Signage

This morning I was driving along, watching the town slide by. Since it's autumn and my allergies hate me, I've been a little diminished, vision-wise. And there wasn't a lot of traffic--so, like someone looking at a stage set for a play and there's no action going on, I was studying the scenery.

I'm not in a settled place right now. I have a lot up in the air. Haven't made every decision about my future. And there was a time, not long ago, that I would have been in a perpetual terror state over that, panicked, demanding answers, worrying over all kinds of situations I can't control. Not so, anymore. I am content with where I am, knowing the answers will present themselves in time. I think I learned something.

Patience.

Finally.

Anyway, I was thinking about the research I've been doing, looking at graduate programs in other states, publishing programs, presses. This is mostly for school but also for fun--possibilities exist and I'm delighted by this fact. And I noticed two particular places kept cropping up. Either their publicity departments are most excellent, or they just happen to be where I am, these days.

And as I was driving along today, my usual business taking me along back roads--and I drove across one whose sign, which I misread at first, was the same as one of these programs I keep seeing. I blinked and saw it for what it was, remembering that street fondly from when I used to accept lots of food orders for delivery--and wondering just what I was thinking about, that I saw a sign in a street I've passed a hundred times.

Ostensibly Bad Poet, More Like

This is what happens when I'm given a character voice to write from--one that's outside my normal comfort zone--by a guy who edits Trailer Park Quarterly, the sort of literary mag your mother would pin to the fridge if you were in it. For real.

I was assigned "Really Bad Poet."

I'm not even going to try to read anything into that. I am all ego, you guys.

The Greenest Blade

The blade of grass most long and green
Was greener on than e'er had been
The greenest blade I'd ever seen
'Twas greener than a French green bean!
I write this for my dude, Springsteen--
Who wore them really tight blue jeans.


-


That was a real creative stretch, let me tell you.

It's a Poem, All Right

Here's a poem I wrote several months ago, when I lived in a different place and followed a prompt given by one of my fellow poets at The Journal of Asinine Poetry (new issue just went up yesterday!).

"North Missouri"

North Missouri is nowhere near
Any Missouri close to here,
And distant is what they will call me.

Mysticism ruled and then incarnated
My skin is the only thing keeping me from flying into a million pieces
"so-and-so"

I don't remember
More than the shape of your chin
But that is enough

And distant is what they will call me.

-

Now, the prompt:

Asinine Hacks, assemble! It's time for an Asinine Poetry writing exercise. The prompt is very, very simple. All you have to do is:

1) Use your street name as the poem's title (the "St." or "Dr." isn't necessary).
2) The poem should be 10 lines long.

a) Lines 1 and 2 must rhyme, and mention your street again.
b) Lines 3 and 10 are the same. Use this sentence, filling in the blank: "And _____ is what they will call me."
c) In line 4, summarize the entire Bible.
d) Line 5 must be a movie quote (not in quotes).
e) Use the least foul swear word you can think of for line 6, put it in quotes.
f) This leaves lines 7, 8 and 9, which work together as a haiku. In it, tie together relational aesthetics to the Children's Crusade without making any reference to either, in the form of a 'thank you' note to a fictional ex.
*f) *Optional: Or, instead of the haiku, you can just write your favorite pickup line.

Good luck!

Filling Up

The more water I pour in the fish tank, the more agitated the fish get, even though they're less crowded this way. More room to live, to explore, to think their fishy thoughts and dream their fishy dreams. Exercise, play, relax, whatever they want is theirs, and yet their little faces register annoyance at me for daring to expand their field.

Sometimes I'm a real jerk.

Emo-broidery

Emo-broidery: n. The realization that the embroidery project you're working on will never actually be completed. Probably related to purchasing craft supplies at a yard sale, so is likely the originator of the project had passed away. See also: Six quilt blocks do not a complete quilt make; All the time and expense going into quilt-making makes for a finished product too awesome to give away but not really to my taste; Bad idea in the first place.

Note to Self

Marybeth, next time you clean your floors, remember to also clean your feet.

Monkey Do

I started making sock monkeys right after college. Newly married, extremely broke, and working part-time, I had a lot of time on my hands and was fighting ennui. Not just boredom, but the dragging despair that comes along with not having enough occupation.

I was looking for things to do.

I remembered being a kid and having a sock monkey. It was soft, warm, just the right size to deliver a hug, and in its silent, half-smiling face was the understanding of a true friend who would never judge, never laugh, never gossip. Also, pairs of red-heeled socks were like two dollars each. That, I could handle.

I am in the process of cleaning out my craft supplies. I have a room devoted to them, a small room, but a whole room nonetheless, and it's gotten to the point where choked-up inspiration and half-realized ideas have clogged the entire floor space, shelf space, table space, drawer space. Attempts at organization have been woefully ineffective. I decided finally that the biggest problem in there was too MUCH in there, so I've been paring down. Down. Down. Pulling supplies out and making them into THINGS, and sending those things to people I love.

And one night, in the process of digging through a drawer where I'd found, among other things, a tiny pair of glasses and a sequined top hat, I found my last pair of red-heeled socks. I stopped, touched them, started to push them to the back of the drawer when I sighed and pulled them out. It was time, I decided, to make the last sock monkey. Until I buy more socks, anyway.

I've made dolls for years and years. As a kid, I used to hand-sew rag dolls and then make tiny dresses for them (pants were too complicated). I remember thinking it was funny, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing my needle through cloth that was becoming limbs, torso, extremities, a face. I still feel a little twitchy when I'm sewing up a sock monkey. Holding his legs apart so I can sew between them, cringing and saying, "This'll only hurt for a minute, I promise," lifting his arms so I can sew them onto what would be his rotator cuffs, sewing a line onto his lips with black embroidery floss so he'll have a mouth, but it feels like I'm sewing his mouth shut instead of on. Until I'm done, and then it looks proper.

More proper, anyway.

Something about a sock monkey, or any toy for a child, really. I might have read "The Veleveteen Rabbit" a few too many times, but I think the principle's there. A sock monkey is soft to catch tears, warm to hold hugs, and durable to pop out of a box years from now, so an adult can look at it, sigh, smile, and say, "Yeah, I remember this."

I hope so, anyway.