Well Met

reading
Mood: Content
Drinking: Tea

A big thank-you goes out to the fine bunch of folk who showed up at Sacred Grounds for the reading last night. (Kathy took this stealth photo of the reading in action.)

A special shout out to my open mic buddy Gary, who deserves the credit for getting me to Sacred Grounds in the first place.

I met a lot of lovely people, sold quite a few books, and had a great deal of fun reading my stuff. Which is all as it should be, I think.

I’ll be reading again in the next few months at Red Hill Books in Bernal and Bird & Beckett in Glen Park. I’ll post details for everybody when the dates get closer.

Meanwhile, I have some laundry and poems to finish, a dress to alter, a wedding to dance at and a dog to walk.

I’ll be seeing you soon with more things to say about a new cinepoem, an upcoming film festival, and how to upstage the bride without being too obvious about it.

Until then, Internet, sleep well and don’t forget to floss.

-Lo, who only flosses because her dentist is really good at laying down the guilt.

Featured

sacredgrounds1
Mood: Typical
Drinking: Usual

All my fellow San Franciscans (and Bay Area people, too) can consider themselves cordially invited to the poetry reading at the Sacred Grounds Cafe next Wednesday, September 5th.

The mic opens to all who come with poetry in hand at 7:30. I’m the featured reader on the 5th, so I’ll be taking the floor between 8 and 8:30. I’ll be reading from the new book, the old book, and perhaps a few hot and fresh lines, as well.

It’s a small space with good food, so get there early, get yourself some eats, and pay your respects to the open mic crowd.

See you there!

-Lo, who will not be playing, singing, reciting, or involved in any way with Free Bird.

Girls Will Be…

mannekinMood: Distracted
Drinking: Diet Coke

They say what goes around comes around, and sometimes it’s true. Though not as often as you’d hope.

The evildoers don’t always get their comeuppance.
The naysayers are not always proven wrong.
The good guys don’t always get the credit or even the white hat.

But sometimes, sometimes it all works out.

Lately, the goings and comings around here have been a surprisingly pleasant resurgence of people from the past.

Most of it started on myspace, which is not, as the talking heads would have you believe, just a “teen website”. There are a whole heckuvalot of us non-teens on there, mostly because we’ve discovered that if you do enough clicking around, you’ll run into some long-time-no-see faces.

Sometimes during the expected lifetime milestones (like high school graduation), you look around at all those familiar faces and think to yourself, “Weird. I may never see these people again.” In my case, that thought was quickly followed by a “Thank God!”

But many times the milestone rolls by unnoticed and you transition from this thing to the next without taking notice of the names and faces that will soon be forgotten or, at the very least, grow a bit musty there in the back corner of your mind.

Then years later, when a name resurfaces unexpectedly in your myspace inbox, the recognition kicks in, with a whole host of unbidden memories of the time when that person was just another fixture in your daily routine.

One of the familiar faces that has recently reappeared in my virtual world belongs to AP, a girl I knew just in passing for about 4 years or so in my mid-twenties.

And here’s where the part about girls being (catty, competitive, backstabby) girls comes in…

AP and I could never honestly have called ourselves friends back when. True, we shared mutual friends and often collided at parties, but usually we shook it off and kept on walking. Much of it was my fault.

You see, one of the people I chose to let my little light revolve around during that time was Queen of the Misfit Social Club, and fought tooth and sparkly silver nail to keep her crown. She never wanted anyone to shine brighter or longer than she did.

As her unspoken understudy, it was my job not only to keep my own wattage on the dim side, but also to fend off the advances (real and imagined) of other “unworthy” luminaries.

So I’m afraid that AP got the brush-off, more than once. I didn’t give it much thought at the time. There was so much else going on and, let’s be honest, most of us don’t have the brain-space to think about anyone but our own sorry selves in our twenties, during that mad rush to figure out who we are, with accompanying whys and wherefores.

Fortunately, AP and I have gotten another chance to collide here on the far side of 29. It’s going much better this time around.

We’ve exchanged a very long and ever-growing string of emails, getting reacquainted and reconfiguring our perceptions of each other. And for the first time, we’re actually building a friendship.

I said to her recently, “I don’t think you and I would have ever had this conversation in our 20s. But here we are now, and it’s a lovely thing.”

So here’s to girls being kind to each other, to girls being unthreatened by another’s brightness. To girls just being (supportive, understanding, tag-tucking-in) girls. Woman power and all that.

It’s a lovely thing, indeed.

-Lo, who relinquishes her misanthropy on a case-by-case basis.

An Appointment with the Muse

mcwc_afterMood: Pensive
Drinking: Vitamin Water

A few days of writing exercises will do wonders for your word bank.

I’ve just returned from a writing conference and my notebook (and my poor squishy brain) are brimming with half-finished but promising starts and a fine numbered list of new ideas. (One of which is a poem about LeeLoo and her crispy tongue.)

I was surprised to find that I was one of the youngest writing conference attendees (except for a ragtag band of local high school overachievers). I confess I thought I’d be mingling with a few less bluehairs and a few more writers of my own age bracket.

But GenX was nowhere to be found. And the retired folks were very nice. So it wasn’t a big deal. Just kind of weird.

My instructors were both new to me — Albert Garcia (whose latest book, Skunk Talk, is reviewed here) and Maya Khosla.

Although both of their books are published by Bear Star Press, I found both their teaching styles and their poetry to be quite different from each other.

Maya is a biologist who has lived all over the world, and her writing very much reflects her work (as in my favorite poem of hers, “Lake Trout in a Gill Net” — you can find it in her book Keel Bone).

Albert is a university administrator (and former professor), whose beautiful, spare writing details his love of ordinary things, places, moments, people. (I really love his poem “August Morning,” which is reprinted in this review).

I collected a lot of great ideas and encouragment from both poets, and if I follow through on all the writing threads I started at this conference (which I intend to), my pen and I will stay very busy for the rest of the year, at least.

And now for the re-entry into the neverending rush of everyday living… back to work, to business, to jury duty (insert annoyed face), to reality.

-Lo, who wonders when her own hair will turn blue.

The Writing Muscle

muscles
Mood: Procrastinating
Drinking: Tooth-rottingly sweet tea

Soon and very soon, I’m off to a conference for poets and writers.

I’m not sure what to expect. Writers often tend to be quite competitive, myself included. You always want to be the best in the room. Trouble is, “The Best” is so very subjective.

I tend to think that poets like Nicole Blackman are far better than your average stuffed poet laureate. But that’s me.

I went to a poetry reading the other night and watched a woman in green bob her head emphatically up and down like some sort of epileptic chicken at nearly everything the featured reader said. Clearly, she thought his overwrought, pedantic, self-important stanzas were the cat’s meow.

I, on the other hand, thought he was in rather desperate need of an editor. And an enema. (Rawr!)

So you see, different strokes…

Perhaps I’ll meet fellow writers who are lovely and kind, fellow poets who turn fine phrases without rancor. (I know they exist — I met one named Gary just the other night.)

But really, I’ll just be happy to exercise my own writing muscles, to learn new things about words and craft and self. There’s always room to learn and grow. No matter who you think you are.

And as added impetus for the wordy weekend ahead, a friend sent me this poem in an email titled, “Why I love and worship Auden.” It’s an amazing piece of work, not only for its beauty but also for its resounding truth…

Musee des Beaux Arts
by W.H. Auden
(1940)
About suffering they were never wrong,
the Old Masters; how well, they understood
its human position; how it takes place
while someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
for the miraculous birth, there always must be
children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
on a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
that even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
but for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
as it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

-Lo, once more into the breach.

Selling Secrets

sellingsecretsMood: Well Done
Drinking: The Tea with the Ice

The fearless Miss Kathy and I hit the pavement today to hawk our wares. All in all, I’d say the hawking went quite well.

Here are a few bookstores that now stock The Secrets of Falling on their shelves:

In San Francisco…
City Lights (the one & only)
on Columbus in North Beach
Bird & Beckett Books and Records
on Diamond St. in Glen Park
Phoenix Books
on 24th Street in Noe Valley
Dog Eared Books
on Valencia in the Mission
Green Apple Books
on Clement in the Richmond

In Santa Cruz…
Logos Book and Records on Pacific Ave.

In Chicago…
Quimby’s in Wicker Park

In Alabama…
Red Jasper Spa/Salon in Decatur

In Belfast…
(the one in Northern Ireland)
No Alibis on Botanic Ave.
•Bookfinders on University Road

More bookstores will be added to the list soon, and of course, you can always get Secrets online.

But we love our local, independent bookstores (and salons!) and we hope you’ll show them a lot of love, too.

If you stop by one of these stores and can’t find Secrets on the shelves, that means they sold out (yay!), so please request a copy so they’ll give us a call and order a few more.

-Lo, who just wants a small space on your shelf.

Love Thy Neighbor

redblue
Mood: Wicked
Drinking: Liquid

If I love you
chances are
you’ll soon be experiencing
a violent act of God.

A falling maple tree will crush your red Camaro.
Basketball-sized hail will obliterate your new roof.
Half a hill will cannonball right down into your swimming pool.
An unexpected tornado will (Poof!) disapparate your Shih Tzu.

If I love you
Lady Luck
will certainly
take her leave.

Expect to start by breaking a nail at least once a day.
Soon your lover will take back his grandmother’s ring.
Your boss will decide you’re all wrong for your job and
your creditors will hire the ATF (Blam!) to break down your front door.

If I love you
honey, it’s sad
but true – the End is near
and it’s coming for you.

It’s all over now but the crying.
The only question left for you is: Silver urn? Or casket?
Better pick one real quick and tease your blonde hair real high.
It’s the last thing you’ll get to do (Wail!) before you die, die, die!

But wait…
If I hate you
it might all
be ok.

It’s the least I can do.
Set aside the Golden Rule and
start practicing the philanthropy
of misanthropy – just for you!

So if someday you wonder why
I don’t like you, well,
I hope now you’ve understood…

It’s really all for your own good.

-Lo, who’s feeling the need for a little black humor today.

At the Open Mic

tube
Mood: Cranky
Drinking: Nothing helpful

Dear Fellow Poet-Person,

I hate the way you read poetry.

I’ve tried, really, I have, to be patient, to hear things from your point of view, to get in your zone, to say something nice. It’s not going to happen.

I unreservedly detest, I violently dislike, I utterly despise the way you read poetry.

You sound like a Valley Girl in the young Nicolas Cage era (pre-hair transplant and porcelain veneers), leaving ends of phrases just dangling in mid-air. Like, you know? You draw out the ends of words with fish hooks and wrecking cables. The words don’t want to go there! Please don’t make them.

I don’t want to hear about the pluuuuuuuuuuuuuuums your lover eats or those leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewd zucchinis. A purple plum? Ok. A lewd zucchini? I’ll take it.

But all those extra vowels just underline your mediocrity. Your schtick gets in the way of your words. I can’t hear what you’re really saying.

It doesn’t have to be like this. If you ever took a moment to listen to yourself, to actually hear what you sound like, without all the artifice, you might be surprised. You might like it.

But please, stop borrowing this overdone, overly dramatic Poetry Voice. Stop copying a device that got old before its time. (Just because it worked for them doesn’t mean it works for you!) Stop lazing around in a pool of your own supposed genius. Just stop.

You don’t need a gimmick. You just need your own voice.

I went to the Open Mic for my 3 minutes of amplification, true. I don’t mind the applause. But I was hoping to find someone else there. Someone original. Someone inspirational. Someone electrifying.

Instead I found 2 poor facsimiles of the Beatnik generation, 3 self-indulgent slackers, and 6 rhymers with no reason.

So I dragged myself home deflated and disgruntled. I’ve stewed over it for a few days, and have come up with nothing better than this sad rant.

I love you, San Francisco, but I miss The Green Mill more than ever. I miss the irreverence. I miss the feminist hiss. I miss the complete lack of politically correct concern.

Where’s the Marc Smith (So What!) of San Francisco? Where’s the discriminating audience?

Where are the good words hiding?

-Lo, who certainly doesn’t claim to be the best, but knows a thing or two about not being the worst.

You Get Used to the Blood

ab_shootMood: Yay
Drinking: Tea

At long last, our bloodiest cinépoem ever is ready to make its debut.

I give you Abattoir.

We had a lot of fun shooting this one. We all got very dirty. Or bloody, rather. But it was yummy chocolate blood (made with cocoa), so nobody really minded.

It’s been in the editing suite for quite awhile… Although the shoot took place in April when our friend Eric (who you’ll soon come to know as “The Butcher”) was in town for a visit, the editing had to wait for Secrets to come off the press, and then the book release party, and then a little trip to Scotland and Ireland, and now, finally, our 15th(!) cinépoem is ready for viewing.

Big thanks, as always, to the lovely Michelle, my cinepoem creative partner, for not only shooting and editing, but also for getting in front of the camera this time.

Thanks, also, to my friends Kimberley, Michael, Roy, and Rob, for getting down and dirty. Thanks to Chris for not minding all the blood on his ceiling and to Bruce for second camera action and for helping to determine exactly which fake blood recipe was the best one to use.

And a huge round of applause to the wonderful Eric, who wields a very mean-looking cleaver, but is the sweetest guy around, really. (And ladies, he’s single!)

I know we’ve gotten you all used to angel wings and Parisian streets with our last few cinepoems, but this one is all about the testosterone. And the blood.

Enjoy.

-Lo, who rather obviously doesn’t know how to smoke. Just watch. You’ll see.

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