“Imagine joining a group of up to 40+ individuals of all ages, backgrounds and ability levels and allowing yourself to move comfortably and joyfully among them. Even as bystanders watch from outside, you give yourself over to the music and the affirming guidance of the facilitator. You interact with other dancers generously. You smile and share and encourage and support. It’s easy to do. As if you’ve all fallen under the same miraculous spell to simply be present and kind and willing with, to and for each other.”
And there are other joys, like Spain winning the European Championships in soccer! (A joy because I was rooting for them from the beginning. Who doesn’t love being right?)
I’m enjoying reading things like Anne Helen Petersen’s Culture Study. Of all the Substack subscriptions I have, this is the link I’m most likely to open and read fully. The interviews, essays and community discussions keep me coming back.
I’m looking forward to learning new things so I signed up for a comics workshop with Aubrey Hirsch! (Y’all, it’s at one in the morning for me, but I am psyched!! I love her work!
I also recently ordered a book: Making Things by Erin Boyle and Rose Pearlman. I don’t consider myself much of a maker although I have dabbled in crocheting (almost exclusively infinity scarves, because…easy!). Buying the book is a salute to my aspirational self who is always keen to be more adventurous in my creative pursuits. Not gonna lie, this was a s straight up Culture Study moment. I read the interview, felt charmed and motivated; book arrives next week.
Sometimes I just want to talk about what’s good. This is that. What’s good in your world? I’d love to hear it.
The day before travel like the week before travel caught in a cloud of practical and random worries Contingency calculations running nonstop in the background what if what if what if what if micro decisions before the avalanche that will follow boardingpassportairlineupgotogate done this a hundred times at least No mystery only uncertainty, doubt and slivers of terror Not afraid of flying but of waiting and not moving trapped with no exit only a blank faith that all will be well eventually and I will not leap out of my skin before departure.
The day before travel like the week before travel household regrets pile high and higher No desire to return to this mess yet so little motivation to clear it while we can. I think about testaments and wills that don't yet exist but should, it's high time, long overdue If I go now, there will only be mess left behind that's a regret I take with me on board. There's no guarantee I/we'll be back but I travel anyway under the assumption that all this continues after and after.
The day before travel like the weeks months years before travel I am beside myself, the one who is calm not panicked. The one who carries what's necessary plus a little extra. I am beside myself - the one who is capable and directed and quietly prepared. The day before travel like the weeks before travel will pass without incident and the next day I will sit beside myself, pick up my book and exhale our release.
In May I walked into a poetry slam called Textstrom. They drew my name and I got up on stage. I read my old poems and folks applauded. I made it into the final. I read 3 more old poems and after all was said and done I won.
A month later invited back to celebrate 20 years of Textstrom with seasoned and aspiring poets, writers, language artists. An honor and delight. I read some old poems I sold 3 0r 4 of my little books.
I am not a natural poetry slammer. I read aloud my original words In this case auf deutsch And it's particularly amusing to audiences who understand
It's always easier to mess around in someone else's dialect.
The video is a gift from Mihret K. to whom I am forever grateful!
The end of another school year and I am a husk. The day after the end and the tank feels empty. Sleep and comfort are the only priorities. Relative silence is a balm. The physical fallout strikes me as remarkable; so strong the need to rest and retreat. Almost any kind of interaction feels like a stretch. While I know this state won’t last, experience has taught me to pay tribute now rather than later.
Every year that I inch closer to retirement, I take note of my internal weather. I can read my own seasons more clearly now; my penchant for anticipation has grown. To say that I’ve become more patient would be inaccurate. Rather, I have learned that impatience costs more energy in the grand scheme of things. Instead, I make peace with what is. Sometimes grudgingly. How many more years I plan to work comes up more often as a question. The accumulation of school years is a fact. I see in graduates’ faces how the years blur, how easy it is to lose track of development that doesn’t pause over summers, after university or through a pandemic. It’s the cyclical nature of education that can shield us in part from the everyday ravages of time.
But loss comes closer. And more often. Former colleagues we celebrated into retirement begin to fade. Meanwhile our memorials feel perpetually inadequate, even hollow as there seem to be fewer and fewer who remember. The institution cracks on with less and less interest in its storied past unless it might elicit a donor’s generous donation. These, too, are cycles of existence: development and forgetting; purposeful and in the shape of the current institution’s trajectory. (I suppose it’s no coincidence that development has become a moniker for fundraising.) Staying on means being both witness and accomplice to previous and future iterations.
What does it mean to grow older with/in a singular school? Any push I may feel towards change is inevitably wrapped in layers and layers of institutional status-quo harboring. It’s why I pay close attention to students’ voices and new hires and support staff. My experience cannot be the measure of progress. I am too ensconced in privilege to offer a useful vision of where we need to go. Instead, my role is to create pathways and platforms for those farthest removed from decision-making power to be heard and their ideas acted upon. My role is to be a listener and convener. Sometimes, maybe I’m a snowblower clearing a path towards admin.
Yesterday a retiring colleague used her moment on the mic to remind us as members of a beloved institution to stay connected with our past. She implored us to continue cultivating and valuing the deeply human relationships that make the school worth returning to years and years after leaving. She voiced some uncomfortable truths and I have rarely been so proud of a colleague. The weight of staying is often the burden of weathering disappointment; of accepting ‘less than ideal’ as the price of admission and retention.
Those of us who leave over the summer and return weeks later enter this bargain again and again. We are thefaithfull. We return with our hopes high and our appetite for fresh starts whet. We are replete with positive anticipation for a great new year. We are primed for forward momentum and bold strides towards change. But that’s after this phase of now. That’s further down the road from today.
Today I will lie fallow. And tomorrow too. I owe myself that much. Time away is both welcome and necessary. Time away becomes the portal of possibility – for rest, recovery, reflection. Time away is not the cure but good medicine all the same.
What I’m trying to do when I write is get clear. What I’m trying to do when I write is untangle myself, my thoughts. What I’m trying to do when I write is become a more lucid version of myself. What I’m trying to when I write is share while being utterly selfish. What I’m trying to do when I write is reach out without demanding a response. What I’m trying to do when I write is catch myself. What I’m trying to do when I write is both close my eyes and open them. What I’m trying to do when I write is risk not everything but just enough. What I’m trying to do when I write is see myself. What I’m trying to do when I write is picture you. What I’m trying to do when I write is imagine us.
What I’m not trying to do when I write is sell a product. What I’m not trying to do when I write is bind you to me. What I’m not trying to do when I write is please everyone. What I’m not trying to do when I write is let the platform dictate how I think and express. (This one can be difficult to manage.) What I’m trying not to do when I write is become focused on the potential reception (or dismissal) of my words. What I’m trying not to do when I write is slip into a rut of repetition. What I’m trying not to do when I write is pretend I know better. What I’m trying not to do when I write is suggest that I got here all by myself. What I’m trying not to do when I write is get high on my own supply. What I’m trying not to do when I write is relent.
What I’m doing when I write is add to my survival. What I’m doing when I write is navigate a world that is crumbling. What I’m doing when I write is make sense of how I can be other than useless. What I’m doing when I write is persist in making meaning. What I’m doing when I write is testify. What I’m doing when I write is allow myself creativity. What I’m doing when I write is invite fellowship around words. What I’m doing when I write is enter the conversation. What I’m doing when I write is resist inertia. What I’m doing when I write is follow my mind’s desire paths. What I’m doing when I write is chalk one up for humanity. What I’m doing when I write is acknowledge that we are here, here. What I’m doing when I write is refuse to be passive. What I’m doing when I write is put words on page after page after page. What I’m doing when I write is strive for clarity. What I’m doing when I write is observe. What I’m doing when I write pace myself through life. What I’m doing when I write is practice living. What I’m doing when I write is make space for optimism. What I’m doing when I write is enough.
Here's a cookie Here's a Snickers Here's some hot chocolate Here's what you ordered Here's a beer Here's your favorite song Here's the big comfy chair Here's a blanket Here's bedtime Here's a deep sleep Here's some positive feedback Here's a laugh Here's a seamless lesson Here's Friday afternoon Here's all of Saturday Here's Sunday Here's a cozy conversation Here's a delightful restaurant visit Here's a compliment Here's some comfort Here's a steady income Here's some clarity Here's purpose Here's motivation Here's the desire to create Here's a success Here's some efficacy Here's confidence Here's zero soreness Here's a deep breath Here's recovery Here's letting go Here's some warmth Here's good company Here's community Here's progress Here's a happy memory Here's a forgiveness Here's an insight Here's a relief Here's a big opportunity Here's a boundary Here's alone time Here's green space Here's privacy Here's bandwidth Here's headspace Here's lots of daylight Here's a very good read Here's joy Here's another cookie
Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten how to simply get on this device or another and just say the thing. Say the thing that’s on my mind that might interest someone else but doesn’t have to. Say the thing that keeps creeping crawling through my midday brain looking for an outlet, a hearing somewhere, somehow.
I’m reading Ross Gay’s newest selection of essayettes of delight. And they are in fact, exactly what the title suggests, sources of delight. Although my delight may be and often is different from the author’s, I appreciate the collection for this reason perhaps all the more. The delights are multiplied, which is in itself a kind of miracle in the act of reading and writing, of author and reader joining forces to reveal more delight than we started out with. I often find myself smiling or chuckling as I read. Detail after detail, the poetry that slides in and cozies up with you. Whether Ross Gay is telling you about puppy kisses or blooming bushes or ladies in trees or pockets in the sun, he invites you along as if it were just the two or twelve or two hundred of us riding shotgun or tagging along and passing by. I read and feel as if I could be there, as if I were in that coffee shop, walking past that basketball court, smelling that bakery smell from next door. These short meditations are so wonderfully specific, idiosyncratic and generous, they literally give me life. Be it a smile, a warm glow, a satisfied and satisfying sigh, a real laugh – all these episodes remind me that I, too, am alive and that similar joys are equally available to me.
At the same time, I’m holding onto a few sentences spoken by my dear role model, Tressie McMillan Cottom. She’s very famous now and it’s a point of distinction to share that she and I actually met in person (and she recognized me!). The fame, however, has in no way diminished her importance for me as mentor and model. She remains one of the most thoughtful and clear-eyed analysts of our time. Her twin superpowers of sincere curiosity and nuanced truth-telling continue to serve as a beacon for me in my own processing and creative output.
She says this, and it’s laden with meaning for me:
“What you can do is try to do work that is good and hope that it is there when the times are ready for it…I’m trying to write into an archive, think into an archive that I hope will be rich enough and sustainable enough that when the times call for it, it’ll be ready. I hope I maintain enough hope to do [that] work … because doing work is fundamentally hopeful. Creating anything is hopeful.”
Creating anything is hopeful. Creating anything is hopeful. Creating anything is hopeful.
And what is an archive if not a collection of hopeful fragments? Pieces, scraps, whole cloth, quilts and remnants of hope.
Even as we document our gloom and derision, the act of making it legible, visible, tangible for others means we believe in being read, seen, felt and heard. That is, we hold faith in others, in the other who is not us. We create and we signal: we are/were/will be here. That act is sacred and faith-full.
I cannot find the thing I am looking for. Or even closely related things. Papers, folders, certificates. I am confident that they still exist. I believe that they are buried beneath piles of other documents which were certainly important at some stage. All of these things – papers, pictures, folders, books, trinkets, trophies – were important at some stage. The stage which is not now, of course. In the (perhaps, glorious) past, they were central and loved and treasured. Stacked, folded, bound, preserved for later, much later. And now it is much later and where the hell are all those previously collected, treasured and safely stored pieces of who I once was that I suddenly require proof of? Of course, not all is lost. No, no. Only the very specific thing I am seeking refuses to surface. Even after rummaging through several boxes firmly piled in the (thankfully) dry cellar compartment. Even after peeking into boxes I haven’t investigated since moving house three years ago. No sign of two plus years of almost independent study, which led an institution to grant me a so-called master’s degree. I can find the framed diploma, however. There’s reference to my efforts in a few journal entries from those years. But the actual work, the evidence, remains just out of reach for now and it is peculiarly maddening. As if I were in fact mad, having lost the thread of my intellectual and academic output for good. But that is not the case. I am not mad and not all is lost. I am mad that I have lost (for the moment) these very specific things I know to be uniquely mine.
A small slice of the archive. The thing I am looking for is not here. (Spelic)
I cannot find the thing that I am looking for and in principle it does not really matter if I find it right now. I can still plan my next workshop, carry on with my proposed session. What I present next week is not contingent on producing a replica of old ideas still relevant. What I will present next week rests on a foundation of some things I have known and practiced for a long time. Old ideas, old me. I know that in some ways I’ll be repeating myself but my audience will not know. Maybe the odd realization is recognizing that I want to repeat myself. I want to say again what I said all those years ago because I still believe it. I just can’t find it exactly in the form I originally said it. I have said (and written) so many, many things since. As my search has widened and deepened and also failed, my urgency has crept upwards. Oh, to be reunited with potentially lost ideas begging to be recovered! So far, I have made no less than three distinct search efforts to the poorly lit but dry cellar. I have moved boxes, lifted equipment, uncovered oddly shaped objects. With each attempt, I arrived with confidence and left with dismay. I have dug into the hidden corners of the apartment, looking on tops of shelves, rearranging closet contents, hoping to locate the mistakenly placed folder and envelopes. To nought, to nought.
I cannot find the thing that I am looking for and someday I will. Maybe soon, maybe not. Along the way I have been confronted (laughed at?) by hundreds (thousands?) of pieces, packets, portions of detritus I have sought to save (for what? from whom?). Every new venture becomes a lesson in diminishing returns among toppling towers of odds. There is so much stuff – letters, photographs, souvenirs, journals, official documents, – evidence of a life lived; still very much in progress. I am older and my memory trails extend farther and farther behind me. And (no surprise) the trails are multiple and cluttered. They overlap and run into each other in ways and spots that I’ve forgotten (on purpose, perhaps). I see a picture of myself with a bouncing baby boy and must assess – which boy, at what time? There are countless notes to self, surely plenty of warnings that I opted to ignore simply by placing them just out of view. But I kept them. Sure, I kept them in the event that they might reveal something meaningful later, much later. And now that it’s much later, I have no time for all the scraps of thoughts I guessed I might need now that it’s later. It’s later and my memory paths grow congested and clogged. Plus there’s a whole new realm of digital detritus to further haunt my memory trails. I am so tired and so little of what I imagined would be important turns out to be that; yet so much is so sweet. Parts of me have also and always been sweet and I’ve tried to keep them on file. Filing is not my strength. My memory knows this and forgives me and nudges me to search again.
I cannot find the thing that I am looking for and you can tell that the case is boring a hole in my conscience as I write. That turquoise binder is somewhere among my things. It is unbothered and waiting. Patient and waiting. Out of sight and waiting. Hiding in plain sight, perhaps, which would be an astounding and also fitting irony! The thing is not misplaced but my search is! It would serve me right to discover what I deem missing to be positioned exactly in front of me. I’d accept that way of memory playing a trick on me. And look where all of this has led me – back to myself – to my failings as an archivist, to my desires for preserved sweetness, to my lost evidence of who I once was. Isn’t this what an archive achieves? Collecting ourselves through things, through symbols, through the stuff of metaphor? That’s a lofty approach, however. Not all things kept comprise an archive, right? Must we be aware of our archiving impulses in order to call it such later, much later? Am I my own archivist or a hoarder? When will I next weed my collection? When did I last exercise my best discard muscles? Is that time now? Or later, much later?
I cannot find the thing that I am looking for and I am not sure how this story ends. I only know that it will end and does end eventually. Comfort and curse so close together. Jogging my memory trails in the process tires and wires me. I am both alert and resigned. I acknowledge that I am an old card, still playing. When I find the thing that I am looking for, I am prepared for let down; for finding less than I was sure would be there. That’s the way of these things. Our memories also prefer fiction to facts. When I find the thing that I am looking for, I will sigh with relief, smile in recognition and briefly remember who I was when this was the thing most important. For now I still haven’t found the thing I’m looking for. When I find it, I’m sure I will realize I’m still looking for something else.
(poem fragments, disposable sentences, words on a page)
No apologies necessary No apologies forthcoming No apologies merry Christmas, I guess.
I’ve lived away from immediate family for so long that I can forget what they mean to me. That no matter the interval since the last communication, someone will always be glad to hear from me. No love lost, just love that lasts. No news is good news. Still.
This is just to say I have removed all my extensions after 8 weeks of wear
Perhaps they made me seem more attractive and feminine but they were heavy and no more fun
I don't think you'll miss them or miss me they were only temporary as fake things often are
I’ve begun crocheting again. A previous lover took my seasonal turn to yarn crafts as a sign that emotional volatility might be on the horizon. Now there’s no one here to notice any shift in particular besides a sudden uptick in infinity scarves strung on coat hooks. Crocheting fingers are not doomscrolling fingers.
Give and take Tree is giving hastily decorated by an univested party Tree takes it without complaint Tree gives the floor a shower of needles Floor takes it without complaint Tree is giving metaphor Tree takes up space Tree giving memory Tree taking off in a blaze of glory Giving tree takes Ridiculous
I am not far from being an empty nester and my holidays are beginning to reflect that eventuality. The teen stays rare. When he does appear he is funny and endearing. For sure there’s a lesson in that.
Agreed to put us on the road by 9 in the morning. Feeling skeptical and hopeful. If ever there were a time for both/and, it is now and forever, amen.
Abandon – to leave behind, to release oneself from a particular responsibility or duty.
How often the sound of this appeals: leave behind, let go; hinter mir lassen, loslassen. Winter invites a kind of retreat. A withdrawal from something. From some things. I take myself away. I subtract myself. There is no equation. Winter feels like a time to be quiet. Quieter. Quietest. I am also tired. Emotionally drained, spent, exhausted. And still I smile.
As expected. As is custom. As is my habit. Not everything, not even most things, are bad. Rather, I consider myself bad. Or if not bad, then less than good. Disappointing. Below expectations. Withering. The worst. I feel like a collection, an assembly of lack. Not in a material sense but in a moral, existential type. It’s in the neglect I tolerate, the narrow satisfaction of life’s barest requirements, the dishonesty of the performance of respectability.
Winter feels like the perfect time to admit these deficits – to acknowledge how they heap and pile around me. I allow myself to withdraw in the center of them; let them bury me with their variable weights. Hello, shame, guilt, mourning, disappointment! Here you all are. And I with you.
Winter is also when I choose abandon. I eat with abandon. I savor with abandon. I part with convention and indulge myself in tiny, every day ways. I bake the cookies in order to eat them. I use all the butter I can stand. I leave things hanging. I rest more, spend more time under blankets, in the thrall of a good book. Sometimes I admit to feeling lousy and it helps.
I do and enjoy more of some things as a way of subtracting myself from a particular state. I cut myself some slack, take my foot off the accelerator and try not to worry about what may (or may not) ensue. I acknowledge grief, guilt and disappointment; turn down the lights, turn up the heat and retreat. Step back. Stop fighting. Take a nap.
Winter abandon – an invitation, an opportunity. A peace-making effort. A continuing-to-live-in-the-world practice even when it (living in the world) feels like a struggle.
edifiedlistener