We Take Less Pictures Together But We're More Together

So I've been noticing a recent trend in our photos.  We (which until recently meant Me and Val) have turned up in a lot less pictures together.  It's usually this new combination:  Edie and Val or Edie and James.  When I was younger I thought it was a little weird and discouraging that couples as soon as they had a baby stop being in pictures together as much.  That this baby thing has come between them.  I thought it was a sign of decreasing love between the couple.

Then I learned the secret:  Babies suck at taking pictures.  Their small motor skills are atrocious and they try to push the buttons with their mouths.  It's embarrassing.  I'm embarrassed that my child is such a luddite.

So inevitably, either me or Val have to take the picture.  And then Edie is such a narcissist she has to be in everything.  Sometimes the only way to shut her up so she'll sleep is to set up a soothing photo shoot.  Babies are the worst.  I wish we'd created an adult.  Like a Neil Patrick Harris.

This is a rough segue into a conversation I was having with a friend about Empty Nesters.  And here's the thing, before I launch into this, I don't have any advice for anyone.  This is not a life philosophy I think you should abide by.  I don't have those.  I'm a guy who makes jokes about dolphins and Robocop.

It's just I know of this couple that put their whole lives into their kids.  Which sounds noble. But when the kids were finally gone, they sank into this crazy depression.  And their health deteriorated quickly and it was just a sad sight to see.  They literally had nothing outside of their kids. And I'm baffled by this.

I wrote a post about Valerie and all the things she does.  I literally worked on four different writing projects today before noon.  And the end is nowhere in sight.  Val was writing down notes on a short film cut while Edie slept.  I was restructuring a script while she slept.

And these are just our SUMMER PLANS! I'm not saying, "Oh, look at us. We're soooooo busy.  We're sooooo great."  We're not.  But we have a life's worth of plans. How will we run out?  How could our lives get less full?

Because here's the thing. Children are a blessing.  A responsibility.  Something entrusted to you by God. (That's what Mormons believe.)  But you also have a responsibility to yourself.  To become better.  To increase.  To learn and grow and create the You you're striving for.

Valerie told me once that she didn't want to raise a daughter to believe in her dreams and aspirations when she herself gave them up.  Because what kind of message is that to her daughter?  So Valerie's goal (and she could explain it better than me) is to be the person she always dreamed of being.  And by striving for that person, her children will know it is possible and will strive to become that as well.

I want the same thing as Valerie.  I don't want to be known as their Dad.  That's part of my identity.  That's a role I've taken on.  But James Best is bigger than that.  I'm the sum of many parts.

I know that More Kids = More Time.  We only have one kid.  To bigger families, that seems like a hobby.  I know that demands grow.  But I don't think you should lose track of you.  Of identity.  Obviously, it's dangerous.

Stanley Kunitz, the poet, lived to be 99 years old.  And up until his dying day, he taught.  He had thousands of students in his lifetime.  And some of his most amazing work came in his later years.  He stayed young because he had life.  He had things to give.  He had excitement and love and warmth around him.  He had a purpose.  He knew himself.

I think I would like to end my life like Stanley Kunitz.  Surrounded by all that I've gathered.

October 15th: What that Means for Me and You

Back in January, a poet and editor named Tyler Chadwick contacted me about an anthology.  He said that he was collecting an anthology of Mormon Poets.

I wrote back, "There's Mormon Poets?"

I didn't know about many.  I definitely didn't believe that I was the only one.  I had met Lance Larsen when he read at BYU-Idaho.  My friend Aaron Allen writes poetry and he studied under Kimberly Johnson, author of "Leviathan with a Hook". A fantastic read.

Of course, I knew some of my professors at BYU-I were poets.  I had taken classes from Mark Bennion, Matt Babcock, Jim Richards, Jim Papworth, and Scott Samuelson.  They were all influences on my beginning work.  I met Russ Moorehead at the church I attend in Brooklyn. I read about Neil Aitken and met him at the Writer's Conference. And in a strange coincidence I read with Timothy Liu at a reading this summer.  I have other friends from BYU-I who write poetry, have gone to school for it.

So, I wasn't exactly being facetious.  But I truthfully imagined the Mormon poetry world to be much smaller than it is.  Apparently, I'm not an island. This list, published in March, told me otherwise.

The book comes out today.  You can order it here. I have five poems in it.

I say buy it.  For some of you, when's the last time you've purchased a book of poetry? You've never purchased one, you say?! Well then, you haven't lived!

And you can support a small press publisher.  That'll make you feel good.  Small presses are some of the last bastions of good literature. Go ahead. Help a little guy.

NOW, YOU DON'T HAVE TO KEEP READING AFTER THIS.  YOU CAN BE HAPPY ABOUT ME BEING IN THE ANTHOLOGY AND LEAVE.  GIVE ME  A VIRTUAL PAT ON THE BACK.  I'M JUST GOING TO RAMBLE ABOUT A FEW THINGS.

Here's my digression on exclusivity in art.  Just a few thoughts.  You can still turn back.

I'm not a fan of art being exclusive.  I'm not bold enough or vain enough to ever try to give a definition of art but I will say that one of my primary goals in art is to communicate.  Before this I never sought out Mormon poets for a few reasons:

First, I don't really care what your background is when it comes to being an artist.  I never read something and wonder to myself, "Are they Catholic?" "Are they from the Midwest?" "Did they come from an abusive home?" "They sound like an only child. Are they an only child?"  "I wonder if their parents were rich."

This is not because I abhor background info.  That I somehow divorce the artist completely from the art.  But I don't need it to decide whether or not I like the piece.  Whether what has been accomplished is worthwhile to me.

There are many groups. Religious, anti-religious, intellectual, anti-intellectual, gay, straight, women, men, different cultures, different races.  Sometimes it's hard to get outside yourself.  My Midwestern blue collar single parent upbringing influences my writing.  It colors it.  I won't be able to shake it.  And neither do I want to.  But it probably won't appeal to everyone.  I will probably unknowingly and sometimes knowingly reference Midwestern Blue Collar Single Parent experience that people aren't going to 'get'.  Or like.

I'm also Mormon.  I grew up Mormon in a state where most people didn't know what a Mormon was.  It also defined me.  But it's all part of my make-up.  I don't divorce myself from it.  Neither do I write to a group of Mormon Midwestern Blue Collar Single Parent readers.  Frankly, I don't know any.

Second, I think labeling artists limits them.  I hate how music is labeled in music stores.  How they're always trying to fit a band into some category.  I think it makes us more comfortable to say: "Oh, he can write about the Holocaust because he's a Jew".  "Oh, this book is by a woman.  It's Women's Fiction."

Authenticity and experience is a whole other discussion for another day.  But when we label an artist, we make them fit our expectations.  And then we judge them on those expectations.  Do we feel Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre is less believable as a man because he was written by a woman?  Because when Jane Eyre came out, it was under a man's pseudonym and a female critic of the time thought that women were ill written.

I don't want anyone to spend too much time reading this.  It's a blog after all.  You have facebook to check. Emails to write.  Movie trailers to watch.

My point is thus.  When I first heard "Mormon Writer" or "Mormon Poet" I immediately assumed, falsely, that I was going to read some Mormon culture poems.  Something about pioneers or church or family or temples or Utah. Or lame generic stuff about God and Christ.*  And I'm not completely wrong.  There are a fair amount of people who write this stuff.

But I was guilty of labeling as well.  I've met serious and deft poets who write about a variety of subjects.  None of it is restricted to preconceived notions of what "Mormon Poets" write about.  I tried to keep myself above them or away from them but I'm flattered to be in such good company.  I can be a Mormon Poet as much as I can be any other kind of poet.

*Yeah, that's right. I have a footnote.  It's about religious art.  I like it.  I am moved and in awe of many religious works.  But just like any work of art, it has to be inspired and original.  It has to have something.  Just because someone says God or Jesus or Mary or Allah or Buddha or whatever in their poem, doesn't mean it's good.  I've read a lot of generic suckfests that I'm sure came from a real feeling of religious devotion. And I HATE when someone says something like 'well, that really happened' or 'that's how I feel.' That's what journals are for.  If you don't want something to be judged, keep it to yourself.

Thank You Notes to Me

So yes, we are having a baby. (Thank you Craig for getting this onesie for me. It is epic.) This blog is not going to turn into a baby blog showcasing every angle of my genetic inheritor.  So get ready to keep hearing about me, Valerie, and sometimes Baby.  Oh, she'll show up.  Like a guest star.  But is she writing the blog?  No.  Because she has no idea what QWERTY is.  And because most of her thoughts will be: "Hungry." and "Not Hungry."

I'm sure she'll be great.  I'm excited.  But I spend a lot of time in my head. But eventually when she can talk and reason and type I'm sure she'll have a few things to say about how I shaped her into the cool person she will become.  So here are some thank you notes to me.  From her.

ABOUT MUSIC

Dear D(that stands for Dad, abbreviations are huge in the future),

Thank you for introducing me to depressing rock music. Nirvana and Elliott Smith has given my otherwise happy life that bleak underlining it needed. While you and M showered me with love and affection, in the background was a soundtrack teaching me that despair and loneliness howled at the windows.  Thank you for leveling me out with some real bummers.  Sure I look super smiley in all those baby pictures.  But if you look in my eyes, you can see I know that life is not all mashed up fruit and snuggles.  It's deep pain and full of Courtney Loves.

ABOUT SUPERHEROES

Dear D,

Even though M totally rolled her eyes whenever you tried to explain the deep intricacies of comic book superheroes, I was listening.  Superman is an exploration of a god like being on Planet Earth dealing with issues of agency, death, and tragedy when he has the power to stop them.  It is a fascinating idea.  And you're not a huge nerd.  You're a supercool guy who just likes lots of things.  And you told me that enough times that I actually believe it.  Now when are we going to the 5th reboot of Spiderman?

ABOUT SCIENCE

Dear D,

I'm so glad you took over all my science projects and helped me build scale models of particle accelerators and binary star systems.  I am a little sad that you suck so much at building things that all my models looked nothing like what we intended.  I wish we lived closer to Uncle Andy and Uncle Sam because they don't handle tools like they're pythons.  But I think it's cool we live on the International Space Station and you're the Ambassador to Space.

ABOUT POETRY

Dear D,

I know that only a small percentage of the earth enjoys poetry.  Thank you for making me part of that percentage.  Because now I know I'm better than most people.  And that's the kind of self worth every kid needs.  Thank you both for making me part of the literary intelligentsia.  And thank you M for teaching me an eye roll that can make my teachers quiver in anger.  I'm going to ride this poetry rocket right to Stanford or Harvard or Yale or the International Space Station University if you really want me to stay close to home.

Jobs I Would Be Terrible At

I don't know if I've had a job I was amazing at really. I'm kind of a dreamer. I really only want ever want to be writing. When I was a waiter, I would stand off to the side of my tables jotting down poems in my notebook. When I was a cashier, I would write dialogue on the back of receipt paper. Most of my jobs I've gotten by with a smile and a joke. Here's some other jobs I'm sure I'd be terrible at.

 DOCTOR

There's Dr. Best barely listening to his patients.  He wears the appropriate "sad and understanding" face as they tell him their problems but where good doctors would hear the vital details that lead them to the diagnosis, Dr. Best is thinking of dolphins.  Wouldn't he like to have a dolphin baby?  Surely as a doctor, he has enough money to construct a giant pool for his dolphin child?  How would we drive his aqua boy to the vet?  A van filled with water?  Maybe a waterproof convertible?  Uh-oh, Dr. Best.  Your patient is in cardiac arrest.

LAWYER

Look at James Best, Esq.  He sure looks dapper in that suit.  He spent way more time picking out this suit than he did reading all the necessary case work for this trial.  He only does jury trials because this is the only place he even seems like a competent lawyer.  He likes to lean on the jury box, half wink at the moms and single ladies he's loaded the jury with.  He's already used a couple of sports analogies to win over the sports guys.  He put on a somber and serious face so the ex-cop in the jury knew that he's serious and he really understands life.  When he thinks he's got them, he sits down and writes out a funny scene between two men in quicksand on the back of his case files.  He decides to overrule something just so he looks interested.

FIREFIGHTER

James the Firefighter.  Why did he join up?  60 percent for sliding down the pole. 30 percent to ride the big red engine.  10 percent to smile at ladies in the grocery store while he's wearing his fireman togs.  He's the only one on his crew who calls them togs.  Let's see a typical fire with James.  There's James holding the firehose.  He likes the way the fire spills into any open space.  He kind of lets go of the terror and seriousness of the scene and thinks about how the char is like a reverse snowflake.  How the fire is an insatiable hunger, how it would eat everything its hot hands could reach.  Or maybe its insatiable thirst, how only enough water or rain can ever make it sleep.  He reaches for a pen to jot this down and the hose bucks in his hands, spraying all the onlookers.

RACE CAR DRIVER

Nope, I would die. Straight up day dream myself right into a mega flip and keep on going right into the afterlife.

Painting from here.

Names for Girls

So let's say in a make believe world that I was going to have a daughter. Let's say you were going to have a daughter. I think I have some great ideas for names.

Now, most of the really beautiful words are either sinister or a disease. In a time of children being named weird names like Kayzee and Root, I don't see why I can't name a child whatever I want. At least they're real words. Here's my picks.

Melanoma - it rolls off the tongue, it's like a song in your mouth. Sure, it's a word that strikes fear into the hearts of people. But that's maybe the kind of thing I want for a daughter. Lovely yet intimidating.

Hollow Point - more of a unisex name, but say it a couple of times. You'll be into the shape your mouth makes during the word 'hollow'. And then the word "point" with the plosives of P and T, makes for a strong ending. Also, boyfriends may wonder if her father named her after his favorite kind of bullet.

Femoral - is it an artery? Yes. But isn't a daughter like an artery? In that they are full of life and blood? And it sounds Celtic.

Dyspepsia - This would be for my grandpa. Not because he has this. But because it contains his favorite beverage, Pepsi.

Rubella - Just replace this word with the name "Maria" in the song "Maria" from West Side Story. Yeah. You like it. You're thinking about naming your daughter this. This is about to hit the top five on the social security index. You can call her Bella if you're a Twilight fan.

Giardia - are you Italian? Do you like Italian sounding names? Are you looking for something that gets in your belly? Are you looking for a name that makes you faint, even bed sick? Then give your daughter Giardia.

Dysentery - Hey, so a lot of people died of it on the Oregon Trail. The computer game not the actual Oregon Trail. The people on the actual Oregon Trail died from boredom. Because that trail was stupid long. This word/new name for girls is lovely and has a little lilt to it. You can hear a lovesick boy screaming this.

Riptide - Not just a regular girl. A sassy girl. She would get tattoos of dolphins on fire. She would run away from home to join Cirque de Soleil. She would drop out of that and carve canoes. This girl would carry a switchblade. She wouldn't hug. She would just nod.

Other disease names I like: Dropsy, Scarlatina, St. Vita's Dance, Thrush, Variola (smallpox)

For Twin Boys: Scurvy and Rickets

Are the Kids Calling it Doobies These Days?

I need to get this poetry manuscript done because it starts to feel like the culmination of my life. Five years is a lot I suppose.

I mark five years because about five years ago I stopped throwing all my writing away. Or burying it where I wouldn't be embarrassed of it. Of hundreds of undergrad poems written, I have kept: 2. Their names are:

Our First Home Has Forgotten Us

and

Expiration Dates

They are like childhood friends that I haven't yet found enough fault with to let go for my more sophisticated grad school friends.

The number of grad school written poems I'm keeping is negligible. Could be half my manuscript. Maybe a little more. I spend my days editing everything. I have a list of 50-60 poems that I've winnowed down. And I feel only about 20 of them need work still.

Improvement. Here's something new. Sometimes the best way to get into editing is write something new. Will any of these new poems make it into the manuscript? Not sure. They need to simmer.

This is a study on a Gary Jackson poem. A poet I heard at AWP. He just won the Cave Canem poetry prize. Wrote a whole book of poems about superheroes. Awesome. And cool guy too.

I used the name of a kid I knew growing up but it's not really about him.

A Poem for Josh Dixon

-dedicated to Josh Dixon

If Josh Dixon wrote a poem for Josh Dixon, the letters would be brands,
no unnecessary words, and when he was done with a thought,
well…

In Josh Dixon’s poem, there would be a weed cellar,
where he’d feel like a true botanist, between his fingers
he’d roll a seed, and feel the universe contained.
But he wouldn’t say it like that. Not in his poem.
He’d whisper, “Dammmmmnnnnnnnn…”
A word to hold all words.

When Josh Dixon writes this poem, he’s gonna write it on zigzag,
he’s gonna write it in the driveway of his Mom’s house,
which is his house, but not for long, not for long.
He’s got plans, an abandoned field to grow enough herb,
he’s got a mind that people underestimate.
That’s word for word from his poem.

Josh Dixon don’t have time for poems usually, he’s got a baby,
and some of these words he’ll scribe on the outside of diapers.
When he’s doing his duty, so his lady can make cash.
But this poem by Josh Dixon has dreams in it. And he won’t let me
tell you them. Because this is Josh Dixon’s poem.
It will beat you with a pipe if it catches you behind the airport.
Looking for his secret field. Searching out his dreams.

If Josh Dixon wrote this poem, it’d sound like a gun
sliding against denim. He would dedicate it to himself.
Josh Dixon is fine. His future life is growing in the dark
ready to break out. One day, when he’s rolling in it,
he’ll light that field on fire. Get the whole town stoned.
And he’ll be king of something for once.

Dancing and laughing down Main.

Day 21 - Internet Cafes and Letters to the Future

I'm back at the internet cafe. My time is running out. A bagel bought me two hours. And this poem needed a lot of editing. It's the third in the Letter to Me series. It may or may not need informing from the others. Not sure. Hard to separate sometimes.

A buck just walked down the sidewalk near the cafe. Crazy. This place is wild. I'm going to ride my pet bear home now. I'll put up some pictures tomorrow. The internet is just so slow I can't tell whether or not it can handle it. Lates.

Letter #3: Change

To an Older Me,

Even as I write this, I can feel the future you
pulling away, deciding to be.
There’s a smile in me I’m trying out,
a world be damned sort of grin.
I see it in the mirror some mornings,
sneaking out, giving me an almost handsome tilt.
Don’t laugh.

By now, you have sold my skin.
Your fingers look like strangers.
My face on you is stretched into something new,
even carefree. I feel it coming.

Two days ago, I biked down Milham Road
and ran into one of three Jessicas from class.
And she waylaid me, joked with me, frightened me
into hours of pointless forgetfulness.
I never got one broody word written.

I said don’t laugh.
If my pen cannot be a spear, what is it?
If I am not me in the future, who are you?

This is only vision I’ve had of us:
propped near some lake, clear as dreams,
mountains around, loons and deer,
a waterfall fogs a white noise through the air.
In our hands, a journal and pen.
Beauty surrounding, we’re still looking at paper.
Your face is young and uncreased by living ,
your eyes are still grey but steel now,
absent of heat, more like a door shut.
I am not gone. Just locked away.

I get why we became you.
Forgiveness is not easy, it’s just lighter.

Still,
You

Day 16 - Part 2, Levertov Study

Let me show you what I mean by a close study. I try to write a different version of the poem I'm reading. I try to imitate it with my own words. I try to stay in the same cloth. In further drafts, I'll break the seams. But for now, and this one is the closest I may have written, I stay close. First is Denise Levertov's poem. Afterwards is mine.

Gone Away

When my body leaves me
I'm lonesome for it.
I've got

eyes, ears,
nose and mouth
and that's all.

Eyes
keep on seeing the
feather blue of the

cold sky,
mouth takes in
hot soup,
nose

smells the frost,

ears hear everything, all
the noises and absences,
but body

goes away to I don't know where
and it's lonesome to drift
above the space it
fills when it's here.


MY VERSION NOW. Though it's daunting to put up a poem right after a master like Levertov.

I Need What I Don't Want

When my guilt leaves me,
I'm lonesome for it,
I still have

anger, confusion,
closed eyes and fists,
but that's all

Anger
keeps the mind
filled with blood,

though confusion,
makes my years
fold together
like a map

the present gets crowded

perhaps because I close my eyes
and still smile
smiles of fists, smiles
that shout 'regardless'.

I need guilt to steer
because it's lonesome
to walk without the past
guiding at the elbow.

Day 9 - Falling Asleep on the Keys

I wrote this earlier in the style of a Mattea Harvey poem. I'm too tired for anything much more. Goodnight.

HERALD SQUARE

It is 90something hot in Herald Square,
I am looking for grape soda

a man is holding a sign that reads
“The End of the World?”

a woman with a corduroy dog
says out loud to anyone, “I’m scared”

I say, “Well, don’t fear comets. They can never kill
by impact, it’s the propelling force

that will crush and then burn you,
or maybe you catch fire first.”

The janitor points out my wet pocket.
I have forgotten another bag of koi.

She whispers, “I am afraid the moon is dead.
And what care can dead things have for us?”

I am offered to buy my own photograph,
it shows only where I could have been.

A man yells, “I feel flatter and hotter.”
The wind boomerangs our words.

I tell the woman, “You’re not crazy.”
A something we should all hear once.

The seer bum switches signs,
holds up a plus sign between him and nothng.