At a recent teacher’s inservice based on Parker Palmer’s The Courage to Teach, I was given time to write a resolution to myself–a resolution to have teaching become a sustainable career. All embarrassment of my sentimental gushiness aside, it was a well-timed, (perhaps career-saving) workshop, where I uncovered some important revelations, which I realize are now within my grasp to attain:
I commit to sustain, better yet, to cultivate my life- to dirty my hands in my yard, to prepare my grass to be played on, run on, camped on- to prepare my little plot of earth for fruit trees- plums, apples and pears- to build a strawberry tower, and fill it with bulbous fruit.
I commit to drinking a good red wine with my wife, while we sit and swoon on our back porch that is strung with paper lanterns and hanging flower baskets.
I will play catch with my sons whenever they ask me to. I will see every inning and cheer at every game. I will write to live, and live to write, reclaiming my body on Misery Ridge. I will remember every ridge that I have balanced myself upon and take the time to be silent.
And in that stillness, I will remember a story worth telling; no, beyond telling. I will hone my craft, and show my students the power of their stories. I will show them how to speak for themselves- show them the power of so many other stories, so that some day, in a time of great need, those stories mingled together with their own will have the power to transform their lives for the better.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
For Ron (and for those we lost):
I’ve just had the distinct pleasure of reconnecting with one of my dear friends from elementary – high school. He had just found out about a mutual friend of ours, named Chris, who died of an accidental drug overdose several years ago.
For those of you who know me well, what I am about to tell you will speak volumes. Ron was one of the key players on our Red Shirted Little League team sponsored by the Rock Creek Tavern. He is one of the autographed names on my stepfather’s baseball which is displayed in a place of honor in his office in Portland. But more importantly, the end of our childhoods spent on that West Union baseball diamond are etched into the fondest memories of my life. Ron even remembers when my father saw my first and last ballgame I’ve ever played, when I struck out in epic whiffing fashion while my father was trying to photograph me in the batter’s box. So in honor of our time together, and in memory of the teammates we lost, (Another of our teammates is in prison) I present the revised version of my story “Son of Abraham” in the next entry.
Bruce Cockburn once sang, “To be held in the heart of a friend is to be a king…” Ron is my friend from long ago, and it is so good to reconnect with him.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Trinity's first "Poetry Jam"
This was Trinity last Friday, after performing the poem, "The SSSnake Hotel" by Brian "Spike" Moses in front of all the 4th graders and parents. Quite the tuckered out hipster. Am I proud? Am I proud?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Smart Billy: Prologue
Witness a man, a 19th century trapper, violently shivering in a snow cave with his dog. The dog has shared her heat with the man, has positioned herself between the man and the cave opening, protecting the man from the elements, because she is a good dog.
But now, just now she is dead, heat escaping her body.
Witness the man, buried and shivering in a snow cave up high, near Heaven’s Gate on Mt. Hood. His dead dog is his only company. Wind howls over the mountain, burning with snow in relentless curtains. For the moment, ignore the impulse to wonder why this trapper is so high upon this lifeless slope. Instead, wonder at his body, his sinewy skeleton loosely draped in blotchy pale skin.
Behold the man, the man whose shivering now stops. He strips away his beaver pelts, delirious and warm. He is chanting with graveled breaths, incomprehensible, swaying forward and back, forward and back. Behold the preconceived syllables of his language. The groaning vowels, the gravelly aspirates, the whiny whistle in each breath.
Behold the man’s pink face, freckled and burning through frizzy shocks of a chest-length, auburn beard. Behold the dried and broken blisters on his sharply cut nose, the wild green eyes, and closer, to his right eye, with broken capillaries slowly pooling with blood, just below the cornea’s surface. Behold the caked mucous at the lashes. The whitened salt-stained lower lid from dried tears—
Gaze into his eye, some reddening cloud that could swallow the moon— Look closer. Behold the muscular green filaments twitching in unison, now growing sluggish, failing, as they begin to give way to the pupil, a growing shadow swirling inward. Lean closer. Hear his whistling whisper in a final plume of breath— then stillness.
Wait. You heard something. Let your mind register it. You are correct. A final word, no, a name escaping the trapper’s rapidly cooling lips—
Billy.
But now, just now she is dead, heat escaping her body.
Witness the man, buried and shivering in a snow cave up high, near Heaven’s Gate on Mt. Hood. His dead dog is his only company. Wind howls over the mountain, burning with snow in relentless curtains. For the moment, ignore the impulse to wonder why this trapper is so high upon this lifeless slope. Instead, wonder at his body, his sinewy skeleton loosely draped in blotchy pale skin.
Behold the man, the man whose shivering now stops. He strips away his beaver pelts, delirious and warm. He is chanting with graveled breaths, incomprehensible, swaying forward and back, forward and back. Behold the preconceived syllables of his language. The groaning vowels, the gravelly aspirates, the whiny whistle in each breath.
Behold the man’s pink face, freckled and burning through frizzy shocks of a chest-length, auburn beard. Behold the dried and broken blisters on his sharply cut nose, the wild green eyes, and closer, to his right eye, with broken capillaries slowly pooling with blood, just below the cornea’s surface. Behold the caked mucous at the lashes. The whitened salt-stained lower lid from dried tears—
Gaze into his eye, some reddening cloud that could swallow the moon— Look closer. Behold the muscular green filaments twitching in unison, now growing sluggish, failing, as they begin to give way to the pupil, a growing shadow swirling inward. Lean closer. Hear his whistling whisper in a final plume of breath— then stillness.
Wait. You heard something. Let your mind register it. You are correct. A final word, no, a name escaping the trapper’s rapidly cooling lips—
Billy.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Ochoco Review: Summer 2007!
Haven't been writing much lately. Most of my creative gas has been used to get our student work online. Come see it! I bet you won't be disappointed. We even have a section for Spoken Word. And soon we will have a short film which will be featured on the SciFi Channel's website!
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
A New Freewriting Journal
Warning! Total garbage. Do not read beyond this point!
1/22/07 9:23 a.m. PST
Blank Page. So many pages to fill. A formal looking book. Sturdy. Austere. I must be mindful with my permission to write freely, without worry of coherence or of posterity. How do I do this, when this is the beginning? The first impression to the invisible reader over my shoulder?
Reader over my shoulder, forgive me. You may find nothing here worth reading. Nothing that matters. Danger. It may take hours away from your life which you will never get back. Believe me. I take your time seriously. I understand that you are dying a little bit every day . I don’t want to waste your time.
Reader over my shoulder, bliss be yours.
Reader over my shoulder. I am tragically uninteresting. My voice is not the one you should sell your soul for, to give away your hours for.
But have you heard the voices of my children? Chirps and giggles, and fights like warring angels. And soul. So much soul. Reader over my shoulder, my wounded shoulder. Go in peace.
1/24/07 9:42 a.m. PST
Active analysis of lethal doses of attention, getting to the root of my swarthy sweat. Attention, attention, body mechanic must play out the story for which white paper is too distracting. Cymbal high hat, warping bass beat, bubbles of attention perforated burst creative impulse- verge of supernova, merge onto a single thread of conscious thought, tiny red ribbon thoroughfare through electric cables spiking, arcing spiderwebs overhead.
Stay on the course of a quiet shy girl’s voice, murmuring in a windstorm; focus: clear, the beats of wind, the beating wind of pigeons scattering at the clap of approaching footsteps.
Focus on the shy girl’s voice, clear the storm. Let gravity obey your fingertips, funneling into you from tip to tip, draw the chaos into you until there is nothing but the flutter of butterfly wings, and the sound of a shy girls voice, singing in delicate spiderwebs, growing more sure in their tensile strength.
1/25/07 9:31 a.m.
Respect equals Respect- Respect: n a value for the other person’s personhood. I-Thou, hallowed sacred other-someone not to be trifled with-to see their gifts, to see the haloes in another dimension of light. Respect- a foreign language that must be learned, syllable by syllable.
I’m dancing around what is singing in my spine, humming there, angry. I have slost this language-the words cleave to my mouth my mind, searching through days where the students, users take over, anarchy, misguided protests locking themselves into a crowded dorm room to honor Martin Luther King Jr.
$10,000 worth of damage to trashed walls and a shattered toilet.
Respect: I-Thou withers inside of me- allowing me to be a casualty. Respect Equals Respect- and I am losing this language. I am losing myself- Hardened, we all are polarized each to our opposite sides, convinced that we are right.
But I am not a user. I am not that selfish. There is a job to be done. I don’t care if you’ve had a hard day. Overused dilemma. Shore yourself up. Get the job done, I’ll cry with you later. Compartmentalize: this is the real world.
See to the children. Pay the bills. Rest when it is time. Do not call in sick.
Get Up…
1/29/07
Outside, students are breaking up the ice that has melted into a polished fan-like sheen outside of my classroom. We are the icy delta of the chronic melt and refreeze of the snow runoff. This is how I damaged my shoulder, nearly three weeks ago: the same ice powdered with a thin skiff of snow. Powdered sugar on whale snot on an iceberg, someone said.
If only it would just snow and stay. It’s January for Chrissake.
We’re listening to the Shins new CD “Wincing the Night Away” Trying to silence the shaking of my classroom with each out-of-rhythm pound into the ice. I’m grateful for these work project students coming to our aide, though difficult to concentrate. Disrupting the house of cards that is my attention span.
Through my peripheral vision, I see one of my students looking out the window, scratching his tightly shorn afro with his fingernails then looking right at me writing, wondering probably how long I will prolong this protracted freewriting torture. He shrugs audibly into the back of his seat. I can’t blame him. It’s impossible to write today.
1/22/07 9:23 a.m. PST
Blank Page. So many pages to fill. A formal looking book. Sturdy. Austere. I must be mindful with my permission to write freely, without worry of coherence or of posterity. How do I do this, when this is the beginning? The first impression to the invisible reader over my shoulder?
Reader over my shoulder, forgive me. You may find nothing here worth reading. Nothing that matters. Danger. It may take hours away from your life which you will never get back. Believe me. I take your time seriously. I understand that you are dying a little bit every day . I don’t want to waste your time.
Reader over my shoulder, bliss be yours.
Reader over my shoulder. I am tragically uninteresting. My voice is not the one you should sell your soul for, to give away your hours for.
But have you heard the voices of my children? Chirps and giggles, and fights like warring angels. And soul. So much soul. Reader over my shoulder, my wounded shoulder. Go in peace.
1/24/07 9:42 a.m. PST
Active analysis of lethal doses of attention, getting to the root of my swarthy sweat. Attention, attention, body mechanic must play out the story for which white paper is too distracting. Cymbal high hat, warping bass beat, bubbles of attention perforated burst creative impulse- verge of supernova, merge onto a single thread of conscious thought, tiny red ribbon thoroughfare through electric cables spiking, arcing spiderwebs overhead.
Stay on the course of a quiet shy girl’s voice, murmuring in a windstorm; focus: clear, the beats of wind, the beating wind of pigeons scattering at the clap of approaching footsteps.
Focus on the shy girl’s voice, clear the storm. Let gravity obey your fingertips, funneling into you from tip to tip, draw the chaos into you until there is nothing but the flutter of butterfly wings, and the sound of a shy girls voice, singing in delicate spiderwebs, growing more sure in their tensile strength.
1/25/07 9:31 a.m.
Respect equals Respect- Respect: n a value for the other person’s personhood. I-Thou, hallowed sacred other-someone not to be trifled with-to see their gifts, to see the haloes in another dimension of light. Respect- a foreign language that must be learned, syllable by syllable.
I’m dancing around what is singing in my spine, humming there, angry. I have slost this language-the words cleave to my mouth my mind, searching through days where the students, users take over, anarchy, misguided protests locking themselves into a crowded dorm room to honor Martin Luther King Jr.
$10,000 worth of damage to trashed walls and a shattered toilet.
Respect: I-Thou withers inside of me- allowing me to be a casualty. Respect Equals Respect- and I am losing this language. I am losing myself- Hardened, we all are polarized each to our opposite sides, convinced that we are right.
But I am not a user. I am not that selfish. There is a job to be done. I don’t care if you’ve had a hard day. Overused dilemma. Shore yourself up. Get the job done, I’ll cry with you later. Compartmentalize: this is the real world.
See to the children. Pay the bills. Rest when it is time. Do not call in sick.
Get Up…
1/29/07
Outside, students are breaking up the ice that has melted into a polished fan-like sheen outside of my classroom. We are the icy delta of the chronic melt and refreeze of the snow runoff. This is how I damaged my shoulder, nearly three weeks ago: the same ice powdered with a thin skiff of snow. Powdered sugar on whale snot on an iceberg, someone said.
If only it would just snow and stay. It’s January for Chrissake.
We’re listening to the Shins new CD “Wincing the Night Away” Trying to silence the shaking of my classroom with each out-of-rhythm pound into the ice. I’m grateful for these work project students coming to our aide, though difficult to concentrate. Disrupting the house of cards that is my attention span.
Through my peripheral vision, I see one of my students looking out the window, scratching his tightly shorn afro with his fingernails then looking right at me writing, wondering probably how long I will prolong this protracted freewriting torture. He shrugs audibly into the back of his seat. I can’t blame him. It’s impossible to write today.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Now Introducing, The Ochoco Review!
Collage by Nicholas D. inspired by Sherman Alexie's "Fire as Verb and Noun"
http://ochocoreview.blogspot.com
It's here, finally! The Online Student Literary Journal from Mount Bachelor Academy has just released its inaugural issue, featuring student poetry, flash fiction, nonfiction, reviews, and short films. The work is finished just in time for our December graduation.
Featuring:
Poetry: John A.// Jennifer B.//Michael L. //and Bradley C.
Flash Fiction: "Lucid Dreams" by Glenn E,/ "Backflip-it" by Andrew F, / "The Cliff" by Chris B,
Nonfiction: "The Kid" by Josh L, // "I Remember, I Wish, I Believe" by the Sophomore Class of Mount Bachelor Academy, // and "9/11, Five Years Later" an MBA student collage
Reviews: Megan J. reviews "The Interpreter of Maladies" by Jhumpa Lahiri // John A. reviews "Candide" by Voltaire // Alex P. reviews "The Godfather" by Mario Puzo
Short Films: “Entering, With All of Our Senses”// “The Watchtower: A Parody of American Xenophobia”
Disclaimer: The creative impulses, thoughts, opinions, etc. shared in this online-literary journal do not necessarily represent those of its sponsoring school— Mount Bachelor Academy, or its parent companies, Aspen Education Group, or CRC.
Logistical and content oversight for The Ochoco Review is provided by Lisa Fairman: Special Education Director of Mount Bachelor Academy. The Ochoco Review is a product of the Mount Bachelor Academy English Department.
Additionally, students' last names have been concealed to preserve their confidentiality to the public.
Check it out!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
A Direct Quote From One of My Students
"You're a Master in Fine Arts? Wow, does that mean you know Kung Fu and shit?"
Hmm. Maybe that would be more useful....
Hmm. Maybe that would be more useful....
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Tupelo Press, the final chapter
Jeffrey Levine from Tupelo Press has sent me another warm-hearted letter, because he is both kind and generous. And alas, my book-length manuscrupt, "Jacob Wrestling" was not selected for publication.So, there you have it. A manuscript whose main theme grapples with the effects of being 'chosen' has yet to be chosen.
"Jacob Wrestling" is still up for the Transcontinental Prize from Pavement Saw Press and the Gerald Cable Book Award from Silverfish Review Press, but after the results come from these (in the Spring?) I believe that I will put the book up into some special place. After two years of entering beauty contests, it is time to give her a rest.
Many thanks to all of you friends who were supportive of me during this work. That is worth more to me than the heartfelt content of those pages.
Now it's time to create something new...
Love,
Jim C-D
"Jacob Wrestling" is still up for the Transcontinental Prize from Pavement Saw Press and the Gerald Cable Book Award from Silverfish Review Press, but after the results come from these (in the Spring?) I believe that I will put the book up into some special place. After two years of entering beauty contests, it is time to give her a rest.
Many thanks to all of you friends who were supportive of me during this work. That is worth more to me than the heartfelt content of those pages.
Now it's time to create something new...
Love,
Jim C-D
Monday, October 16, 2006
T-minus 3 days and Counting
My students and I leave for Eastern Europe in three short days. We will explore simplicity, striking out on our own, and meditate on the fragility of life. First a stay in Romanian village, Villae Populi, helping at an orphanage, seeing Bucharest, Ploesti and perhaps Brasav in Transylvania, then take the train to Krakow, Poland. There we will visit Auschwitz, and be still. We will meditate, write, and remember where we have come from and reflect on where we are going.
I think of one of my students who will not be with us. His grandmother was a survivor of Auschwitz. She was going to meet us and her grandson in Krakow. She would have shared her story with us, and with her grandson. It would have been an honor to be a witness to such a story, of a grandmother who survived so much, before, during and after the Holocaust.
My student fell apart on a recent home visit. His girlfriend broke up with him and so, devastated, he got drunk, smoked pot and did coke to excess. His addictions are running rampant, and so he is now getting the help he needs at another placement for the next 50 or so days. He reminds me of one of my students that I lost to a drug overdose. I still haven’t and maybe never will get over losing her.
His voice is growing so strong, his sense of himself in a larger more important story growing equally strong. But his demons, so strong as well. He is the hero of his story, and has all the makings of a tragic hero. We are rooting for him, so personally invested in him now.
I will miss not having him with me overseas. My friend, my little brother. Such an empty spot, so rooted inside of me.
Indeed life is a fragile gift, and I am thankful for it. So full and so fragile, and hopefully so enduring; an undying hymn of praise.
I think of one of my students who will not be with us. His grandmother was a survivor of Auschwitz. She was going to meet us and her grandson in Krakow. She would have shared her story with us, and with her grandson. It would have been an honor to be a witness to such a story, of a grandmother who survived so much, before, during and after the Holocaust.
My student fell apart on a recent home visit. His girlfriend broke up with him and so, devastated, he got drunk, smoked pot and did coke to excess. His addictions are running rampant, and so he is now getting the help he needs at another placement for the next 50 or so days. He reminds me of one of my students that I lost to a drug overdose. I still haven’t and maybe never will get over losing her.
His voice is growing so strong, his sense of himself in a larger more important story growing equally strong. But his demons, so strong as well. He is the hero of his story, and has all the makings of a tragic hero. We are rooting for him, so personally invested in him now.
I will miss not having him with me overseas. My friend, my little brother. Such an empty spot, so rooted inside of me.
Indeed life is a fragile gift, and I am thankful for it. So full and so fragile, and hopefully so enduring; an undying hymn of praise.
Tupelo Press
Before too long I will hear news about which manuscripts were chosen by Tupelo Press during their open submission period this summer. Last year, I received a lovely and encouraging letter from Jeffrey Levine, and later became a semi-finalist in the ‘05 Dorset Prize competition.
Only time will tell if this is the closest I will ever get to getting the book out into the world. But for now, I must be obedient to the vision, and keep submitting.
Only time will tell if this is the closest I will ever get to getting the book out into the world. But for now, I must be obedient to the vision, and keep submitting.
BendFilm
Independent films all day with a friend, we laugh out loud about our recent zombie movie, our latest collaboration. We run into his theater buddies all over town. He is trying to convince me to try out for “The Full Monty” which will audition in March. He tells this to all of the friends we meet. Pressure’s on.
Before oyster shooters in the Deschutes Brewery, C. Thomas Howell walks by, looking at us, amused by our slow celebrity recognition radar. Then at dusk, we huddle next to a patio campfire at an outdoor cigar bar sipping whiskey on the rocks, talking about future creative projects, while sparks crackle and swirl into the unknown sky.
Before oyster shooters in the Deschutes Brewery, C. Thomas Howell walks by, looking at us, amused by our slow celebrity recognition radar. Then at dusk, we huddle next to a patio campfire at an outdoor cigar bar sipping whiskey on the rocks, talking about future creative projects, while sparks crackle and swirl into the unknown sky.
Family Weekend
We finally found a weekend away, camping at the nearby Prineville Reservoir. Fishing at dusk with no luck, wading in the rapidly cooling reservoir, mud castles, swordfights in the grass under a forest of Juniper trees. Campfires, S’mores and Yahtzee by candlelight. Jaedon, groans like a man who bets and loses on the ponies, while the dice crackle in their plastic cup, “How about a Yahtzee, already?”
Balls
Trinity has lost interest in throwing the baseball around for several weeks now. It’s all been about football. So this is our game of catch nowadays: Jaedon is my halfback/center. He hikes it, takes handoffs from me, and Trinity runs the receiver patterns that my stepfather taught me when I was Trinity’s age; the buttonhook, the streak, the square-out, the corner-fake-dipsy-do, the long bomb curl…
Trinity has soft hands for his age, his body movement is growing more in synch with where he wants it to go, and Jaedon gleefully tackles the hell out of him on the lawn.
Meanwhile, I still carry Beth’s baseball with me in my backpack.
Trinity has soft hands for his age, his body movement is growing more in synch with where he wants it to go, and Jaedon gleefully tackles the hell out of him on the lawn.
Meanwhile, I still carry Beth’s baseball with me in my backpack.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Reflecting on the therapeutic value of writing
From my teaching journal, one year ago:
Over the last few weeks I have been reflecting on the text, “Writing as a Way of Healing” by Louise DeSalvo. It has inspired me to use the two units that are most dear to me for my classes. I am concurrently implementing “Character Maps: Navigating toward Personal Transformation” in my Sophomore English Class and “A Master Class in Poetry” for my senior English class. I have been deeply affected by DeSalvo’s text, and have recently been able to put words around why it has given me a haunting sense of déjà vu. The journey she takes her readers on very closely parallels my creative experience during my four semesters in the Goddard MFA Program, and the manuscript that was birthed from it. On page 22, DeSalvo quotes James Pennebaker (in italics) and extrapolates with her response:
To improve health, we must write detailed accounts, linking feelings with events. The more writing succeeds as narrative—by being detailed, organized, compelling, vivid, lucid—the more health and emotional benefits are derived from writing. (DeSalvo, p.22)
This was very true for me in the creative process. My first semester MFA advisor, Kenny Fries, confronted me with the reality that whenever I was taking steps toward a significant emotional truth in my writing, I would veer off into safe, ambiguous and larger than life metaphors, and squander the opportunity for truth telling. “What are you afraid of?" "What are you hiding from?" and "What are you waiting for?” were ferocious mantras continually spoken by Kenny to challenge me.” I was afraid that if I told the truth, it would devour me and everyone around me, and I would alienate everyone I cared about. I wasn’t trusting and didn’t feel safe enough to venture out without guilding the truth into something that could be ‘useful’ for my audience.
In my following semesters, advised by Elena Georgiou (one of the very Hunter students mentioned by DeSalvo in her book (xi) ) my courage to step out of my self-imposed cave led to the most important breakthroughs in my writing (and my emotional well-being) as I diligently worked to be as vivid and lucid as possible, sparing nothing in my writing.
Following my work with Elena, I worked with Laura Fargas for my final semester. During a time where students usually do not produce new work, Laura noticed a ‘gap, or a shadow’ in my manuscript, intuiting that there was something I had not put on the page. Just when I thought I had gone as deep as I could go, Laura helped me to come up with work surrounding my mother; perhaps the most salient in the manuscript.
As Desalvo, and Pennebaker had mentioned, my emotional well-being, rather than being consumed, gave me an empowering perspective over my past. Telling the truth in vivid detail was exhausting but liberating, as DeSalvo recalls how Henry Miller put it (p.?) on how his wounds were in the open air, clean and no longer festering. These were wounds that could heal. This is what I want for my students, as they begin to write their own narratives.
Over the last few weeks I have been reflecting on the text, “Writing as a Way of Healing” by Louise DeSalvo. It has inspired me to use the two units that are most dear to me for my classes. I am concurrently implementing “Character Maps: Navigating toward Personal Transformation” in my Sophomore English Class and “A Master Class in Poetry” for my senior English class. I have been deeply affected by DeSalvo’s text, and have recently been able to put words around why it has given me a haunting sense of déjà vu. The journey she takes her readers on very closely parallels my creative experience during my four semesters in the Goddard MFA Program, and the manuscript that was birthed from it. On page 22, DeSalvo quotes James Pennebaker (in italics) and extrapolates with her response:
To improve health, we must write detailed accounts, linking feelings with events. The more writing succeeds as narrative—by being detailed, organized, compelling, vivid, lucid—the more health and emotional benefits are derived from writing. (DeSalvo, p.22)
This was very true for me in the creative process. My first semester MFA advisor, Kenny Fries, confronted me with the reality that whenever I was taking steps toward a significant emotional truth in my writing, I would veer off into safe, ambiguous and larger than life metaphors, and squander the opportunity for truth telling. “What are you afraid of?" "What are you hiding from?" and "What are you waiting for?” were ferocious mantras continually spoken by Kenny to challenge me.” I was afraid that if I told the truth, it would devour me and everyone around me, and I would alienate everyone I cared about. I wasn’t trusting and didn’t feel safe enough to venture out without guilding the truth into something that could be ‘useful’ for my audience.
In my following semesters, advised by Elena Georgiou (one of the very Hunter students mentioned by DeSalvo in her book (xi) ) my courage to step out of my self-imposed cave led to the most important breakthroughs in my writing (and my emotional well-being) as I diligently worked to be as vivid and lucid as possible, sparing nothing in my writing.
Following my work with Elena, I worked with Laura Fargas for my final semester. During a time where students usually do not produce new work, Laura noticed a ‘gap, or a shadow’ in my manuscript, intuiting that there was something I had not put on the page. Just when I thought I had gone as deep as I could go, Laura helped me to come up with work surrounding my mother; perhaps the most salient in the manuscript.
As Desalvo, and Pennebaker had mentioned, my emotional well-being, rather than being consumed, gave me an empowering perspective over my past. Telling the truth in vivid detail was exhausting but liberating, as DeSalvo recalls how Henry Miller put it (p.?) on how his wounds were in the open air, clean and no longer festering. These were wounds that could heal. This is what I want for my students, as they begin to write their own narratives.
Baseball and The Ochoco Review
Lately, I’ve been working doggedly on a blog-based online literary journal for Mount Bachelor Academy. Issues with expense and a lack of administrative support had aborted two of my previous attempts this year, with countless hours involved. I am spending countless new hours on this new (free, and less sexy) approach, which will debut in December as The Ochoco Review.
Hopefully it will ramp up enough support from MBA, as well as its Aspen family of boarding schools and wilderness programs, which could in turn create future funding for a more versatile and flash enabled website. Regardless of the outcome or level support, I am toying with the idea of creating an online student journal with submissions from the larger public. I will give this project a year to help gain the much-needed experience to accomplish this.
No updates on the baseball talisman. I am still holding the ball with the quote from Beth Thorpe. It stays with me, and I have no need to move on from it yet.
P.S. The Oakland Raiders piss me off. I wish I could root for another team, but my blood, my blood is no longer red.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Baseball Talisman(s) Weeks 4 & 5
This week's ball was a joy to carry. I want to keep this baseball with me for several weeks, meditating on the quotes, mantra-like. They were given by Ilya Kaminsky in a workshop. The first:
"Because I found Hitler inside of me..."
Mother Teresa, when asked why she chose a life of service to the poor.
and
"Argument with others is rhetoric. Argument with oneself is poetry."
William Butler Yeats
I will continue with this ball in my backback as a subtle reminder of two quotes that will need to stick with me for the rest of my life.
The one I spin, twirl and carry with me today, however, for week 5, is a recent excerpt from the lovely Elizabeth Thorpe:
I want to write about baseball, like others have and will. There is something about baseball that is incorruptible, no matter how many Barry Bondses break records. No matter how many little kids get baseballs signed because they are the loudest instead of the most polite. No matter how much the players make. The core of baseball, a large core, is solid, made of the finest materials. We are fibers in the string that wraps the core, intertwined in our love and fear and disappointment, in the buildup of details that make history. It matters that my cat was named for Tony Pena. It matters that I watched the victory parade, that I saw the trash cans piled over with styrofoam Dunkin cups on an early morning when we didn't have to drag ourselves out of bed. It matters that one of my most enduring memories from childhood is watching the Red Sox with my mom, the sound of the fans going in the windows, a mixing bowl of popcorn between us. Someday I will be able to write about New England and the Red Sox in a way that will make me feel I finally got it right.
Amen, sista, you're wicked pissa.
I'm beginning to think that I should compile these someday, and title the collection, "Jim Churchill-Dicks and His Balls" Anyone? Anyone?
"Because I found Hitler inside of me..."
Mother Teresa, when asked why she chose a life of service to the poor.
and
"Argument with others is rhetoric. Argument with oneself is poetry."
William Butler Yeats
I will continue with this ball in my backback as a subtle reminder of two quotes that will need to stick with me for the rest of my life.
The one I spin, twirl and carry with me today, however, for week 5, is a recent excerpt from the lovely Elizabeth Thorpe:
I want to write about baseball, like others have and will. There is something about baseball that is incorruptible, no matter how many Barry Bondses break records. No matter how many little kids get baseballs signed because they are the loudest instead of the most polite. No matter how much the players make. The core of baseball, a large core, is solid, made of the finest materials. We are fibers in the string that wraps the core, intertwined in our love and fear and disappointment, in the buildup of details that make history. It matters that my cat was named for Tony Pena. It matters that I watched the victory parade, that I saw the trash cans piled over with styrofoam Dunkin cups on an early morning when we didn't have to drag ourselves out of bed. It matters that one of my most enduring memories from childhood is watching the Red Sox with my mom, the sound of the fans going in the windows, a mixing bowl of popcorn between us. Someday I will be able to write about New England and the Red Sox in a way that will make me feel I finally got it right.
Amen, sista, you're wicked pissa.
I'm beginning to think that I should compile these someday, and title the collection, "Jim Churchill-Dicks and His Balls" Anyone? Anyone?
Friday, August 18, 2006
Baseball Talisman Week 3
The first quote was in a letter from the great poet, James Wright to his son Franz, who had completed a poem that he could finally send to his father.
"So, you're a poet. Welcome to Hell."
The second is from a letter I sent to E-Rod, one of my talented former students, who was having difficulty finding the time to write anything he was passionate about. I told him that if he didn't have to express something through writing, then he shouldn't have to worry about it. People live completely normal lives without writing, I told him. I told him to live a little. And then I warned:
"But if writing is survival to you-- If it is what keeps you out of trouble... If that creative impulse is what gives meaning and purpose to your life-- then for fuck sake, you'd better write, you little bastard."
Yes, profanity again, mixed with love and worry; my curse. As I spun and twirled this ball around for a week, I wanted to get rid of it. It felt like how I sometimes feel of myself-- beyond redemption.
Trinity and I played a long game of catch with the ball on a hot Saturday afternoon at Davidson Field -the old 1911 ball field half a block away, with those old-school covered bleachers. A stadium that will probably be bulldozed to make way for a much needed community pool. So much for historical preservation, so much for religious relics. We played catch, Trinity and I, on this endangered field, in an endangered moment of catch between father and son, with time against us as Trinity's baby teeth continue to give way to those gorgeously awkward adult chompers.
Trinity has still been afraid of the ball, still frozen in fear by the hard ball. My last baseballs have been of the spongier coach-pitch variety, which have done wonders for Trinity's courage. He has asked me every night to play catch with him in the fading light after an 11 hour work day. What a way to end it.
I almost left this #3 baseball at home on that Saturday, not wanting to corrupt one of the last sacred interchanges of my life, but out of stubborn duty to the commitment I have made, I included this ball too. And on this day, Trinity begged me to throw it as high as I could, and by God, he was catching them effortlessly, squealing with victory at first, then later, acting as if it were all just business as usual. And he was whipping the ball back to me, hard and on target.
Beside home plate was his bat, and his batting helmet, the one I spray painted gold, and added a metal facemask to, to protect that horsy smile. It was there just to be there, like a saddle and blanket to a spooked horse, getting used to the old equipment again.
The week before, we went to his old little league ball field to try our first batting practice since the time he was beaned twice in a row by an errant coach. He got the helmet on, stretched on his batting glove, got toward the batter's box, and proceeded to tell me that he couldn't do it, his head was too itchy...he wasn't ready. For once, I took the soft approach. I was the "baseball whisperer. " I patted him on the helmet, and drove him home.
But on this Saturday afternoon, he eventually asked, "So how about a little batting practice?"
I didn't get my hopes up. I watched him put on his gear, that same helmet, that glove, that bat, and he tentatively strode to the batter's box. He was in. I put on my best poker face, calm and steady. My inner voice whispered, "If you fuck this up, you have no right to be this boy's father." I grabbed a bucket full of soft core balls.
"O.K." I said. " Just stand in the box in your batting stance and watch the ball all the way. Don't worry about having to swing. Just get used to the ball coming to the plate." He nodded slightly.
"This is it" I thought, "Make sure you don't kill your son." I wound up, and threw it six feet outside. The second pitch was the same result. Trinity smirked that sarcastic smirk that I used to see on my father's face when he was a young pilot. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Dad," he chortled. I smiled, shook my head and stuffed another ball into my glove. He giggled a little more and got back into his stance.
I pitched a few good ones in a row, and he took swings at each of them, with growing confidence, timing and fluidity. I had one ball left in the bucket. The one with the quotes.
No shit.
I pitched--
he swung--
he pooped that damned ball right over my head.
What a shot!
Instead of looking where the ball went, I looked at him, jumping up and down, giggling like a dork. He was a frozen animal who had shed his icy skin, cold glass breaking all around him, a newly warm-blooded boy who trusted his father again.
You're damn right that's the way it happened, and I know that it pisses you off.
Sure, it's too perfect, and smacks of an overly-crafted revisionist's smarmy American ending. Well, it is what it is. And we were redeemed in that moment. If that's not artistic enough for you MFA types, then you can go piss off somewhere.
"So, you're a poet. Welcome to Hell."
The second is from a letter I sent to E-Rod, one of my talented former students, who was having difficulty finding the time to write anything he was passionate about. I told him that if he didn't have to express something through writing, then he shouldn't have to worry about it. People live completely normal lives without writing, I told him. I told him to live a little. And then I warned:
"But if writing is survival to you-- If it is what keeps you out of trouble... If that creative impulse is what gives meaning and purpose to your life-- then for fuck sake, you'd better write, you little bastard."
Yes, profanity again, mixed with love and worry; my curse. As I spun and twirled this ball around for a week, I wanted to get rid of it. It felt like how I sometimes feel of myself-- beyond redemption.
Trinity and I played a long game of catch with the ball on a hot Saturday afternoon at Davidson Field -the old 1911 ball field half a block away, with those old-school covered bleachers. A stadium that will probably be bulldozed to make way for a much needed community pool. So much for historical preservation, so much for religious relics. We played catch, Trinity and I, on this endangered field, in an endangered moment of catch between father and son, with time against us as Trinity's baby teeth continue to give way to those gorgeously awkward adult chompers.
Trinity has still been afraid of the ball, still frozen in fear by the hard ball. My last baseballs have been of the spongier coach-pitch variety, which have done wonders for Trinity's courage. He has asked me every night to play catch with him in the fading light after an 11 hour work day. What a way to end it.
I almost left this #3 baseball at home on that Saturday, not wanting to corrupt one of the last sacred interchanges of my life, but out of stubborn duty to the commitment I have made, I included this ball too. And on this day, Trinity begged me to throw it as high as I could, and by God, he was catching them effortlessly, squealing with victory at first, then later, acting as if it were all just business as usual. And he was whipping the ball back to me, hard and on target.
Beside home plate was his bat, and his batting helmet, the one I spray painted gold, and added a metal facemask to, to protect that horsy smile. It was there just to be there, like a saddle and blanket to a spooked horse, getting used to the old equipment again.
The week before, we went to his old little league ball field to try our first batting practice since the time he was beaned twice in a row by an errant coach. He got the helmet on, stretched on his batting glove, got toward the batter's box, and proceeded to tell me that he couldn't do it, his head was too itchy...he wasn't ready. For once, I took the soft approach. I was the "baseball whisperer. " I patted him on the helmet, and drove him home.
But on this Saturday afternoon, he eventually asked, "So how about a little batting practice?"
I didn't get my hopes up. I watched him put on his gear, that same helmet, that glove, that bat, and he tentatively strode to the batter's box. He was in. I put on my best poker face, calm and steady. My inner voice whispered, "If you fuck this up, you have no right to be this boy's father." I grabbed a bucket full of soft core balls.
"O.K." I said. " Just stand in the box in your batting stance and watch the ball all the way. Don't worry about having to swing. Just get used to the ball coming to the plate." He nodded slightly.
"This is it" I thought, "Make sure you don't kill your son." I wound up, and threw it six feet outside. The second pitch was the same result. Trinity smirked that sarcastic smirk that I used to see on my father's face when he was a young pilot. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Dad," he chortled. I smiled, shook my head and stuffed another ball into my glove. He giggled a little more and got back into his stance.
I pitched a few good ones in a row, and he took swings at each of them, with growing confidence, timing and fluidity. I had one ball left in the bucket. The one with the quotes.
No shit.
I pitched--
he swung--
he pooped that damned ball right over my head.
What a shot!
Instead of looking where the ball went, I looked at him, jumping up and down, giggling like a dork. He was a frozen animal who had shed his icy skin, cold glass breaking all around him, a newly warm-blooded boy who trusted his father again.
You're damn right that's the way it happened, and I know that it pisses you off.
Sure, it's too perfect, and smacks of an overly-crafted revisionist's smarmy American ending. Well, it is what it is. And we were redeemed in that moment. If that's not artistic enough for you MFA types, then you can go piss off somewhere.
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