On Christmas Eve, after a lengthy service at St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral (very nice FYI), we arrived home at approximately 12:20 and I lit a fire outside.   This last activity, I think, will be our new family ritual — sitting in the cold, shivering by the flames, sipping something smooth, nibbling on fudge… and…

And, right in the middle of my reading of Thomas Merton:   “Into the world where there is no room Christ has come to those for whom there is no room…”  (Raids On The Unspeakable).  Right there, on the second “no room” we heard a howl in the distance.  We heard either coyotes or wolves… or a quartet of genuinely harmonic terriers.   Yes, in the wake of all the pageantry,  both high church and low church, there came late the sound of the canine other.   Hoooowl…  (No Allen Ginsburg in sight!)  And all during the assembly-process of my 17 year old son’s used Everlast punching-bag apparatus, I could not help but think of that passage in which the Canaanite woman approaches Jesus and leaves him speechless.   She says, after the Anointed One issues the exclusive caveat — that “the Son of Man” has come only to the house of Israel:  “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat crumbs that fall from their master’s table!”

Nice, come-back.  Eh?

I don’t know why these problem verses flash into and out of the sieve of my mind, but they do.   And when these sacred texts are somehow bracketed or emphasized or enjoined by the grunts, snorts, rooster-crows, bird-chirps and, in this scenario, the stylistic howlings of some far-off, somewhat distressed beast in the dark — it’s important that we take notice.   These moments are perhaps the temporal version of what the Ancient Celts refer to as “thin places” between worlds, places where we might inadvertently punch through a wall.   For me though, with my holy-day antennae up and fully functioning, the metaphor might be extended.   Whether a pack of pesky coyotes, one of the three mating pairs of wolves which are permitted to roam eastern Washington, or the 101 domesticated dalmatians with a Disney contract — it’s so clear that the neighbors are noisy.

I’ll say it again:  the neighborhood — as in the entire creation — as in the Ever-Expanding Universe – as in every sink hole that opens up in the  spring, every worm-hole that sucks down a morsel of dark matter and every blessed and bruised bending of the space-time continuum — ALL THIS — cries out.

You may wonder, at this point, two nights later, if the mechanically-challenged poet (me) figured out the punching bag apparatus and the answer is happily, yes.   At precisely 2:30 in the morning (PST), Christmas morning, I finished tightening the last bolt.   But I had been helped by the lingering howls.   The cries in the night haunted me like either Charles Dickens‘ Scrooge, or like Martin Bell‘s Barrington Bunny…
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So I’m sitting here on Schweitzer Mountain, enjoying some snow, sleep and skiing with my two boys, Ian & Philip, plus my spouse, Sheryl…  It’s a beautiful spot in north Idaho that’s been built up through the years with condos, ski-lifts and restaurants.   That recent construction I take or leave. What I truly love is to watch the mist pour through the vast bowl of slopes and silver-frosted trees which line the trails.  Lake Pond Oreille lingers about 5,000 feet below like a pair of blue eyes reflecting on the scene.   And tonight we can expect the longest night of the year!  

The winter solstice!

Anyway, it’s occurred to me recently that tourist attractions like this may not be long for this world, that the place itself may remain with its steep and jagged landscape, but that in terms of the snow and the reason for skiers to congregate here, global warming may have other plans.   Does that sound like pessimism?   Am I pooping on the proverbial party that folks of some means have here on an annual basis?   Should I ask the therapist to increase my meds and do what supposedly comes naturally?   Relax?   Chill out?

The fact is — I’m accosted on all sides with the damage that I have done by driving up this mountain.   A friend, who works for an Orthopedic Center, offered us his vacant pad in which we’ve crashed.   I bought him a bottle of Scotch to show our family’s appreciation.   And yet, the Internet reels with the stories of permafrost melting at the poles, of methane gas leaking into the atmosphere and of temperatures climbing so high that sea levels may eventually ebb and flow around Nebraska.  The only option I have in this scenario is poetry.
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It doesn’t feel like the holidays yet. Is that just me?

I’ve written a few cards and received a few. The mantle is decorated, the lights are up. Our tree (which is a lovely tree, if I do say so) was selected weeks ago, from the same farm we visit each winter. Our cupboard is full of treats from others (parents across America: keep on baking for your kids’ teachers, because I live with one. I had puppy chow for breakfast yesterday. Crack, I tell you.) I’ve listened to a little Christmas music, mostly at the gentle urging/ultimate demand of the person I share my office with that it was time. I even pulled out the heavy artillery: Love Actually.

But it doesn’t really feel like the holiday season to me. And this doesn’t mean that I subscribe to some ridiculous notion that the holidays are either a) so f**king joyous that you walk around grinning constantly and handing out candycanes to small children while assuring them of Santa’s existence or b) a horrible, suicide-inducing time when already lonely/miserable people are constantly reminded of exactly how lonely/miserable they are, while everyone else walks around grinning and handing out candycanes. Neither of those are representative of what the holidays are like for most people.

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A tea towel, embroidered by my husband's grandmother + a cookbook I found at the farmer's market = a story waiting to be written

It’s that time of year when the world thinks of things, of gifts gifts gifts gifts, the over-commercialization of Christmas, bells that jingle and fully-decked halls. Physical items start to seem more important than they do the rest of the year: the bike you wrote to Santa for, the ornament your daughter made in second grade, the divinity candy you have to make though only you and your dad really like it because Grandma used to make it every year. Every string of lights or holiday platter bears memories, or the promise of memories yet to come. These things are artifacts of Christmases past, endowed with meaning that accumulates like dust as the boxes sit in the garage, far enough out of sight and mind to make them seem that much more important come December.

It seems the longer we leave an item alone, the greater the emotion it carries. This can make for some pretty interesting stories (if you’ve written one, Hayden’s Ferry Review is accepting submissions for their “artifact” issue right now). Dawn Raffel explores her relationship to items from her past in a series of short essays, quite a few of which appeared in Willow Springs 67. Each essay is titled for an item that carries a story–”The Prayer Book,” “The Bride’s Bible,” “Garnet Earrings”–and uses these objects as windows into Raffel’s past. Read more »

I received a letter in the mail from a magazine I chose not to renew.
Call me dumb as a doorstop, but the letter made me feel guilty.

I don’t like people being upset with me, so the stupid letter almost worked. It actually made me feel like I had done something hurtful, and mildly dirty, to the magazine. They had me so convinced I’d done something wrong I dug up old credit statements from the previous year.
All I can say is, if the letter were reworded just a little, it’d clearly scream “crazy, unhealthy relationship.” Just sayin’

AKA it basically says: Read more »

It’s that time of year again. School is winding down, the smell of snow is in the air, and we only have 20 more days until Christmas. So in honor of the holidays and the small number of digits in my bank account, I give you gifts for readers and writers on a budget.

Coffee + Inspiration = Writer's Best Friend

Write Like a Motherfucker mugs on therumpus.net.  If you’ve never been to The Rumpus, you should probably be ashamed of yourself. I love, love, love the advice column. It’s called Dear Sugar. And if you haven’t read it, you really, really should. The amount of insight and wisdom Sugar possesses is astonishing and comforting to read.  One of her weekly letters she responded to was concerning a writer who is/was jealous of her friends for being more accomplished in writing than her. So what did Sugar suggest she do? Write like a motherfucker. Fuck yeah. Price: $13.00 Read more »

 This past week I watched Miss Representation, a film by Jennifer Seibel Newsom.  It’s a documentary about the portrayal of women in the media and the effect on political and feminist discourse.  Despite people always saying women have come such a long way in the entertainment industry, and in politics, the glass ceiling is a myth, and blah blah blah—forget that, it’s not true.  “The media treats the women like shit,” Margaret Cho says in the film, summing it up nicely.  Cho had a sitcom in the 90s, and she was pressured into losing weight for the show, only to be replaced by The Drew Carey Show, “you know, because he’s so slim,” Cho says, laughing at the absurdity.

Disappointing, MJ.

  It’s really not funny, though. Seibel Newsom frames the movie in a personal way—she has a daughter, and she wants better than a world where female politicians are called Mrs. instead of by their earned title, where Hillary Rodham Clinton’s ankles are more important than her ideas on foreign policy, and where a photo of Michele Bachmann eating a corn dog or making “crazy eyes” is national news.  I want this, too.  I cried, in fact, because my oldest child right now is a little girl who is confident in her intelligence, her kindness, and her equality.  Right now, she believes she is both beautiful and smart, both kind and capable.  I never felt this way as a child, that I can remember, and it feels like one of my biggest successes as a parent that all of my kids seem to.  I fear the time is coming, though, those years when girls turn from confident happy people into virtual strangers who obsess about their looks and appearance, forgetting all that made them proud to be themselves as children.  Read more »

Who says turkey can't be sexy?

It’s that time of year again when we all gorge ourselves until we pass out, watch football, and awkwardly talk with relatives we see once or twice a year. So here are some links to be thankful for.

1) Martha Stewart makes mashed potatoes with Snoop Dogg.

2) How to make your turkey sexy.

3) Turkey carving lessons with Bill Cosby.

4) Smoked Beer Can Turkey? Yes, please.

5) Prefer cake instead of tryptophan? Try the Thanksgiving Dinner Cake!

6) Jones Holiday Soda in four seasonal flavors.

7) Need a little booze this holiday season? Try these cocktails.

8) Hate cooking? Now you can simply blow up a turkey!

9) Now your dogs don’t have to be left with left-overs or table scraps.

10) Unusual Thanksgiving recipes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You rush a miracle, you get rotten miracles.

(Yeah, my title is a reference to a country song. Oddly, my other options for titles were also country songs.)

So lately, my bowling game has been suffering. My ball speed is inconsistent and the chance of me actually hitting my mark has gone down to maybe 50%. One of my teammates took pity on me (or perhaps was frustrated with my plummeting scores) and told me, quite simply, that I was rushing. My body and feet were moving faster than my arm, which often caused me to force an erratic swing at the last minute. I needed to slow down.

I often work on my poetry while I bowl. I like using the rhythm of the process to work out lines and edit poems I’m feeling unsure of. Unfortunately, I can say with all humbleness that my poetry has seriously been suffering this season. I know one of the dangers of being a concept based poet is that my ideas play out faster than I can write them and sometimes I’ll know where I want my poem to go when I’m only on line two. And if I’m being lazy, I might not take the time to figure out if my poem has something better to say than what I think it should say. Before talking about my concerns with my thesis adviser, I gave him some poems I had written lately and he told me they started well but then died a little in the middle. It’s like I was in a hurry to get to the ending.

Uh-oh. Read more »

OK, so this note is going to be rather short, as I’m on my lunch break at work. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been rather interested in the Occupy Wall Street protests, and they’ve got me somewhat optimistic for the first time in a few years.

One question that’s been bandied about is a pretty basic one: Why the protests? And to be sure, the protests are hardly homogenous; there’s all sorts of different viewpoints and myriad causes being supported by protesters across the country.

But at its most basic, I think it’s quite clear that people are angry, and at one group of people in particular: The Scrooge McDucks among us.

No, really, Scrooge McDuck. You may remember the Duck Tales, which featured Scrooge McDuck, a very wealthy Duck who made a habit of taking a morning swim through his vault of money.

Now most of the folks that I’d label Scrooges aren’t actually individual people. They are banks that got bailed out. Well, I was thinking about the bank bailouts, and after (hastily) doing the math, I realized that the bank bailouts had not only given the banks, we’d given them enough to actually make the opening scene of the Duck Tales possible, and then some.

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