Blind Curse

On this modest break, I'll be stepping away from blogging to focus more time and energy on writing poems. I'm on a productive streak, and I will do whatever I can to keep it going. I'll check back in here when I've written the next Pushcart Prize-winning poem.

Today I also received my contributor copy of Kansas City Voices, Vol. 14. This issue contains a lot of impressive poems and artworks, and I'm honored to have one of my own poems published inside. If you like supporting artists and small presses, consider buying a copy for someone you like. If you hate artists and independent publishers, please buy a copy for someone you despise. The spite will really come through when the despised person opens his mailbox to your angry parcel.

As we push forward to comfortable and joyous family gatherings, I hope you'll appreciate this poem by Simon Ortiz.

Happy Thanksgiving.

"Blind Curse"

You could drive blind
for those two seconds
and they would be forever.
I think that as a diesel truck
passes us eight miles east of Mission.
Churning through the storm, heedless
of the hill sliding away.
There isn’t much use to curse but I do.
Words fly away, tumbling invisibly
toward the unseen point where
the prairie and sky meet.
The road is like that in those seconds,
nothing but the blind white side
of creation.  

                    You’re there somewhere,
a tiny struggling cell.
You just might be significant
but you might not be anything.
Forever is a space of split time
from which to recover after the mass passes.
My curse flies out there somewhere,
and then I send my prayer into the wake
of the diesel truck headed for Sioux Falls
one hundred and eighty miles through the storm.

- by Simon Ortiz, from After and Before the Lightning (1994)

If You Could

- "If You Could" by Twin Cabins, released in 2012

Mama Says

My sweet friend Alejandro showed me this act Ibeyi last week, and I'm sold. The group consists of twin sisters Lisa-Kaindé and Naomi Diaz. At 22 years old, they're a force to be reckoned with.

This song in particular was written for the sisters' father, Anga Díaz, who was a part of the Buena Vista Social Club.

- "Mama Says" by Ibeyi, from Ibeyi (2015)

Only the Lonely

- "Only the Lonely" by Roy Orbison, from Black and White Night (1988)

Heart Don't Stand A Chance

- "Heart Don't Stand A Chance" by Anderson .Paak, from Malibu (2016)

Human Racing

- "Human Racing" by St. Vincent, from Marry Me (2007), performed on NPR's Bryant Park Project (2009)

Celebration // Maybe I'll Come Down

Recently, I've been zooming left and right and down, but mostly up. A few days ago, I got word that one of my poems will be published by Linden Avenue Literary Journal in March—hooray! I'll be sure to self-promote when that issue comes out.

In all seriousness, Linden Ave is a wonderful publication. Because I'm honored for their support, I hope anyone reading this will take the time to check out their website or follow their Facebook and Twitter pages. They're great folks, and they publish a lot of gut-punch writing.

In the spirit of zooming, and of feeling elevated, here's a song by one of my favorite acts.

- "Maybe I'll Come Down" by Soul Coughing, from El Oso (1998)

Rock 'n' Roll Suicide

In middle school, my remarkable friend Molly shared with me her love of David Bowie. At that point, I don't think I was mature enough to appreciate the fierce enterprise of his music. I liked the hits, sure, but Ziggy Stardust was far beyond me. I just didn't get it.

Now that I'm a few years wiser, these songs hit me like a mace. The lyrics, the structures, the orchestration...every time I listen to David Bowie, I think of Mols. To me, those small-yet-persistent gifts are one of the marks of a meaningful friendship.

For this song, and for the perspective I needed to appreciate it, I am so grateful to Molly, and every other genuine friend I've met along the way.

And I'm grateful to you for reading this. Thank you, as always.

- "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide" by David Bowie, from The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

Me, Too

I'm fucking angry.

Yes, I have been taken advantage of, harassed, and abused. This is the reality for almost all women (which is to say nothing of trans and non-binary individuals). I have been called names; I have been followed. I have been grabbed, and I have been insulted in the most demeaning ways. I have survived a long-term abusive relationship. I have been told by a respected colleague that he wanted to make me "as uncomfortable as possible." I have gone through workplace protocols of complaint. I have sat furiously in the aftermath, after my employer did nothing to protect me or discipline the individuals at fault. I have watched many of these abusers receive award and accolade. I have held my tongue.

This is the world we live in. I try hard not to be jaded, but today I'm allowing myself to sit with this anger, and to share it.

I logged onto Facebook this afternoon, and read a post about Brand New's Jesse Lacey. The musician was recently accused of misconduct involving an underaged child. These accusations are eerily similar to an experience I had around the age of sixteen.

Somehow, I began corresponding with a local man in his twenties. We'd never met, but we had friends in common. He knew how young I was, and yet we often exchanged sexually charged messages. I won't share it here, but I still vividly remember some of the language he used toward me.

Our exchanges never progressed beyond these messages. I remember once, after I finished taking the SAT, I opened my phone to a text-message invitation to his house. Over the course of a month or two, he invited me over numerous times. Even at sixteen, I knew something was wrong with those invitations. I never went. I felt uncomfortable, ashamed, and scared. I was just a kid, but I felt responsible.

Until now, I don't know that I've told a single person about this experience.

This individual is now an active member of my creative community. He is respected and well-liked, even by people whom I might consider friends of mine. I have shared a stage with him, and I have ignored his messages afterward. I have avoided events where I thought he would be present. The discomfort I feel around this person is far greater than any remorse I'd feel for missing out on a performance.

And I'm tired of feeling defeated. As I read the aforementioned Facebook post, I saw that this individual had left a comment to condemn the abuser. He argued for the execution of child abusers, demanding that they "be put to the firing squad." For a moment, I thought about calling out the hypocrisy of his post. Ultimately, I decided not to—I don't have the energy to search for those text messages and back up my claims; I don't have the energy to be questioned and avoided. I'd rather sit on my hands than face skepticism and exclusion for my experiences.

Honestly, I'm nervous to even publish this account, but writing this post was the best revenge I could have enacted. I feel just a little stronger for having voiced this story.

I am not alone in this, and neither are you. I'm still trying to figure out the significance and meaning behind all these experiences. If you're in the same boat and comfortable reaching out, I would love to hear from you. Shoot me an email, or send me an anonymous note. Let's talk about it, and let's hold each other up. We don't have to accept abuse as the status quo, even if we aren't all ready to share our stories and bare our scars. We can fight the messy fight for a more respectful world, and we can each contribute our own strengths to the battle.

It's going to take a long time, but we can do better.

Little Love #5: Toothpicks

Little Love Number Five: Toothpicks

I have the gross and sometimes-painful habit of picking at my skin. I can't remember exactly when it started, but I do remember accidentally drawing blood on my little finger when I was maybe six years old. Though it's probably not a very healthy practice, I've never been too worried about it: I'm not ingesting chemicals, and I'm not shaping my life around my finger-picking. Should I ever decide to become a serious guitarist, I'll already have killer calluses to back it up.

In the numerous times I've tried to quit this habit, though, I've noticed one consistent crutch: toothpicks. Having a toothpick to fiddle with means that I don't have to torture my fingers raw. Instead, I can focus all my nervous energy into chewing on a tiny piece of wood, all the while improving my periodontal health. In college—an especially nervous period—toothpicks helped me bite my way through countless classes and essays. In fact, I think my best piece of academic prose was born between several mangled toothpicks in a Panera in Cambridge.

Until I manage to swallow a splinter (à la Sherwood Anderson), it's not a bad trade-off.

Two of Hearts

It's Friday night. You should be dancing.

- "Two of Hearts" by Stacey Q, from Better than Heaven (1986)

Magnasanti

I have an embarrassing confession to make: I love SimCity 2000.

As a kid, I played the game frequently and halfheartedly. I never really understood the planning aspects, but I loved to pretend that I did (admittedly, my arrogance hasn't changed much). Recently, however, I've discovered the game anew. I'd been futzing around with online emulators until my S.O. presented me with a copy of the game.

This changed everything.

I've been enjoying the game way too much. SimCity's open-ended structure allows for players to design and build their own tiny cities. Yes, it's as nerdy and addictive as it sounds. Because there's no clear end goal, it's easy to get sucked into the endless pit of development. I'm trying not to become one of those video game-addicted robots who never leaves the house.

Of course, obsession can occasionally lead to remarkable, if creepy outcomes. Sometime in the last five years, an architecture student named Vincent Ocasla used SimCity 3000 to create a dystopia of six million residents. His virtual city, Magnasanti, was inspired by the Ville Radieuse, a conceptual utopia first presented by Le Corbusier. (Ocasla's design eventually landed him a feature on MoMA's Design and Violence.)

Le Corbusier's idealistic, flawed Ville Radieuse

Both projects present compelling questions of urban planning: what is the purpose of mixed-use zoning? What is the relationship between a structure and its site? What is the human experience of such an environment? How do the accidents and imperfections in our cities make our lives better?

But here I am, getting away from myself. If you're still reading this post, check out the weird, mind-boggling video of Ocasla's three-year planning process. I hope it makes you feel at least a little better about how you're spending your life.

The Men

Tonight I went to a reading by B.H. Fairchild. I'm exhausted but elated. Here is one of his poems, courtesy of The Poetry Foundation.

"The Men"

As a kid sitting in a yellow vinyl

booth in the back of Earl’s Tavern,

you watch the late-afternoon drunks

coming and going, sunlight breaking

through the smoky dark as the door

opens and closes, and it’s the future

flashing ahead like the taillights

of a semi as you drop over a rise

in the road on your way to Amarillo,

bright lights and blonde-haired women,

as Billy used to say, slumped over

his beer like a snail, make a real man

out of you, the smile bleak as the gaps

between his teeth, stay loose, son,

don’t die before you’re dead. Always

the warnings from men you worked with

before they broke, blue fingernails,

eyes red as fate. A different life

for me, you think, and outside later,

feeling young and strong enough to raise

the sun back up, you stare down Highway 54,

pushing everything—stars, sky, moon,

all but a thin line at the edge

of the world—behind you. Your headlights

sweep across the tavern window,

ripping the dark from the small, humped

shapes of men inside who turn and look,

like small animals caught in the glare

of your lights on the road to Amarillo.

- by B.H. Fairchild, from The Arrival of the Future (1986)

Respect Yourself

- "Respect Yourself" by The Staple Singers, from Be Altitude: Respect Yourself (1972)

Janet

Good morning from Logan! As always, Boston has been good to me: I feel more grounded after catching up with so many people I love and care about.

One of those people—my dear friend Kate—always opens my eyes to new music. (Seriously. In four years, she still hasn't steered me wrong.) Here's one of the discoveries she shared with me this weekend.

- "Janet" by Berhana, from the Berhana EP (2016)

Back to Basics

I'm in Massachusetts!

I'll post more when I'm home this week, but for now, here's a quick little snippet from Wellesley.

Broken Arrows

- "Broken Arrows" by José González, from Veneer (2003)

The Photography of Helen Levitt

I've got the post-Halloween blues. Now it's that awful time of year when everyone gets hyped up for spending money and underwhelming family holidays. Don't get me wrong—I love winter. The quiet, the stillness, the oh-so-satisfying crunch of fresh snow under your boots. There's something so indefinably relaxing about the cold. At the same time, I'll miss the fiery leaves and spooky excitement of October.

As we move toward the end of the year, here's one last gasp of Halloween goodness, courtesy of Helen Levitt.

Levitt was a photographer who spent her life in New York. Born in Brooklyn in 1913, she developed an interest in photography after dropping out of high school. She became known for her "street photography," documenting everyday life in New York City, and she died in 2009 at the age of 95.

(As an aside, the idea of "street photography" fascinates me. While it has definite merits as an honest and candid form, it's also easily inclined toward exploitation—accidental or otherwise. Perhaps I'll flesh out these thoughts more in a future post.)

Nonetheless, I like these photos because of how they convey the excitement and idleness of a child's Halloween. They remind me of the eagerness I felt as a kid before trick-or-treating, and the exhaustion I felt afterward.

On this day after, I wish you rest and lots of candy.

NYC, 1940

NYC, 1940