As for me, I create my art at the office, which is in the bedroom and next to the nursery. I'm working hard at Rule #1. In a photo taken yesterday, the ugly truth.
Today, a little better.
The Critter at the office.
Wednesday, February 3
The Artist in the Office
Yesterday, a conversation with writer and artist Summer Pierre on the Brian Lehrer show. Her book is The Artist in the Office. Of particular interest was her insight that the office job is not necessarily a soul-sucking affair; it can actually be a source of material.
As for me, I create my art at the office, which is in the bedroom and next to the nursery. I'm working hard at Rule #1. In a photo taken yesterday, the ugly truth.
Today, a little better.
The Critter at the office.
As for me, I create my art at the office, which is in the bedroom and next to the nursery. I'm working hard at Rule #1. In a photo taken yesterday, the ugly truth.
Today, a little better.
The Critter at the office.
Tuesday, January 12
Keeping the Shitbird at Bay
I've passed the last six months working too much and too hard. I would like to say that in the meantime, I've forgotten who I am, except that I have always worked too much and too hard. In truth, I've forgotten not who I am, but who I'd like to be. The self-defeating part of me, which my writing teacher calls "the shitbird," would like me to keep busy, keep forgetting, keep going through life as though life were something to get through. Meanwhile, over the past several weeks, even while I was working, I watched myself and my usual ways of writing and not writing, and I discovered my rules for being a poet. Though they are obvious, I do forget them. I'll be posting them over my desk.
- Keep your desk clean.
- Write every day.
- Keep a journal.
- Read poetry.
- Read about poetry.
- Write a shitty draft and trust the process that follows.
- Create a persona.
- Be aware of the emotional core of the poem.
- Remember that no-one wants to hear you complain.
Saturday, October 31
Wild Things
Although these days I'm only dimly aware that people continue to make and release movies, somehow or another I know that a film version of Where the Wild Things Are is now out in theaters. Manohla Dargis's review in the New York Times intrigues me, and I generally admire the work of (director and co-writer) Spike Jonze and (co-writer) Dave Eggers, but I doubt that Beckett and I will be paying the sitter for a night out to go see the adaptation. The visual and verbal poetry of the original are perfect; no other children's book is as pleasurable to read aloud (although the closing cadences of Goodnight Moon come close). I'm not sure that I want anything more than just what Sendak gave us.
I also love the book for its portrayal of the relationship between Max and his mother. I suspect that Max's mother is a wild thing, like her son. After all, she is the first to yell, in an all-caps roar: "WILD THING!" And, like spanking, sending a child to bed without his supper seems to me to be more likely done in anger or desperation than for any other reasons (and certainly not for any good ones). So it comforts me to know that Max nevertheless knows that she loves him "best of all." Because I, too, am a wild thing — or, in contemporary parlance, "spirited" — and there have been days when I have been lonely, exhausted, and under pressure to meet a deadline, and my tamped-down spirit has let out an angry roar at my poor little Critter.
Please please please little fellow, know that I do indeed love you best of all!
I also love the book for its portrayal of the relationship between Max and his mother. I suspect that Max's mother is a wild thing, like her son. After all, she is the first to yell, in an all-caps roar: "WILD THING!" And, like spanking, sending a child to bed without his supper seems to me to be more likely done in anger or desperation than for any other reasons (and certainly not for any good ones). So it comforts me to know that Max nevertheless knows that she loves him "best of all." Because I, too, am a wild thing — or, in contemporary parlance, "spirited" — and there have been days when I have been lonely, exhausted, and under pressure to meet a deadline, and my tamped-down spirit has let out an angry roar at my poor little Critter.
Please please please little fellow, know that I do indeed love you best of all!
Thursday, September 17
Happy Birthday, Critter!
Wasn't it just April, the leaves just beginning to appear, and the Critter not yet crawling? And now it is September, the days growing cooler, the nights falling earlier ... and the Critter one year old today!
At the beginning of August, I took on a bunch of work, which I managed poorly, and I found myself wishing away the miserable, too-hot month. I kept reminding myself, it will be over soon enough, and then the summer will be gone, and how has it gone so quickly, anyway? And before I know it, it will be Hallowe'en, and then Thanksgiving, and then Christmas and yet another year about to begin ...
I have a theory about why time seems to pass so quickly: it is because of my calendar, filled up with deadlines and plans. It was not always so. Every year my family received a Travelers Currier & Ives calendar from my Aunt Mary, who worked for Travelers. When I was very young, I would study the calendar and contemplate the mysterious words at the top of each column of numbers. Sun made sense to me, as did Mon, which I understood as moon. I decided that Tue meant two, but what did the number two have to do with the sun and the moon? And what was a Thurs? No wonder time and the seasons felt vast and spacious to me then — I had not yet learned to chop it up into hours, days, weeks, years....
Lucky Critter, unaware of any plans, or even that it is his birthday today!
At the beginning of August, I took on a bunch of work, which I managed poorly, and I found myself wishing away the miserable, too-hot month. I kept reminding myself, it will be over soon enough, and then the summer will be gone, and how has it gone so quickly, anyway? And before I know it, it will be Hallowe'en, and then Thanksgiving, and then Christmas and yet another year about to begin ...
I have a theory about why time seems to pass so quickly: it is because of my calendar, filled up with deadlines and plans. It was not always so. Every year my family received a Travelers Currier & Ives calendar from my Aunt Mary, who worked for Travelers. When I was very young, I would study the calendar and contemplate the mysterious words at the top of each column of numbers. Sun made sense to me, as did Mon, which I understood as moon. I decided that Tue meant two, but what did the number two have to do with the sun and the moon? And what was a Thurs? No wonder time and the seasons felt vast and spacious to me then — I had not yet learned to chop it up into hours, days, weeks, years....
Lucky Critter, unaware of any plans, or even that it is his birthday today!
Wednesday, September 9
I Am Becoming My Mother
A scene from last night ...
Beckett: What are you making for dinner tonight?
Me: Poison.
Commentary
What strikes me about this scene isn't as much the script, lifted word-for-word from my childhood but with me now speaking my mother's line, as much as the violent irritation I feel when asked what I am making for dinner. It is as though Beckett is checking whether or not whatever I have decided we will eat for dinner meets with his approval. He claims that the query is neutral, but. It is as though, and as though is enough to irritate me.
Beckett: What are you making for dinner tonight?
Me: Poison.
Commentary
What strikes me about this scene isn't as much the script, lifted word-for-word from my childhood but with me now speaking my mother's line, as much as the violent irritation I feel when asked what I am making for dinner. It is as though Beckett is checking whether or not whatever I have decided we will eat for dinner meets with his approval. He claims that the query is neutral, but. It is as though, and as though is enough to irritate me.
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