 page floppies for me!
2. They're the perfect size---not too large or too small. And the lines aren't huge like those stupid 365 page one page a day diaries that you find at the Dollar Tree
3. There's something delicious about wasting $15 dollars on a single notebook---it makes you feel like a suffering artist.
Very few people will admit the last point. And, frankly, I will say that Moleskine are probably "worth" $15, but there's still something true in the suffering artist bit.
Cheers. And remember to answer the question
How many Moleskine do you have?
I use the Moleskine. It comes in a million different formats. I used to use the large reporter format, but am currently 'stuck' on the book format.
I had to giggle when someone talked about my 'journal'--a giggle born of futility---I have no journal. I have journal/sermon-note/poetry/story/address hybrids that are born of a mind not diseased with disorganization, but born with that malady gently called by some, spontaneity, but a CURSE by those so afflicted!
Cough.
I have a question for my currently non-existent readers: How many Moleskine do you have? I currently own 13, and I am absolutely convinced that one has disappeared, thus pulling the total count to 14. I buy the things because
1. They're serious looking. No pink, Orlando Bloom, heart bespectacled 80 page floppies for me!
2. They're the perfect size---not too large or too small. And the lines aren't huge like those stupid 365 page one page a day diaries that you find at the Dollar Tree
3. There's something delicious about wasting $15 dollars on a single notebook---it makes you feel like a suffering artist.
Very few people will admit the last point. And, frankly, I will say that Moleskine are probably "worth" $15, but there's still something true in the suffering artist bit.
Cheers. And remember to answer the question
How many Moleskine do you have?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Kooserites!
First of all, I have nothing against Ted Kooser. I've enjoyed his subtle and understated poetry and he seems to be one of the few poets that would be enjoyable to rub elbows with for a few hours. The fact that he is the poet laureate has not seemed to affect him at all. However, I dislike the disturbing trend that I've seen in poetry: people trying to write like Kooser, but failing totally.
You recognize them immediately. The poem starts on some mundane subject, and your eyes sort of slither down the (usually) very tall and slender poem. You don't get it, and try again. Slither. You try again and still don't understand why you're wasting your time reading this poem. Ted Kooser gives you a reason to bother; Kooserites never do. Their poems usually sound/look like this:
Grand-dad never gave me a reason
to want to sit in his lap
lean, wind-whipped,
he talked too loud
and too much
about stuff I didn't
understand, stuff I knew
my business-suit dad
didn't want to here
but I still held up
my arms
so I could watch
that Adams apple
bob and jerk
in that chicken-skinny throat
That's a Kooserite poem. Like every bad poem in the world, it gives you no reason to reread it. It doesn't even give you a reason to hate it---those poems often catch and linger longest in your mind. It's the stuff that, after the writer finishes and glances around the art center, people cough and look embarrassed, trying to find something interesting about chicken-skinny throats.
Kooser's poems have a place. But I'd rather have a brash, raw, honest, untutored poem than some depressing, empty poem that wears a slimy veneer of mysteriousness, pretending to have some magic meaning that reappears to Those Who See. It's easier to shoot down someone who writes a happy poem than someone who talks about the way that someone fingers the mole on their throat.
I find it much more likely that someone enjoyed one of those icy-warm spring days when the neighbors chimes tinkle and you're barefoot, even though your toes are turning blue and the ground is still frozen, the sun is shining than someone who talks about the grungy guy who picks his nose at the cafe and does nothing else. Poets fake their way through so many poems; it's ugly. Did they really care about that guy?
Most of the time, they didn't give a darn, they were just afraid of the old crone who runs the local writer's group who told you that romance and love are cliches.
Don't be a Kooserite. Feel your way through a poem with your hands before you force other people to slither through it.
You recognize them immediately. The poem starts on some mundane subject, and your eyes sort of slither down the (usually) very tall and slender poem. You don't get it, and try again. Slither. You try again and still don't understand why you're wasting your time reading this poem. Ted Kooser gives you a reason to bother; Kooserites never do. Their poems usually sound/look like this:
Grand-dad never gave me a reason
to want to sit in his lap
lean, wind-whipped,
he talked too loud
and too much
about stuff I didn't
understand, stuff I knew
my business-suit dad
didn't want to here
but I still held up
my arms
so I could watch
that Adams apple
bob and jerk
in that chicken-skinny throat
That's a Kooserite poem. Like every bad poem in the world, it gives you no reason to reread it. It doesn't even give you a reason to hate it---those poems often catch and linger longest in your mind. It's the stuff that, after the writer finishes and glances around the art center, people cough and look embarrassed, trying to find something interesting about chicken-skinny throats.
Kooser's poems have a place. But I'd rather have a brash, raw, honest, untutored poem than some depressing, empty poem that wears a slimy veneer of mysteriousness, pretending to have some magic meaning that reappears to Those Who See. It's easier to shoot down someone who writes a happy poem than someone who talks about the way that someone fingers the mole on their throat.
I find it much more likely that someone enjoyed one of those icy-warm spring days when the neighbors chimes tinkle and you're barefoot, even though your toes are turning blue and the ground is still frozen, the sun is shining than someone who talks about the grungy guy who picks his nose at the cafe and does nothing else. Poets fake their way through so many poems; it's ugly. Did they really care about that guy?
Most of the time, they didn't give a darn, they were just afraid of the old crone who runs the local writer's group who told you that romance and love are cliches.
Don't be a Kooserite. Feel your way through a poem with your hands before you force other people to slither through it.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Muddle House & the Ferocious Muddlers
And so here you are at Muddle House, reading the very first post, ever. Hopefully, you first had to browse through the years' worth of scintillating prose and poetry first to fight your way to very first hallowed words that spilled from the fingers of opinion-minion.
If you have, then you've already realized that I possess a innate sense of sarcasm and a devotion to myself. If this blog is still young, then you might as well be warned.
The name Muddle House was invented because I had no other way to refer to the absolute disgrace that are my notebooks. Poetry, journal entries, essays, rants, no matter how I resolved that this would be the Poetry Notebook, invariably some hideous happening would explode in my world and the poetry notebook would include the account of some snowy car trip that ended in a nasty motel.
Sometimes, I would justify myself. My sermon notes share room with poems about God and death. Well, sermon notes...God...that's related.
Finally I simply swept my whole unhappy mess under one label: Muddle House. Poems take the derisive and accurate name of Muddlers, because half the time, I'm slowly killing them through revision, so the various versions are almost as bad as the general state of my notebooks.
You have been warned. Muddle House can and will take many directions. It do exactly what my notebooks do; endure my ever-changing and inconstant moods. Woot.
A muddle indeed.
If you have, then you've already realized that I possess a innate sense of sarcasm and a devotion to myself. If this blog is still young, then you might as well be warned.
The name Muddle House was invented because I had no other way to refer to the absolute disgrace that are my notebooks. Poetry, journal entries, essays, rants, no matter how I resolved that this would be the Poetry Notebook, invariably some hideous happening would explode in my world and the poetry notebook would include the account of some snowy car trip that ended in a nasty motel.
Sometimes, I would justify myself. My sermon notes share room with poems about God and death. Well, sermon notes...God...that's related.
Finally I simply swept my whole unhappy mess under one label: Muddle House. Poems take the derisive and accurate name of Muddlers, because half the time, I'm slowly killing them through revision, so the various versions are almost as bad as the general state of my notebooks.
You have been warned. Muddle House can and will take many directions. It do exactly what my notebooks do; endure my ever-changing and inconstant moods. Woot.
A muddle indeed.
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