The Horror. The Horror.

A great tragedy has befallen me: I am without constant Internet access.  While this does feel a bit like walking without feet, it is also — well, okay.  I’m just not going to mention how much more productive I apparently am without cable television and The Internets.  I’m not going to mention it.  No.

When I do have time to update (mostly while hogging a booth and the WiFi signal at Panera — and also remembering how incredibly delicious their baked goods are), I’m updating my VAMPY class’ blog.  Head over there to find out what we’re up to, and to find out all about the fact that, on Friday, I rode on a boat.  Underground.  No, seriously.  This was in the midst of our journey to Lost River Cave, which was truly one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.

Blue Hole Number Four

The grounds also housed an amazing butterfly garden, which was incredibly beautiful (though, in hindsight, perhaps not the best place to bring a bunch of brilliant thirteen year olds, particularly during the spring/summer).

A beautiful butterfly, at rest. Alone. Most were not.

Before this wondrous journey, my class visited the Kentucky History Museum, housed on the WKU campus.  If you ever get a chance to visit this place, please do.  I beg of you.  Among its exhibits are:

The creepiest wax figurine in history (this being Duncan Hines, who was, apparently, from Bowling Green)

An actual replica of me on an average shopping trip.

Dress-up, which allowed me to replicate the only extant photograph of my great-grandmother, Della Dickinson.

I’ve been in Panera for so long that I think even the bagels are beginning to look at me funny, and so I leave you with this: my class invented a form of poetry, called The Rockah.  This is officially the best name for a form.  Ever.

The Greek Pantheon, Stick Figures, Britney Spears’ Poetry, and Schmoe

I am hot, sweaty, exhausted, exhilerated, overjoyed, and inspired — and therefore have just finished my first day of teaching at WKU’s VAMPY program.  Today, we learned about the true beauty of all of the things mentioned in the title of this blog entry.  “Schmoe” is the name given to WKU’s mascot, Big Red, by VAMPY kids whose nametags bear a pin with his likeness.  Or her likeness.  I remember there being quite a debate as to whether Schmoe was male, female, or without a gender.  The goal of most VAMPY kids is to collect as many Schmoes as possible — I lamented today over the fact that, due to various moves and nametag trades, I have no Schmoes.  We also learned about constructive criticism and how a poetry group resembles a therapy group.  Sadly, the students also learned what happens when their professor loses her cane in a battle with a vending machine.  That’s right: a cane.  I remembered that the nickname “The Hilltoppers” exists for a reason, and had to break down and finally purchase the cane I’ve been avoiding for a long time now.  I’m still hoping to find my panther cane with ruby eyes, but, until that glorious day, my butterfly-covered CVS cane will have to do.

My class and I will be blogging about the VAMPY experience on our blog, The Eleven Prodigeeys and The Boulder.  As the students elected to post anonymously, they’ve chosen personas from the Greek pantheon.  I, of course, am The Boulder.  These kids are amazing, and the blog promises to be amazing as well.

“If lilies are lily white if they exhaust noise and distance and even dust.”

Goodness, I think this is my first two-post day in … Well, perhaps, ever.  I’m in the midst of beginning a poem inspired by Dara Wier, one of my idols, for Dustin Brookshire’s Queens of Poetry project, and I admit that the very idea of writing a poem inspired by someone as brilliant and amazing and intelligent as Dara Wier is so overwhelming that I had to put it aside for a while.  Also, I simply had to scan and post this.  One of my incredibly talented students, Stephanie Boxx, is an intern at the Georgetown New Graphic this summer, and recently interviewed me for their “People You Should Know” segment.  This article contains the saddest and truest statement about my life, and, actually, perhaps about human life and the brutal alienation of the modern world, ever made: Emma Bolden’s family is a cat named Gertrude Stein.  In addition, the article’s placement in the Georgetown News-Graphic creates the coincidence of all coincidences, perhaps making the saddest and truest statement about my life or human life in general or the magical serendipity of the modern world ever made: next to my photograph is a photograph of a kitten who looks exactly like Gertrude Stein did when she was a kitten.  I’m even posting a photograph of Ms. Stein as a kitten for comparison, thereby proving both the coincidence and the saddest and truest statement which serves as an introduction for my interview.

Part One of My Georgetown News Graphic Debut

Part Two, Featuring The Cat Who May Well Be Gertrude Stein's Clone

A Photograph Of Ms. Stein As A Kitten, For Comparison's Sake (And Also So That You Can Admire Her General Cuteness)

Brief Updating, Good News, and Emma’s Whereabouts (Or Something Whereabout There)

Careful Readers of this blog may be thinking to themselves, I wonder if Emma really has continued her campaign against The Man, or if she long ago surrendered to the great and delicious temptation that is Diet Coke, thereby ruining both her kidneys and her fight with The Man? Well, Careful Readers can sigh a sigh of relief, as Emma’s kidneys are without stones, and she’s keeping her righteous anger at The Man at full blast.  Though I cannot say that I haven’t had a single Diet Coke in the past few weeks (actually, my newest downfall is Diet Dr. Pepper — I really do think it should be illegal), I have cut down significantly enough to be able to afford my first AMS (Anti-Man Subscription).  My first choice?  Salamander, a literary magazine out of Suffolk University in Boston.  The newest issue promises to be a great one, including poems by Eva Hooker and an excerpt from Mahmoud Darwish’s State of Siege.  Jennifer Barber is a wonderful editor, and is also incredibly supportive — all in all, a great reading and publishing experience.

In terms of good news, I’m happy to announce that my manuscript, Malificae (a.k.a. The Witch Poems), was a finalist for the Cleveland State University Poetry Center’s first book award, which excites me to bits (after writing that phrase, I admit that I had a very strange vision in my head).  Here’s to hoping that the saying “always a bride’s maid, never a bride” is a whole lot of bunk, at least when it comes to my manuscript (my love life, however, is probably going to be a very different story …).  Several of the poems were also named as distinguished entries in the Campbell Corner Poetry Contest, which is also tremendously exciting.

I have spent the past two weeks in a frantic attempt to both get organized and to get things together for the three week adventure I’m about to have.  Tomorrow, I drive to Bowling Green, Kentucky for the third time in my life to participate in WKU’s VAMPY program, through The Center for Gifted Studies.  This time, I’ll be there as a teacher, not as a camper, though I have to admit that I’m equally, if not more, excited about this prospect.  I can’t even begin to describe what an enormous and important effect my two years at VAMPY had on my life.  Perhaps this is the reason I’ve felt so much pressure in terms of making everything for my class perfect — I know what my other two classes were like, and that’s a very high bar to reach!  Hopefully, I’ll have at least gotten halfway there.  I’m teaching a writing class, and my section will involve four genres of creative writing — poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and playwriting — as well as research writing and argumentation.  We’re reading and writing just about everything, from haibun to zuihitsu to renga to immersion journalism to dramatic monologues.  The final week of the class is also going to involve Mean Girls and, perhaps, a cake made of rainbows and smiles.  I’ll be teaching from 8:45 in the morning until 4:15 in the afternoon, so The Blogging might be scarce.  Therefore, I offer a photograph from my time at VAMPY (and hope that my roommate doesn’t kill me for doing so):

My roommate and I during my first year of VAMPY. Please note the copious amounts of red lipstick: as I wasn't allowed to wear that much at home, I smeared it on like nobody's business. Looking at this photo, I see now why I wasn't allowed.

“Feel like letting my freak flag fly / Oh I feel like I owe it to someone”

After spending an hour and fifteen minutes making phone calls to increasingly hostile insurance representatives, I found myself inspired to write an entry about one of my favorite activities: fighting The Man.  How can one fight The Man, you may ask?  Well …

1. Subscribe to a literary magazine. Due to increasing postal rates, the down-the-toilet-and-through-the-pipes economy, and the general difficulty of getting people to subscribe to literary magazines in the first place, the literary journal is in trouble.  A group of poetry-loving people on Facebook laid down a challenge to subscribe to at least one literary journal a month.  At first, I thought, as you may be thinking, that there’s no way I could afford this.  I then realized that if I didn’t buy a Diet Coke a day, I’d have the subscription fee, and as Diet Coke is really and truly a tool of The Man (who else could cause my shameful addiction?), the literary journal wins.  And, as a start, may I suggest a subscription to the Georgetown Review? Five dollars for more fun than you can imagine — and, though it won’t clean your soap scum, as Diet Coke will, it will not give you kidney stones, as Diet Coke does.
2. Make your second subscription a subscription to OR. This Otis College of Art and Design journal is on the front lines of the battle against The Man.  In refreshing rebellion against traditional publishing, which so often considers not so much what is good as what is marketable, OR is a “literary tabloid” distributed nationally — and absolutely free of charge.  And the content?  The list of writers published, from Laura Moriarty to Martha Ronk to Ray DiPalma, speaks for itself.  Sign up for a free subscription and give The Man a kick in the pants.
3. Start visiting online poetry mags. For years, people warned against the online poetry magazine: they’re not legitimate!  They’re just blogs!  They’ll do nothing for your CV!  Think of your CV, for God’s sake!  Think of your CV! However, back in 2005, Bob Creeley told our workshop class that the online poetry magazine was the way of the future — and, due to #1 and a host of other issues, I think he just might be right.  Many online journals are pretty amazing, to say the least, and, most importantly, they take risks which many print journals can’t, especially when it comes to composition.  Some of my favorites include Waccamaw, the Country Dog Review, DIAGRAM (though I continuously send the wonderful Mr. Monson poems, which are promptly rejected, much to my great sorrow), and 5_Trope.
4. “Carry on!” Those of you who are as obsessed with Project Runway will recognize this as the right honorable Tim Gunn’s catch-phrase.  Those of you who are as obsessed with Project Runway as I am will also feel as torn to shreds as I do about Pro-Run’s departure from the Bravo network, its subsequent existence in some terrible between-stations limbo, and the absolute disappointment that is Bravo’s erstwhile replacement, The Fashion Show (seriously.  The challenges on this show are not challenges.  I bet that next week they’ll have to make a pot holder from scraps).   Thankfully, Dustin Brookshire has found a way to fight The Man and fulfill my need for Pro-Run with his Project Verse.  I admit that I’m cheering on Emari DiGiogio, who just may be the next Austin Scarlett.
5. Become Abnormally Attracted to Sin. Though this doesn’t technically fit under the category of “literary stuff,” I must give a type-out to Tori Amos, who has been fighting The Man since her 1988 debut with Y Kant Tori Read.  Her new album sucker-punches The Man, though the punches aren’t as low and dirty as the classic that’s gotten me through more break-ups than I care to mention, Boys for Pele.  Tori’s new sound is ambient, and low and creeping, and her voice is higher than usual.  Here’s where I must make an embarrassing admission: I have never been to a concert.  Ever.  Seriously.  I’d planned to make my first concert a Tori Amos concert — however, Tori Amos didn’t plan to come anywhere near Lexington on her tour.  I’m absolutely certain that The Man is somehow behind this, and shake my fist at the heavens and at him.

A Post Which Apparently And Unwittingly Turned Into A Manifesto Of Sorts

In high school — well, in 9th and 10th grade, at least — my favorite days were Wednesdays.  Every Wednesday, we’d follow an accelerated schedule which shaved about ten or so minutes off of each class period.  Though I admit that the fact that this meant ten or so less minutes of Algebra and Trigonometry was a definite plus, that wasn’t the reason I loved Wednesdays.  Instead, I loved them because all of those ten or so minutes added up to an extra period during which we got to take classes in another art.  I relished these glimpses into other art forms — in my case, music and theater — both because I learned to more deeply appreciate and respect the other arts and because these arts informed my own.  I was perhaps most obviously inspired by my theatre classes, as they led to my love of play writing, but my music classes also inspired and informed my writing.  Through the study of symphonies and musical movements, I learned about the overall structure of a poem or an essay; through the study of musical tones,  I learned how to hear patterns and tones in poetic language.

After ninth and tenth grade, however, Wonderful Wednesday vanished, the reasoning being, I think, that in taking these classes, we were distracted from our art.  And though it was still an immeasurable privilege to have three hours a day for studying our fine arts, the division between the arts grew more and more distinct, as we focused intensely on our art and squelched any interest in another.  It seemed as if we were meant to be pegs carved to fit in only one kind of hole: if you were a writer, you couldn’t audition for a play, as that was solely for the theatre students, or sing in the choir, as the choir was made only up of  music students, or even take A.P. Biology, as that class was only offered to Math/Science majors.  This kind of pigeon-holing often led to burn-out, and seemed sometimes to divide the school in terms of departments.  We did share our work with other departments, but only the finished products: plays, concerts, readings, exhibits, results from experiments, and ballet performances.  What we didn’t share was the process, the moment of discovery, of realization that, yes, you’ve finally come across something striking and strange, a new way of seeing the world — in other words, the real, raw experience of art and of science that can only come with experience of its making.

Of course, there was a point to it all, and there is very real value in teaching this kind of determination and strict devotion to one’s art — in the real world of rejection and nepotism and Good Ol’Boy networks, it seems absolutely crucial to develop some kind of single-minded concentration on one’s art, on the importance of creation over instant gratification.

At the same time, I wonder sometimes what I missed, and what connections I could’ve made — and, more importantly, what we could’ve done, what great potential and power for change there might’ve been if we, as future artists and scientists and scholars and citizens, had more deeply connected with another art and seen the connections between them, seen the struggles and the triumphs we all shared.

I’m aware that the above passage contains a number of Very Controversial Statements, not the least of which being that creative writing is, in fact, an art, and not a.) a set of learned skills and craft techniques or b.) an academic discipline.  It is not my intention to get into a discussion about this, which would inevitably end up in “M.F.A. versus No M.F.A.” territory, or “M.F.A. versus PhD” territory.  The fight has been and is being fought by people far more qualified to fight it than I.

My intention is to be part of a different fight, and to say this: if we are going to survive as artists, as people engaged in the grueling and glorious task of creating Things, we’ll say, be they poems or paintings or performances, that inspire in their audience feelings of joy and sadness, of triumph and agony, of awe and reverence for the sheer impossible beauty of ever opening one’s eyes on this earth at all, we need to band together.  Together, the arts can triumph.  Divided, I fear we will fall.

Things at the School have changed drastically since I graduated what seems like an infinity of years ago, and that is a hopeful sign, and shows that, if nothing else, we — as makers and dreamers and craftsmen, as artists and scientists and citizens otherwise engaged in this great search for what connects us and inspires us and betters us and elevates us, for what makes us weep and laugh and shake our fists with frustration and all the while love all of it, because that’s what makes us human — we still have time.

Epic Fail, but Epic Pedagogical WIN.

While it has never been easy for me to hide my love of the LOL (or macro, depending upon what term you prefer and/or how much you love alliteration), but I have generally managed to keep my LOLddiction to one Website, I Can Has Cheezburger? Woe and alas, the aforementioned Site tempted me too much, offering links to other hilarious — and in some cases more hilarious — LOLoffshoots.  Foremost among these is FAIL Blog, which offered the following:

From now on, I think that my first exercise in my poetry classes is going to be to write a dramatic monologue from the point of view of the editor of the Enquirer Bulletin.

Literary Festivities

As I seem to still be in some kind of post-operative fog, I decided that a picture post is in order.  I’m not sure if it’s the anesthesia, or the tiresome business of getting well, or the tiredness that follows what seemed like a very long semester due to ice and its various ill intentions, but I seem to have entered a period of complete and utter writer’s block.  You may, at this very moment, feel the beginnings of an itch in your fingers, which are ready to write and inform me that writer’s block is a myth — there’s no such thing! — and that I need to just get started.  Be that as it may, I am trying, but nothing is nothing.  Part of me says that I need to stop worrying about this, as I’ve just had surgery and this needs to be a time of rest, relaxation, and recuperation.  The other part of me wants to strangle the former half, or at least  push it around enough so that it gets the picture and starts panicking that I’ll never even write a haiku again, for God’s sake.

Until one side wins out over the other, however, I offer these photos.  I was lucky enough to read at the 2009 Montevallo Literary Festival, sponsored by the University of Montevallo (which is, incidentally, a gorgeous school — the prettiest campus in Alabama, I think!).  Sadly, because of my travel schedule, I couldn’t attend Thursday’s events, and therefore missed a reading by Daniel Anderson, one of my teachers at the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference.  I also missed hearing Maurice Manning for about the thousandth, and hopefully last, time — he’s one of my favorite poets, but I always seem to miss him.  The link above leads you to the Cortland Review, one of my favorite online journals, and to a link to hear Manning read.  I was lucky enough to attend readings by Mary Ward Brown and Anthony Grooms.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to attend the entire festival next year.

In this photo, I appear to be holding the podium for dramatic effect. In actuality, I am attempting to ward off a fall. Yes, I am officially the clumsiest person in history.

The drive back took me through these mountains, which I'm assuming are the Smoky Mountains based on no evidence other than the fact that I have no sense of direction and they look vaguely smoky.

The drive home also took me to this street, which I love if only because of the all-too-accurate "No Outlet" sign.

And then, at the Subway, whilst attempting to eat fresh, I saw this poster about Kirk Cameron and his religious work, which always causes severe cognitive dissonance, as I still see him as Mike, the bad seed of the Seaver family, causing antics which could be solved in 30 minutes each week.

Buy a Book, Save a Press!

Has it really been nearly a month since I last posted?  It must be, as WordPress does not lie.  There was, first, the end of the semester, and then, as often seems to occur after the end of the semester, I had surgery, from which I am now recovering, safely ensconced in my parents’ house in Alabama.  Once I emerge from the post-operative haze, I promise more posting — first and foremost, photos from my reading at the Montevallo Literary Festival, which was a great deal of fun.

I’m posting while still in the post-operative haze, however, for a very good cause: saving Salt Publishing.  The state of the economy is so terrifying that I will not even begin to write about that, so that I don’t retreat to bed and pull the covers over my head (or else hide myself under the bed with the feline Gertrude Stein), but I will say that small presses seem to be bearing the brunt of all of this.   And Salt Publishing, an extraordinary press which publishes such extraordinary authors as Catherine Daly, Kamau Brathwaite, and Brian Henry, is in great danger right now.  As their Facebook note this morning explained, Salt needs help, and they need help fast.  Here’s what you can do to keep this press alive (copied from the note that’s now circulating around Facebook):

Here’s how you can help us to save Salt and all our work with hundreds of authors around the world.

JUST ONE BOOK

1. Please buy just one book, right now. We don’t mind from where, you can buy it from us or from Amazon, your local shop or megastore, online or offline. If you buy just one book now, you’ll help to save Salt. Timing is absolutely everything here. We need cash now to stay afloat. If you love literature, help keep it alive. All it takes is just one book sale. Go to our online store and help us keep going.

2. Share this note on your profile. Tell your friends. If we can spread the word about our cash crisis, we can hopefully find more sales and save our literary publishing. Remember it’s just one book, that’s all it takes to save us. Please do it now.

With my best wishes to everyone
Chris
Director
Salt Publishing

Q & A

Q, Left By Two Students

A, Left By Yours Truly