When I was in 6th grade, we had to memorize poetry. The only two poems I recall are The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (of which I can still recite all twelve lines of the first two stanzas) and Sea Fever by John Masefield (of which I can only recite the title and first line). I admit I “memorized” Sea Fever in the 10 minutes before I was slated to go in front of the class and recite.
Sea Fever by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
These photos are from my recent DIY writing retreat with a couple of friends (one of whom is lucky enough to have parents who have a beautiful house in Sea Ranch on the coast of California in Sonoma County not too far from the Mendocino County line). NOTE: I did not take a photo of the actual house, but when you see the picture of the deer, that was taken from the dining room of said house.
Those of you who did not grow up near the ocean may not understand, but for me, returning to the sea every now and again, is rejuvenating. Not just for my skin (that is getting dried out in the desert air) but for my soul… there’s something about the salt smell, the sound, and feeling of the ocean, the waves crashing on shore like the heart beat of the earth. So yeah. I must go down to the sea… often.
My office has gotten to the point where I start to hyperventilate every time I walk in. And since I work from home, its sort of hard to avoid my office. My computer is here. And I telecommute.
And perhaps worse than hyperventilating is the fact that I can’t find anything. It’s frustrating. My once serene green sanctuary has turned in an endless pile of papers and things that should be put somewhere. The problem is I don’t know where. And I hate to throw things away. I like to think its a sign of a creative mind. That every bit of paper, every magazine, old key, used pen, or doo-dad can be turned into some piece of art. But the boxes are full, and my time is limited.
Today I spent a good part of the day sorting through paper. Generated a small pile for the shredder, and by going through even my school notebooks managed to fill two large bags for the recycler. Do I really need to save class notes that I cannot read? I look at some of them and think to myself, What Was I THINKING?
Example:
it
2 metaphors
Doll making?
or how ’bout this:
Here we go
just another pink pen
okay now
Then there are the ones that have doodles….
Still nonsensical, but perhaps just a tad artisitic?
I mean that mermaid is not bad for doodle, right?
No clue what “getting riddy ritual” means, however.
Metaphor of hunting? Voice of narrator? I don’t even know if this is notes from a critique of MY writing, or from a discussion of someone else’s.
Then there are the scribbles of story starts and essay ideas that need to be made into something, even if I don’t know what yet, but clearly should not be tossed into the recycle bin. Like this:
The truth. Let me tell you the truth. The truth is I’m not drunk, not really drunk. I mean I never drink when I’m sober….
The truth is hard to hear sometimes. The truth is heartless like a beauty queen grocery store clerk who marries you for your money and to give her kid a daddy. The truth is love doesn’t exist.
The truth is somewhere at the bottom of this bottle of tequila… the worm maybe. The truth is a worm. A worm like a fast talking salesman who can talk you outta your money as quick as whore can take off her clothes. Yep. That’s the truth all right.
The truth is a guy named Johnny who can fix anything for a price.
Let me tell you somethin’ little lady… the truth is life is cruel. Love is cruel and God ain’t gonna bail you out and there are more sinners in church on a Sunday than you’ll find in this bar all year long.
And the truth is I’m the one guy in this place who you can trust. All those other guys are just here to get laid. Not me. No siree. I’m here to get drunk and that’s the truth.
Seriously, what do you do with something like that?
If you know me, you know I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. It’s a day that makes me feel especially without. More recently I’ve thought about creating some special ritual to honor my mother, but have yet to come up with an idea that sticks….
This photo looks like it may have been a Mother’s Day. (I’m the little blond girl)
On a whim I entered this contest to write 200 words to share my personal story about what my mom means to be…. so I could win 2 tickets to the Womens Conference (Maria Shriver’s big shindig). Here’s what I came up with:
frozen at the doorway
it was a dream, no
a movie I watched once
lights flashing like red lightening, or
a projector,
not an ambulance
not that ambulance
everyone in slow motion—
You, Mother
on the floor, tiny and still
Father crying
I lost my mother when I was thirteen. Cancer. She had cancer. Sometimes I like to say cancer twice to give it more impact. Sometimes still, more than thirty years later, I have trouble saying my mother died. It’s not like I can just introduce myself and say, “Hi, I’m Jennifer, my mother died when I was thirteen.”
For a long time I let memories of her death cloud memories of my mother’s life. It was through writing about her, about her life and about my own life that I realized how much more there was to her. To both of us. I keep on my wall beside my desk a scroll, decorated with purple and pink tissue paper flowers and a poem of sorts from second grade:
FINALLY found a home for my essay, “Goodbye Troll: a blogger’s manifesto” over at The Women’s Colony:
Make No Mistake: this kind of harassment can be as frightening and as real as being followed and watched in your neighborhood or in your home. ~Vice President Al Gore
The first comment was rather innocuous, albeit grammatically incorrect: “ACTIONS SPEAKS LOUDER THAN WORDS” It was submitted, in all caps, to my blog anonymously at 1:56 a.m. in response to my post The Power of Words on the 40th anniversary of Robert Kennedy’s death. I had embedded a YouTube video of one of Kennedy’s greatest speeches and I quoted:
What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love, and wisdom and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.
I quoted it because some things bear repeating.
The second comment came two hours later and included an alleged quote from Buddha and some ramblings about “truth.” Signed, “Anonymous.” I approved both because though strange, they seemed harmless enough.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: those of you (all five of my loyal readers) may remember this time, and may notice some differences in my Dear Anonymous letter. I have indeed taken some liberties with my own prose in service of creating a better, more cohesive essay.
February’s Nanninga (made from fragments of February’s open mic reading)
Speak like a good dog
searching the reckless abandon
Like frothy waves lapping the seaside
where silent crickets tell us of war
Our horrified hearts refuse to answer
showcasing fingers pointed up and down:
the mind of an arrow but dead in the eye
Before this mountains fell like trees
and we, the husks of angels, would
spring to our feet in deafening applause,
too tired I suppose
To risk the fear of losing ….. CONTINUE READING–>
I hadn’t noticed the January post, where host Eber Lambert wrote “Each month the host will select catchy lines from the poems read that evening and compose a found poem from that. It will henceforth be called the “Nanninga” in honor of Bob Nanninga, the late host of the La Paloma poetry slam who could create these like no other.”
It’s been just over a year since Bob passed away… so thanks Eber for the nice reminder! I can’t say Bob was a friend, but I did know him (back in my 101 Artists’ Colony days) and can say he was an asset to the Encinitas community.
And so, next time you go to an open mic, or a poetry slam or a DimeStories event… jot some notes, go home and write your own nanninga instead of a haiku or villanelle.
So not only am I uncomfortable with the impermanence, now I find I must analyze, interpret, find some meaning in the lines and dots and dashes and swoops.
Both manifestations have what could be considered an eye. Is this the opening up of the eye? a reminder to see? to look at myself. Perhaps this is my third eye I am drawing. I wonder if I will get to the point that I can just let it be.
Yes, I know this is only day two. Yes, I know, I am over analyzing. It’s what I do. What do you think?
Spring!
Clearly spring has sprung and it is time to go out to my garden.
So not only am I uncomfortable with the impermanence, now I find I must analyze, interpret, find some meaning in the lines and dots and dashes and swoops.
