Ten Word Memoirs

In late 2008 I tried to get myself to write more by using a prompt I've heard many times before (though sometimes the word count varies). I didn't get very far—three entries to be exact. Maybe this will be something I eventually pick back up this year as well.

Oct 25
Blood blooms on my eyelids
and beneath—
body stamping itself.

Nov 26
Four letters have burned out.
Now it reads: "fun home."

Dec 5
Another dream in which smashing
a champagne bottle wakes me.

These are all very telling, even the last, in which a champagne bottle—normally reserved for popping, for celebration—is smashed so violently it actually breaks my subconscious.

I'm trying to make 2009 more like 200Mine, but if that's the case, I really need to set some goals. I blame winter for the most part.

Merry Christmas, New York!

A blind man walked onto my train tonight, and wouldn't you know, started singing "The Christmas Song." It was sweet, certainly seasonal, and, being that this is the night before I fly home to Pennsylvania, a little emotional I'll admit. But then, as his voice wailed and his head shook with ferocity, the gears inside my dusty brain started spinning and I thought, "Hey, he seems familiar...."

Just as I had begun to mentally place where I'd heard this gentleman's crooning before, he switched songs. It went a little something like this:

Though it's been said,
Many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas, to you...
(beat)
If you want my body,
And you think I'm sexy,
Come on, baby, let me know.

That's right, from caroling to "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"

Nowhere else, but on the New York subway. See you in 2009! Tomorrow at this time I'll be resting in the chimney of my house-shaped home-state.

Flight Tattoo

Once I save up enough money, I want this image of the birds attached to strings on my right arm and wrist. I've finally decided.

White Winter Hymnal

I find it baffling that I once fancied myself a writer when I can barely string together a coherent, confident, and declarative sentence these days. Other than, say, "I'm a mess." How else to explain the pit in my stomach that won't go away? I thought moving to New York would be the change I needed, when truth is, I find myself falling into the same patterns as I experienced in Boston. Inherently, there is something wrong with me.

I haven't written a complete poem in months. I haven't taken a photograph in weeks. In fact, I don't think I have much of anything at all to show in the way of creativity. Now I realize there is something worse than a "creativity block," and that's emptiness. Because at least with a block you're trying to work through it. I can't even bring myself to lift the pen or camera.

I think one of my biggest problems is that I can't handle extremes. My life is so stagnant that when the highs are high, I'm in love. But then, when it's over, the low hits so hard I forget all joys and fulfillment.

Perhaps my line of thinking has some correlation to the upcoming holidays. (I am dreading traveling to PA.) But that just seems like another excuse.

All I know is that today, at work, it began to snow, huge flakes just drifting to the wet sidewalk. I'll never get over the power it has to quiet everything, even a city. And then Sylvia, my coworker, told me how she likes to play the piano when it's snowing. Something about the flakes moving like music notes across the page.

Wake Up, Shake Up

You probably thought I'd forgotten about this old cyberspace muse of mine, huh? On the contrary, not at all. I've had a whirlwind four weeks since I last updated. Let's see:

1. Went on a cruise as part of my good friends' wedding. They decided to bring the honeymoon with them to Florida, and then all around the Western Caribbean. When we weren't on Carnival Legend (clubbing in Medusa's Lair, strolling through the Enchanted Forest, sitting in the casino), we had time to stop and explore Cayman Islands, Cozumel, Belize City, and Roatan Islands. I've never been on a cruise before, and while I didn't know what to expect, I enjoyed myself once I accepted that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. I just don't know if I'd do it again any time soon.

2. While on the cruise, I got a job. I was baffled when I found out. Somehow, against the odds of the economy and other qualified candidates, I nabbed my dream job. I've now re-adjusted to the 9-5 routine of working in an office in a cubicle, but this time I'm right where I want to be: as an editorial assistant in children's publishing. I love it, but it has certainly taken up most of my time, and explains the majority of my silence around here.

3. Finally, after so many months, I am also enjoying another old routine that brings me sanity: reading and writing. Yes, all, I am back to writing. Granted, I can't claim to be writing as much as I once did, but even if I am producing small fragments, they're more than I can say for July-October. I'm also enjoying adult books on my commute and before bed, and buying more poetry! With a job that requires tons of reading (and children's at that), it's understandable that you'd want to get as far away from that as you can in your downtime. But that is a terrible habit to fall into, so I'm fixing it.

4. I just had a wonderful Thanksgiving. My second in New York. Slowly but surely, this city is feeling more like home. Which brings me to . . . .

5. I don't want to jump the gun, but I was talking to a friend tonight about my Christmas travel plans, which immediately led me to thinking about New Year's, and the fact that it is already almost 2009. I won't say anything yet (we still have December to get through after all!), but 2008 has been a huge year for me. Sometimes I can't believe how much I've packed into it, but all I can hope for is more years like it.

Here is a poem by Victoria Chang from her newest collection Salvinia Molesta, which is my current obsession.

Ars Poetica as Birdfeeder and Hummingbird

All winter I watched the empty feeder
and the God light pummel

its stained glass in a sieve.  No
hummingbirds, no

humorous little body with a tent stake
as a nose.

Look, little bird, how do you know, how
do you know

your brilliance is what I seek?  The way
you lance a honeysuckle’s

heart, take the blood in your bill.  I wish
I knew how to punch

a center, inch in and in, lance something
to death, that flowers and

flowers light.  You in your array of vibrating
attire.  I am not

a weed, I need your praise to survive.  
The field will consume me.

The field has chosen sides.  The field is
not hungry for the middling.

How I hate the field and what it sees, its
teeth digging out the ochre

of mediocre, what’s left but medi—a non,
a nothing, no-one.

O tiny bird—medicate me, convulse me,
punch holes in me so

some of my light leaks out.

- Victoria Chang