LaDonnaWitmer

Be a Renegade

Mood: Anticipatious | Drinking: Later

sf2

I’m heading to the Renegade Craft Fair tomorrow with my friend Kathy, and am very excited to see some of my Etsy favorites in person, like this girl.

If you’re in the San Francisco neighborhood, you should go, too! Support your friendly DIY artists.

The fair is happening today and tomorrow from 11am to 7pm at Fort Mason, down by the water. Check the Renegade site for details

I’m ready to get spendy. But first, I’m off to Hogwarts with my pal Michael to get my Potter on.

Happy weekending.

-Lo, all chilled out. For now.

Avatars & Armchairs

Mood: spoiled | Drinking: black tea

Going Green

She looks so alive
standing in the street
staring down soldiers
head covered, fist raised.

The vermilion shock of blood
only floods the streets
with more defiant green.

Bullets cannot quell
a heart bent on freedom.
Fear will not force these voices
into silence.

In California, we add emerald
to our facebook avatars
in a show of “solidarity”
with a cause
we barely begin to understand.

We’ve grown so fat on freedom
we expect to affect a revolution
from our armchairs.

Green is just a color
that costs us nothing
more than money.

*****

I’ve been sitting on this one for awhile. It was inspired in part by these photos.

-Lo, from her armchair.

I am a hunter.

Mood: reluctantly patient | Drinking: the tea from home

empty_house

A fresh poem for you. And yes, this one’s mine. No borrowing today…

Hunter

Remember when we had a home
when every street lamp
and sidewalk crack
was familiar
as the way your palm
fit my face.

On my walk to the park
I would pass oblivious tourists
and think if they knew
they would want to be me.

Once I had a place for everything
here fits my wishbone,
there rests my dance card
and in the corner
always you
in your chair.

Now I am a hunter
ferreting through wreckage
for a piece that will
fit it all back together.

—

-Lo, who has taken to reading real estate listings like a horoscope.

Even the azaleas are anxious…

Mood: half-anxious, half-resigned | Drinking: dreams

fret_wall

Fear and love sometimes feel the same, like a thousand violent butterflies beating their wings against your stomach, shredding their way out.

Hope, as I’ve said before, is a knife edge. And I am currently quivering with hope and fear. Knives and butterflies.

I think my current state is quite aptly described by the word “anxious”, with a side of “nervous” and a pinch of “fretful” thrown in. But I’m working, oh so hard, to be zen about it. To say, “what will be, will be.” And be ok with that.

It’s just that I don’t know what will be. And in the not-knowing lies the anxiety.

Let me be all cryptic for now. I’ll explain on the other side. Deal?

Until then, a little Kristy Bowen to make us all feel better. Or at least to make me feel better…

fret
by Kristy Bowen

Lets say a woman’s heart
is like a windup bird.
The conservatory filled
with oranges and the cellar
disordered, unstable
with the pull of thieves

gathering outside the windows.
I’ve invented this: the panic,
copper tongued and shaken.
I’m dizzied, dulcet.
A thin layer of graphite
blooming beneath my skin.

And here, my sleight of hand,
my tour de force,
skirts come all undone
and tapping out code beneath
the dressing table. I am
impossibly lovely, impossibly
fixed against the horizon.
Any attempt at flight
ruining all the furniture.

***

-Lo, beating wings and biting nails.

The Trouble with Poetry

mood: Billy Collins-ish | drinking: raspberry tea

statue

I’ve been taking my sweet time reading a book of Billy Collins’ poetry aptly named The Trouble with Poetry. I’d like to borrow two of his poems to share with you here — they just seem to fit the day.

Statues in the Park

I thought of you today
when I stopped before an equestrian statue
in the middle of a public square,

you who had once instructed me
in the code of these noble poses.

A horse rearing up with two legs raised,
you told me, meant the rider had died in battle.

If only one leg was lifted,
the man had elsewhere succumbed to his wounds;

and if four legs were touching the ground,
as they were in this case –
bronze hooves affixed to a stone base –
it meant that the man on the horse,

this one staring intently
over the closed movie theater across the street,
had died of a cause other than war.

In the shadow of the statue,
I wondered about the others
who had simply walked through life
without a horse, a saddle, or a sword –

pedestrians who could no longer
place one foot in front of the other.

I pictured statues of the sickly
recumbent on their cold stone beds,
the suicides toeing the marble edge,

statues of accident victims covering their eyes,
the murdered covering their wounds,
the drowned silently treading the air.

And there was I,
upon a rosy-gray block of granite
near a cluster of shade trees in the local park,
my name and dates pressed into a plaque,

down on my knees, eyes lifted,
praying to the passing clouds,
forever begging for just one more day.

Building with Its Face Blown Off

How suddenly the private
is revealed in a bombed-out city,
how the blue and white striped wallpaper

of a second story bedroom is now
exposed to the lightly falling snow
as if the room had answered the explosion

wearing only its striped pajamas.
Some neighbors and soldiers
poke around in the rubble below

and stare up at the hanging staircase,
the portrait of a grandfather,
a door dangling from a single hinge.

And the bathroom looks almost embarrassed
by its uncovered ochre walls,
the twisted mess of its plumbing,

the sink sinking to its knees,
the ripped shower curtain,
the torn goldfish trailing bubbles.

It’s like a dollhouse view
as if a child on its knees could reach in
and pick up the bureau, straighten a picture.

Or it might be a room on a stage
in a play with no characters,
no dialogue or audience,

no beginning, middle and end –
just the broken furniture in the street,
a shoe among the cinder blocks,

a light snow still falling
on a distant steeple, and people
crossing a bridge that still stands.

And beyond that – crows in a tree,
the statue of a leader on a horse,
and clouds that look like smoke,

and even farther on, in another country
on a blanket under a shade tree,
a man pouring wine into two glasses

and a woman sliding out
the wooden pegs of a wicker hamper
filled with bread, cheese, and several kinds of olives.

-Lo, sitting in the dark and waiting “for a little flame to appear at the tip of my pencil.”

“We’re all mad here.”

Mood: mad like a hatter | Drinking: melty ice cubes

graffito1

Mush.

This is what my brain now consists of. Absolute mush. Like congealed oatmeal sort of mush. Worms in rain puddle mush. Soggy cornflakes mush. You get the picture.

I have procrastinated on blogging because of said mush brain. What do I have to contribute when I’m a soggy mess? And I have, on general principle, refrained from posting here when I have nothing to contribute…

But sometimes when you sit in front of the blank page (or text box) and just start writing, something satisfying takes shape. Something that needed to be said. You make an appointment with the muse, as the workshop leaders say, and then you wait.

Of course, you probably shouldn’t do this waiting in public. But I shouldn’t have had french fries for lunch, either. And I did. And here we are.

I’m nearly 3 weeks into the new job and less than 1 week away from opening my home for strangers to tramp through. In the last 2 weeks I have spent more time and dollars at Crate and Barrel (votive holders), Cost Plus (vases, curtains, wall decor), Pier One (more vases), SatinBox (mirrored fruit), Target (sheets, silk pillows, curtain rods, and more curtains), Marshall’s (candles, throw rugs, more silk pillows), and Restoration Hardware (real fancy bookends) than I have in my entire previous lifetime.

It feels very adult. And sometimes I have trouble believing that I am a “real” adult. You’d think I’d be getting over that soon.

Anyway, Boy and I decided to save ourselves the thousands required to hire a professional stager and just stage our house ourselves. (I’m hoping that one of the benefits of this decision is that I get to keep all of the aforementioned vases and fancy bits. I will cut anyone who tries to make me return those mirrored apples, I swear.)

I’ve enlisted the eyeballs of my trusty pal Kathy, asking her to critique the results of my shopping and furniture scooting. She’s well qualified for this task due to her own formidable decorating skilz and vast experience with HGTV consumption. My neighbor Roy the Art Director has also pitched in. They both agree that I apparently have excellent taste. Well, duh. *polishes fingernails on lapel*

Meanwhile, in the midst of all this hullaballoo, LeeLoo’s getting stressed out. She’s all, “WTF is my comfy couch?” I have explained that the comfy couch is not gone forever, it was just less visually appealing than the teeny leather couch that now takes its place. The Loo is not pleased. I can’t blame her, but I don’t speak dog well enough to competently explain what’s going on. I’m hoping extra rations of pupperoni will do the trick.

In times like these when your head is up your own ass and all you can think about is the next 15 things on your to-do list that MUST be done yesterday, it’s easy to forget that the rest of the world is carrying on. NPR cures me of this delusion.

Just today on my way to work, I was reminded that a hateful racist murdered someone at the Holocaust Museum, Iran has possibly world-shaking elections tomorrow, Swine Flu (a.k.a. “Hamthrax”) is now classified as a global pandemic, New York is arguing about gay marriage, the FDA is going to regulate tobacco, Detriot is still fucked, 17 ethnic Uighur prisoners from Guatanamo Bay now have refuge in Palau, and the economy continues to give people aneurysms.

So you know, there’s a few things going on out there besides my own small personal hurricane. Good to remember.

Wow, 2009, you’re hardcore.

Clearly the muse has nothing truly profound to deliver today, although I am on draft #2 of two different poems, one about religion and one about dogs that begins with the lines:
“After yelling at my dog,
I decide I will be a terrible mother.”

So there’s that.

Apologies for the continued random nature of my blog posts. It’s gonna be this way for awhile. Perhaps I’ll break it up with some poetry when the dog poem is finished.

Meanwhile, you can enjoy some equally random grafitti apparently crafted by some dude named Kevin Harris, although I have a feeling that all he ever did is sign his name with a blue spray can. Correct me if I’m wrong, mister Harris, wherever you are.

-Lo, who’s becoming a designing woman.

I Miss Dull Moments

Mood: Frazzled | Drinking: Snapple Peach Tea

loo_blanket

Fair warning: Totally random scattershot blog post ahead.

It’s clear to me that the theme of 2009 is CHANGE. Not pocket change or Obama change. I’m talking totally life-altering, plan-upending, out-of-the-blueness change. I assume you need examples. Well, let me lay out this past week for you.

One week ago today, I was in Denver chatting up old friends.
Sunday I was back home, packing up all my bookshelves and other various and sundries.
Tuesday, I was decorating a new office cubicle and meeting lots of fellow co-workers whose names quickly escaped me.
Tonight, I’ll be eating sushi with Eric from Michigan (he of Flashmaster fame), who’s in town for the weekend.
Tomorrow, I’ll be schlepping many of the aforementioned boxes to a storage unit.
And Sunday I’ll be shooting part 2 of the “Homogeneous” cinépoem with Shel and Jimmy. And Kathy and Melissa.
And oh, god, then I shall collapse, get up, and do it all over again.

To say I am busy is to say the sky is blue, the Pope is old, and cheese is awesome.

If you’re saying, “Uh, didn’t you just start a new job in January after getting laid off and whatnot?” Well, first, you are very observant and second, yes. Yes I did. But things happened and headhunters hunted and recruiters recruited and now I am the new girl all over again.

“And about those boxes,” I can hear you muttering, “what’s up with that? Are you reflooring? Repainting? Moving altogether?” Yes, uh-huh, and sweet tasty freeze almighty, yes. To be more specific, we are packing up 90% of our personal and previously totally necessary shit in order to stage our cozy wee home to look all real estate magaziney and then we are sticking a for sale sign on it.

Don’t worry, I’m not leaving San Francisco until they pry this city from my cold dead hands. No, we’re just, you know, taking the next step in home ownership. Also known as getting a 2nd bedroom. Oh, the luxury.

I want to stick a sign on my chest at the new job that says: “Please ignore the crusty eyes and frizzy hairs…I’m trying to do too much at once. Again. Please don’t get used to this version of me. Insanity is only temporary.”

In my defense, I didn’t ask for all of this change. It all plopped into my lap completely unexpectedly and entirely unavoidabley. (Is that last one even a word?)

So I shall continue to go about my days slightly frazzled until all of this simmers down to a slow boil. In the meantime, I guess I will have to find a way to enjoy the bubbles. And the boxes. And the inability to remember all the names at the new place. So. Many. Names.

I’m sure that when “Homogeneous” comes out of the editing suite in the fall, I’ll be bemoaning my total lack of onscreen pizazz. Thank god I’ve got Emanuela and Jimmy to fill in the gaps in this one!

I shall try to keep up a steady patter in this space over the next few weeks, if only to preserve my sanity and step away from the leaning tower of boxes now and then. Speaking of which, when I stopped at the storage unit this a.m. to unload a new carload, I rolled up the door only to find that the previous night’s delivery was toppled all over the floor. I am a terrible box stacker. An inept cardboard wrangler. I have to get Boy on this, STAT.

-Lo, who will totally pilfer any decent-looking cardboard you leave on the curb.

The Tyranny of the Mirror

Mood: exiting stage left | Drinking: tea, naturally

tyranny

In honor of the impending neuroses of swimsuit season, I have a six-part poem for you…

The Tyranny of the Mirror

earth suit
Sometimes I forget how to lie
to myself
how to steely stare down
my mirror eye
and convince my reflection
she is good enough,
she is smart enough,
and goddammit, people
like her.

Some days I forget that what I see
doesn’t matter.
That what is housed invisibly within,
floating somewhere between bones and skin,
is more everlasting than its cage.

thick around the middle
I think about my body
every day.
Make lists
of unsatisfactory parts.
Measuring
with no joy
the increasing distance
between hands
spaced on either side
of my waist.

I remember when
muffin tops
were just delicious
and bore no correlation
to shame.

grande y bonita
For weeks now, the Mexican man
behind the counter at the Shell station
has been flirting.

He woos me with free fountain sodas
and appreciative stares.

Finally today he asks if I have a boyfriend
and shakes his head in dismay
when I reply.

“When I come to America, I dream
of meeting girl like you,”
he says, looking up to meet my eyes.
“Strong. Big. Beautiful.”

I blush and pay for my Diet Coke
and all the way home, wonder if “big”
can be construed to mean “tall.”

skinny jeans
The “Diet for Dummies”
costs $40 to download
and I pay the price
without blinking,
print out the menu
that reads “broiled halibut”
and “carrot sticks,”
dream of slimming body image
solutions while couching
in sweat pants, munching
white cheddar Cheez-Its.

cell memory
Just because you wear new skin
than you did 2,556 days ago
does not mean the old you
has been forgotten.

Cell memory gets passed down
from regeneration to regeneration.
The new cells are born with collective
knowledge and an inferiority complex.

What you focus on the most is remembered,
is held within muscles,
whispered from vein to vein.
Even the smallest of cells knows
exactly how much you hate yourself.

seven years of bad luck
Somehow the tyranny of the mirror
remains through the ages unbroken,
undiminished by intelligence
weight loss
and the compliments of lovers.

Seven years ago I thought I was fat,
posing for pictures with a cheek-pinching
smile, stomach sucked
concave. Now I see

what that girl never could,
that she was traffic-stopping,
jaw-dropping, heart-popping
gorgeous.

But standing sideways before the glass,
I think that seven years is a long time –
things grow. sag. wrinkle.
To find this woman beautiful,
I will need seven more.

*****

-Lo, whose bikini days are behind her.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Mood: Diligent | Drinking: Soon

future

If you read that title and you’ve now got a Joss Whedon tune ringing in your ears, join the club. If not, well, congrats. You are not as big of a nerd as you think you are.

I, however, am a huge nerd. And I’m definitely feeling the “what’s next?” vibe, though not bursting into song just yet.

Every big undertaking (in this case, the revamp of this website) has a big payoff in the form of fluffy clouds of euphoria. But the payoff is usually promptly followed by a letdown. You’ve been so busy and so focused for so long, and now you’ve reached the pinnacle, you’ve achieved your goal. So then you start looking for the next mountaintop. You start wondering where you’re gonna go next.

I never have a shortage of artistic ambition. A lack of energy, time, and direction, yes. But never a lack of hare-brained schemes.

Fortunately, the post-project dip is a shallow one this time. I’m already on to the next thing — this Saturday, in fact, which is the first of 3 or 4 non-consecutive days of cinépoem shooting. We start filming Homogeneous this weekend, with fearless volunteers Jimmy and Emanuela, who have already recorded some pretty badass vocal tracks.

Homogeneous is one of the most ambitious cinépoems Shel and I have done so far, although this one doesn’t involve any bunny suits or fake blood. It’s a three-parter and involves some tricky coordination, so it might be awhile before the finished product makes a grand debut. But it will be worth the wait.

I have a few other ideas up my sleeve as well. It’s only been 2 years since The Secrets of Falling came off the presses, but I’m starting to have dangerous ideas about a new printed piece.

And there are always new small projects, postcards and prints and things, to do with Kathy. So I’m in no danger of being bored.

Meanwhile, beyond this website and all the fun poetry projects it encompasses, life continues to move and change in new and strange ways. Boy and I have decisions to make, but it’s one of those domino things where one leads to another which leads to another, but you can’t go anywhere until the first domino falls. I’ll let you know where they land… when they land.

Speaking of all that’s new and fun, what do you think of the new site? Comments are open now, remember? Be sure to leave your mark. How else will I know that you’ve been here?!

-Lo, who thinks that 39-year-old straight white dudes who are tone deaf should not walk around the office singing Beyonce, if they want to maintain their dignity.

Getting Your Feet Wet

Mood: Celebratory | Drinking: *Clink*

water1

Come on in, the water’s fine!

I’m so very pleased to introduce you to ladonnawitmer.com, version 4.0. She’s been a long time coming — nearly a year, in fact, and I couldn’t be happier that I finally get to show her off to the world.

I’d like to give you a quick tour, but first I have to thank a few people who pulled a lot of strings and spent a lot of their late-night and weekend time to make this happen.

First, let’s talk about my far-away friend Eric Oehrl, working his Flashmaster magic out there in the wilds of Michigan. The nifty navigation over there on the left? That’s Eric. The amazingly awesome Flash movie that now introduces this site (lovingly dubbed “the cinébyte”) — that’s Eric, too. EO, my friend, without you, none of this would have been as moving. I bow down before your mad skilz. You rule.

Next, the ever-lovely Miz Kathy Azada. My partner in various crimes, misdemeanors and art projects. Kathy has already brought one miracle to life in the form of our art & poetry book, The Secrets of Falling. And have you seen all those must-collect postcards in our shiny new Store? Those are all designed by the fabulous Kathy, too. My friend, you make all things lovely. Thanks for dreaming with me.

None of these dot com shenanigans would ever have happened if not for one mister Chris Brown, my fearless web guru. It was he who came to me sometime last year and said, “We’re gonna redo your website.” And I was all, “Pshaw, why? I like it the way it is.” And he said, “No, trust me, we can make it better.” And I’m so friggin’ glad I listened! Chris, if this site doesn’t get you a truckload of new clients, nothing will. Thank you a thousand times over.

If you’re wondering who shot all these gorgeous underwater photos, may I direct your attention to my all-too-often behind-the-scenes husband, Bruce. One day last summer whilst on vacation in Mexico, I pulled a red ball gown out of my suitcase, handed him a waterproof camera and said, “Let’s go down to the pool.” One hour and lots of “1-2-3-holdyourbreath” counts later, we had a roll of film (yes, old school) full of aqua and red. (Check out Bruce’s gallery to see all the photos from the underwater shoot.) Thanks for going along with my crazy scheme, Bruce. As always, I owe you one.

Be sure to click around this site from top to bottom, starting with the home url, www.ladonnawitmer.com, where you’ll be instantly immersed in a mini-cinépoem called “Submersion” that will take you on an underwater adventure. Be sure you have your sound turned on for that one.

You’ll notice that some things that are familiar — The Writer still contains some foul language pertaining to one Mr. Johnny Depp, but check out the wee seahorse for a new treat. The Library still contains music from Franky & Wil, along with poems for your reading pleasure, but the poems are new.

The Others still contains links to lots of old friends, and a few new ones, too. And you can still send me an email via Says You, but you can also now comment on this blog — I know lots of you have asked me about that over the years, so you’d better make use of it!

Speaking of this blog, She Says is now a fully functional weblog with an RSS feed and everything, so you can add me to your blog roll and all that fun stuff. You can also search the archives via keyword for old entries, if you’re into that sort of thing. All of the old entries made the migration to their shiny new home.

The Cinépoems have a lovely new page with an upgraded and higher-quality video player for your viewing pleasure. We’ll be making ongoing improvements to that page over the next few months, too, because we’re not satisfied with mere perfection. Must. Keep. Tweaking.

Oh, and notice that the newest cinépoem is one you haven’t seen yet… Bright Neon Love was shot in Las Vegas over the holidays and gets to debut with the big site unveil, that lucky little poem.

The Gallery has been completely retooled — all the old photos are still there, but they’re much easier to view now. There are new photos, too, from Bruce, from a fabulous young photographer named Caitlin Bellah, and from recent cinépoem shoots as well, so be sure to check that out.

And finally — my pet project — our Store. My two books, Shedding the Angel Skin and The Secrets of Falling are available for purchase (and well worth the asking price), as always, but now you can also get yourself some of those pretty postcards I mentioned earlier, as well as a few photographic art prints.

The Store lives on etsy.com, which is an amazing site in its own right and one of my new favorite things ever. Lots of very cool artists hawking their wares on Etsy, so be sure to explore. After you purchase a book and some postcards, of course.

So that’s the tour. Please make yourself at home, get a little wet, and let me know what you think. I’m off to go splash around a little myself. I just don’t get tired of playing with all these new toys!

-Lo, who should mention that it’s not really about drowning.