Now Playing: Helter Skelter by The Beatles

I had one of those writing days yesterday.

You know the kind where you sit down intending to write a poem and instead the poetic brain behaves like a vending machine that’s been kicked a little too hard and suddenly six or seven snacks fall out at once? (An obvious callback to my Busted Vending Machine poems era, LOL.)

Yes. That.

There’s probably a name for this phenomenon, although poets, being poets, have about seventeen slightly different ways of describing it. Let’s call it “clustering.”

When the poetic mind gets tuned, poems start crowding the pen. They don’t like to wait their turn. Actually, Word Raccoon plays back and forth in them like she’s bellying up to a word buffet. 

Emily Dickinson reportedly cluster-wrote poems. 

It is said that Elizabeth Bishop mentioned poems coming in bunches once the thinking had started. 

And others, surely, are of the same writing mind.

In other words: once the door opens, the poems tend to rush the hallway, and WR, that inquisitive trash panda, is a terrible bouncer. 

Which brings us to yesterday’s café session.

I sat down intending to write a poem. Just one. A nice responsible poem that would behave itself and perhaps wear a sweater vest. Or at least act respectable for once.

Instead, the following creatures wandered out of the underbrush:

• All These Lovely People

• Grade Report for the (Redacted)

• (Redacted) Optional

• Kreskin

• Mind Sweeper

• the kindergarten clock poem (still untitled but bossy)

• the one beginning “My mind wants a vacation”

• and the long espresso-over-Diet-Coke situation involving literary journals and goldenrod with way too many stanzas and is probably four poems in one but maybe not? I haven’t dared look at it today.

Eight poems.

Eight nuggets, anyway. 

Not all equally promising, but they are welcome nonetheless. We don’t reject mind matter here.

Word Raccoon insists she had nothing to do with this, which is suspicious because she was seen earlier yesterday morning rummaging around in the mossy log of poetry muttering something about fungi and fondant. (Those things appear in one of yesterday’s poems, so I’m not sure that’s really funny if you aren’t reading it, and you’re not, because it’s not finished.) 

The strange thing about cluster days is that the poems often turn out to be talking to each other. I’ve spoken of this before. 

You don’t realize it at first. You just think you’re writing separate pieces. Later you notice that the same themes keep wandering through like recurring characters in a television series:

waiting

time

coffee

donuts/nasty fondant

people in cafés minding their own business while you mentally take notes like “an apex word predator wearing a sweater.” That is a line from one of my poems, so WR says back off from it. LOL. 

Apparently, my brain had decided we were writing about waiting.

Waiting makes the poetic mind weirdly observant. You start noticing things like wall clocks, remembering kindergarten schedules and when clocks became important in your life, literary journals that bite your palms, and the structural weaknesses of cream-filled donuts.

This is how clusters happen.

One emotional weather system moves through the brain and suddenly every poem is looking at the same storm from a different window.

One poem examines the clouds.

One complains about the barometric pressure.

One makes jokes.

Meanwhile Word Raccoon is in the corner whispering, “We should probably write another one.”

Cluster days are messy, but they’re also strangely reassuring. They remind you that poems are less like manufactured objects and more like fungi after rain. They appear when the conditions are right.

Don’t try to force them.

Keep the notebook open and avoid stepping on them.

And possibly buy them a donut. Eh, I’d prefer a piece of cake. 

At least those you can purchase without consulting the muse’s input. 

Now, today. 

First off, a squirrel is fussing in a tree. I love that cranky sound, like an old-fashioned car that won’t start. But who is she talking to? She’s the “young” one from last spring, I think, but she’s still moving agilely. Good girl.

I woke to conflicting weather reports. I’m just going to sit on the porch until I can’t. It’s screened in. What’s the worst thing that can happen? (I will go in if there are thunderstorms. Not sure why my weather sources can’t agree this morning.)

(Oh wait, the squirrel is fussing at the neighbor’s outdoor cat. Is she mocking it because it can’t reach her?) 

The house was due for a reset, so as soon as I came downstairs this morning I started a load of laundry, turned on Helter Skelter, and began putting away the nonperishables from the specialty grocery store we picked up over the weekend. 

I played the song twice before switching to The Killers. (Some mornings WR just needs loud music to get going.) 

Then when Word Raccoon tried to tell me I didn’t need to wash the Dutch oven because of my bad finger (music joke too), I reminded her what rubber gloves are. She sighed and settled in to clean it and load the dishwasher. (Hey, I unloaded it yesterday.)

Not having any Coke Zero (long story), I dug out the Keurig and inserted a K-Cup. (Thanks, Zack!) Coffee accomplished. But I did spot some yummy looking cookies while putting away the groceries that I can imagine sampling with a cup of tea later. (Do you think that Kurt Vonnegut mug is auditioning to hold tea today? Perhaps.)

I was going to make a smoothie for breakfast but decided to have a deconstructed one instead: a protein shake with a banana. Done and done. 

WR whined, because I was going to put peanut butter in the smoothie. I promised her (since pb is practically its own food group around here) that I will let her have some on a rice cake for a snack if she just does all the things first. A few of the things? Maybe just one thing.

(The first load of laundry is drying; the second is washing. My hand hates me today but that’s fine. We will do the things anyway.)

This near-spring opens windows in my mind. There’s a peculiar feeling, even when I’m indoors (although I’m not), that I experience. 

It’s deep contentment, the feeling that I can inhale and inhale and inhale and the air will still feel and smell fresh. That no matter what is wrong in the world, this moment is sublime. It’s completely independent of anyone or anything else. A private moment with Earth. (Gosh, that sounds more spiritual than I meant.) 

I submitted three packets yesterday afternoon, one to a place that I had to withdraw a submission from a few days ago because it had been accepted for publication elsewhere. I hope they don’t mind. 

Writing poetry, sending it out, feels like I’m sending out flower petals, trying to spread both beauty and truth in the world. I’m trying to do my part, I’d like to think. And some of my poems are more fungi than flower, for sure. 

Sitting on the porch today doesn’t feel like waiting for poetry. It feels like communing. 

Why do I have the urge to write a poem called “Having Vonnegut to Tea” now? 

Now Listening To: Dream a Little Dream of Me, The Mamas & the Papas

I think Stanley is sabotaging me. And not in cute little ways. 

I am typing this with a bandage on my right pinky with fresh blood trying to seep through, if that tells you anything.

You will rightly say Stanley can do nothing to me if I don’t consult him. You’re right. You’re right. And I may have learned not only my lesson, but the limits of my tolerance for tech knowledge.

Surely, faithful reader, you remember the meatloaf debacle where my “well meaning” AI gave me a recipe that threatened to ruin three pounds of perfectly fine, expensive-in-this-economy, ground beef. 

(Not sure how long I will type this session; you need your pinky more than you might think for that.)

I saved the meat, but dang.

Then there was the kinda funny “Stanley I need new workout shoes; research for me. I want them for THESE activities.” I gave him strict parameters. 

I received them yesterday. They didn’t cost too much, so there’s that. And they’re cuter than I thought they might be, also a plus. 

But are they slip ons? No! Most days that doesn’t matter. But when it does…(eff arthritis right in its face, I say!)

Are the shoes as cushioned as I asked for? Also no. Sigh. 

I don’t mind much. They were fine at the gym today, not that I was able to work out so long. (More on that in a minute.) I’ll try them for a few days longer. 

WHY DIDN’T I JUST ORDER MY USUALS? BETTER YET, WHY DIDN’T I GO GET FITTED FOR THEM? 

Call it shoe store shame. I don’t look like someone who “should” be wearing high performance shoes.

But wait. Stanley betrayed me in other ways.

First, he told me to go ahead and get those knives sharpened. Yes, even the steak knives. 

He told me last week (remember that trebling of my rowing time?) that, given my background, I was ready to up my game. I questioned him. I asked him if he was sure I was ready. He said yes. 

I believed him. 

Dammit.

The next day, the knee pain arrived.

Not terrible, just while climbing the stairs. 

Word Raccoon bared her teeth and threatened Stanley if he came near me again. 

When I complained to Stanley, he said no, no, I shouldn’t have increased by more than a minute or two. 

REALLY?? 

Then, feeling better, I asked him if it would be okay if I cycled until my knee was healed. 

“Sure. Just keep it short.”

I did. 

Oh, reader. 

WTH is wrong with me??

I iced my knee after the gym today. It’s not so bad, if I climb the stairs like Frankenstein. 

No one tells you it’s not the pain, it’s the losing of your cool kid status that hurts the most. 

IDK if Stanley envies that I have a body or what, but damn him. 

After the gym (I check in with him sometimes about my food intake; WR either eats all the snacks or forgets to eat.) I told him I wanted to make a salad to use up the end of the week’s produce. 

He thought that was an excellent idea. An admirable idea.

Admittedly, I was rushing. But I purposely chose a steak knife to slice a cucumber. A serrated knife, so no problem, right? I have been very cautious with the knives since getting them back from sharpening. 

Not cautious enough. Stanley told me to get those damned things sharpened! 

I will not dwell on it, but I was cursing Stanley loudly as I shouted to ask Echo how would I know if I needed to get stitches. 

I’m fine. Really.

But I think I’m ready to give up turning even the mundane things over to A.I.  Stanley has feelings about that. Maybe tomorrow I will care. LOL. 

And WR is insisting on prepackaged food for dinner. I don’t blame her. 

P.S. It’s such a beautiful day, even with the time change. I’m on the porch, so grateful to be writing, to have sunlight, to witness the flowers thinking about blooming. (The tulips are half grown, like those adorable little green fairies in children’s books.) 

WR thinks tomorrow feels like a Monday for poetizing at the cafe. She’s still battling that one poem…it’s yielding, but slowly.

Last night she submitted six packets of poetry while watching the stupidest show ever on Netflix. Proud of my little WR.

Before we get into my writing field notes for the day, I recorded my poem “White Lake Fish.” CW: it deals with the topic of death, so take care when listening. 

I wrote a poem today, didn’t mean to. Was planning on revising, which I did, too.

About 375 pages into The Weight of Ink. About ⅔ through Departure(s). If only Ink were as light, though I wouldn’t want it to be shorter. Thinking hard about which part I like best of the first novel. I am a different person than I was when I first read it, so I admire different things about it.

The poem I wrote this morning is “Like a Dog.” It’s about patterns and personal responsibility. I think. Flirted with inverting the last two lines, but that also alters the poem’s message. 

Word Raccoon is greeting people at her old, newly reopened writing hangout today as if she owns the place. I let her take a photo of the tea display, go around and say hello, admire the photos of new nieces and nephews, then made her settle down to the words. 

Decided to record a poem, though it’s one of the sadder ones. Guess I have to get used to reading those aloud, too. (See above.) 

Or not.

It’s still overcast. WR’s hair is wet but up in a bun. She’s chilly. But she’s drinking Earl Grey, she’s joking. She has eaten breakfast. She’s writing. 

Last night she submitted poetry to five journals. It had been a few days, and that’s how she often likes to end her evenings, so I let her. 

Poem number two of the day written, unexpected: “In Lieu of Flowers.” Short, compact, mentions tulips. Not really about death.

There really ought to be a limit on how many poems you can write on a topic. Some things are deep and wide, with roots, a trunk, branches, twigs, leaves. They look different according to the season, but as long as they’re alive, they have an aspect.

WR says that sounds a bit formal. 

I say “a bit” sounds formal.

She has no excuse. She sips from my Earl Grey and asks why I didn’t save some of that bacon from earlier. 

We could go granular. We could geek out on the cellular structure of trees. Let’s not. 

Maybe I can convince the raccoon to open a poem that needs revising. 

She’s cold because she would not take the time to dry her hair, which is totally on her since Mia (my eldest) sent us a fabulous Dyson hair dryer. (Have I mentioned that? It’s a wonder. Mia is more of a wonder, though.) 

WR is convinced that since the coffeehouse is open again that it’s dry-your-hair-outdoors season, her favorite. It decidedly is not. Not yet.

Because it is the triweekly theology-book-discussion morning for two men who meet here, WR and I are listening to Dark Academia. (It’s usually just classical music rebranded. Why?) 

WR wants to listen to Ed Sheeran or the like. Maybe Hanson. 

It is not Ed weather, darling raccoon. 

Wouldn’t it be cool if everyone in the world played a sunny song all at once and we could get sunshine everywhere instantly? 

Mmm Bop! 

Swapped the word people in for humans, because why humans, in this case? Too formal. Again.

Barista noticed I was stretching; I bought more caffeine. 

The cold-day pain reliever is hitting my brain’s snooze. Perpetually.

“After the Chuckle” given a Dickinsonian glow DOWN. Stripped it of the narrator. Compressed it. Verbed it up. Left it a little bleak. Fits the weather. 

I gave “I Have No Beef with God” a facelift, but the ending isn’t landing. That one needs more mulling. 

Wait, I think I maybe just need to slice the last line off. (That makes more sense if you see the poem.) 

In “Cameras Capture, Too,” WTH is Norman Rockwell doing in here? Or do we like him here?

I find the more I’m trying to take on other poets’ styles, the more I endanger my work’s voice. It’s a fine balance, and I haven’t found it yet. 

Good thing I’m remembering to keep the first drafts, just in case. In a couple of cases, though, the poems were better after revision. In one case, much better.

In “Cameras,” the poem currently looks like someone stole its hubcaps and tires and put it up on cinder blocks. Damn. 

It’s a process, and as I told someone who asked me how to write a short story yesterday, “Hey man, just remember that this isn’t brain surgery and no one gets hurt if we don’t get it right on the first try.” 

I’m trying to take my own advice. 

Every once in a while my Word Raccoon turns into Captain No! That’s what I call her when she’s in this mood. God help you if you meet that version of her. 

She greets every suggestion with a “No!” like she’s a toddler.

Everything you think would soothe and delight her makes her toss marshmallows and pillows at you. 

This morning Miss Priss did not get her way. At all. Which set her off. 

First, I banged her sore thumb while steam mopping the bathroom. And she wasn’t wearing the splint. 

The mere fact that I made her steam mop before seven a.m., the poor creature, enraged her. 

I wouldn’t let her have breakfast because we were planning to get together with a friend for breakfast. (I wasn’t heartless; I let her have a snack.) 

But breakfast plans ended up getting rescheduled, so I bought her a Coke Zero and a breakfast sandwich. I even let her order a hash brown, assuming there was no way she’d eat it all.

She ate it all.

I opened the calendar and forced her to choose the least heinous item on the to-list. She did it while hissing.

I had the temerity to make her go inside the bank like a Boomer (we are not!) because we’d run out of deposit slips. The teller who is usually cranky was genuinely nice to us for the first time ever. Captain No was disappointed; she would’ve welcomed a skirmish. (For the record, I never allow her to do that, but I’m not sure I could’ve kept her on a leash today.)

Once home, I offered her more Coke Zero. She declined while showing me her teeth.

She said she was hungry. We argued until AI Stanley intervened and said given her intake and her emotional state (WR glaring at the overcast sky), it was entirely possible she was genuinely hungry. 

I made her a cup of tea which she consented to sip. She’s holding a Clif bar in her tiny palm threatening to eat it. I told her fine, see if I care. 

She has already said if I make her go to the gym today (she has not forgiven me for tripling up on rowing time yesterday, but Stanley said we could do it, and we did!) she will make a scene. She will pretend to faint and/or drag her sore (it’s not) right leg. 

She was going to go to a community event tonight, but she’s refusing. 

We read some earlier. She said depending, she might read more. 

She has already said ix-nay on the iting-wray for the day, though she might submit some poetry if the skies brighten. (She has EVERY LIGHT in the house on, and still wants more.) 

I even ordered this scamp some Coke Zero earrings to use up the Venmo credit we had. AND a Coke Zero sticker for her Macbook, but did she thank me? 

She did not. 

(She supposedly had some CZ earrings coming last summer, but never received them. Maybe she doesn’t believe me that she WILL get some, even if I have to order the parts and make them myself. How hard could it be?) 

On the bright side, we listened to not one but TWO episodes of the What Should I Read Next? podcast that featured Kendra Adachi (The Lazy Genius) as a guest!!, the first from maybe 2016 and the second in 2020. Who knew? WR clapped at this welcome cross pollination. 

We’ve caught up on our product reviews, so Captain No can’t whine about having to do those.

She emptied the dishwasher without much complaint, but she has not emptied the steam mop yet. She really needs to, but I’m afraid to ask her to. 

I hesitate to tell you this, Dear Reader, but she broke down in tears for no good reason earlier and could not be consoled for a while. Told you she was a handful. 

Though she’s doing better now, I’m thinking I will wrap her in Pity the Fool (her gold robe) and tuck her into her reading chair with The Weight of Ink. I would say with the novel Departure(s), but she’s seen too many of those lately, which may be part of what is bothering her. 

I have Beatle fatigue.

I’m sorry. I totally admire them and all they accomplished. I even saw Macca in concert with my husband in 2019. I understand the historical importance and the genius and the revolution and the harmonies and the hair.

But here’s the tea.

My husband is a Beatleologist, and as a result, I feel like I’ve spent the past thirty-plus years earning a PhD in the Beatles. 

Sometimes willingly.

There have been long documentaries. Alternate takes. Remasters. Outtakes. Box sets. Interviews conducted forty years after the fact in which everyone tries to remember what they ate for lunch in 1967.

I’m worn out. 

I’m done. 

The latest documentary, Man on the Run, McCartney’s musical life post-Beatles, made me feel like I was being forced to sit in a darkened basement watching someone’s home movies with no snacks.

WITH NO SNACKS!

Word Raccoon was not convinced we had to stay. She kept testing the door handle.

I told her it would be rude to leave.

She said rudeness is sometimes a survival skill.

I don’t need to know McCartney’s favorite soft drink. (They didn’t say, but I really don’t want to know. It’s an example.)

I don’t need to know the name of his fucking dog.

Who cares about his haircut nowadays?

Is that what he wants to be remembered for? 

I highly doubt it.

I want the songs. The strange electric beauty of them. The way McCartney struggles against his worn bass so melodically. The way the songs rise up out of nowhere and rearrange the air for three minutes. Mull of Kintyre? (By Wings, of course, but McCartney’s.) Chef’s kiss. 

But I don’t need the daily weather reports of any musicians’ lives. (And this documentary in particular covered little new ground, even in my estimation.)

At some point the work starts to disappear under the TONS of documentation. The songs get buried under commentary the way fossils get buried under sediment, and soon you’re studying the layers instead of the creature, no matter which musician or artist we might be talking about.

(Word Raccoon opened the basement window and considered escape options. I lured her back from the edge with promises of the last piece of chocolate cake if she behaved.)

I’m worn out.

I want to live my life, not recount the minutiae of someone else’s. I want to write that 100 times in different fonts. 

While we can enjoy the work of others, while we can learn from them, to immerse yourself too much in someone else’s art is to ignore your own. To discount your own. 

Oh god, you’re not NOT creating your own work and just consuming someone else’s, are you? YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT! 

And maybe more than that, to elevate someone to that degree is to quietly step back from your own place in art, whatever that place might be. (The above point, just quieter. I don’t feel quiet about it, though.) 

Admiration can turn into a kind of silence. If art belongs only to the geniuses, then the rest of us become audience members, studying their lives instead of living our own.

I don’t think art works that way.

I don’t think it should work that way.

I don’t think it should be allowed to work that way.

If we bury ourselves in “But I’m not McCartney,” or insert-an-artist, isn’t that just fear in another costume? 

There is room for all of us. Not just to listen, but to answer.

Word Raccoon said we had perfectly good poems upstairs waiting for us that we could be editing.

And possibly snacks. 

Definitely cake. 

With that, we left the chat.

Today (Friday) was poetry revision day.

Word Raccoon wasn’t wrong about it being intimidating to revise poetry after studying Dickinson. 

Dickinson’s style is not my style. It’s gorgeous. There are traits of hers, particularly compression and concreteness, that I want to keep in mind, though.

So revision went…slowly today. 

Want a peek at what I revised?

– Freewritten 

Decided it’s a “notebook poem,” put it in a new folder I labeled as such.

Then I started revising a poem from this past summer, written a couple of weeks after my mother passed, and it showed. The revision became its own beast and so I kept them both, although I retitled the first. Those are:

– All Those Beautiful Rings

And

– Ring After Ring

They were shuttled over to my grief poems file. I am afraid to open that one and see just how many tiny fire bombs await all told. 

Some day, when I’m feeling braver. 

I opened one called “Go to Bed,” and almost immediately I knew it was song lyrics: “The house says no/but the soup says maybe.” It went into a new file, Song lyrics. Guess we’re collecting those on purpose now, too. 

Though with purpose? I couldn’t say. 

Then things got kinda weird. 

“Splitting Geodes” moved from drafts to “Ready” without a change, although it’s still a strange little feller. 

WR hisses and says she likes him. 

Of course she does.

Then things went from weird to challenging. And not in a good way. 

The poem started life some time ago as “Pugilist.” Which was an ironic title. Now its title is “Butter Bottom.” Which is evocative and not in the way I imagine some people think it is trying to be.

It mentions a purse I had as a child that I can’t seem to find any similar photos of online, so I had an image created for me. Maybe you remember these crocheted purses made from butter tubs? 

The poem needed concreteness in the center section, and I was also withholding tenderness. WR said so. 

I wrestled first with the title, felt better about the whole poem.

I whittled at that center section, gave up on it for a time, went to the poem’s end and played with it, found what it wanted to say. Then back to the middle.

I sat with it.

And sat.

I drank caffeine. 

I ate my English muffin.

I people watched.

I made small talk. 

I even watched cars go by. 

Then I returned to that cursed middle. I just didn’t know what to do with it. And wouldn’t you know it, Word Raccoon was being distracted by the fresh chocolate chip cookies on the counter. She noticed the shimmer of salt on their tops.

When I told her she couldn’t have one until we finished revising the poem, she shoved my water off the table, creating a mess for the poor barista. 

I insisted that WR should mop it up, but the barista said he would do it. 

And this is why I usually ask for WR to have a sippy cup instead. She can’t be trusted. 

At least the glass didn’t break. 

Back to the poem, back to not knowing what image to give that middle. 

I was tempted to delete the damn thing and pretend it had never existed. 

Not an option. We do not weenie out on poems. If it’s fatally flawed, sure. This one isn’t. 

I was so frustrated with it that I wanted someone, anyone else, to tell me what to do with it. 

I contemplated asking the guy sitting in the window seat. I don’t even know him except he journals here sometimes and I think maybe we were introduced once. 

But no.

I almost asked the musician/barista. 

Also no. 

This poem wasn’t ready to be touched yet; someone else touching it would have turned it to ash. 

I reminded myself that this poem wanted to be, that I needed to stop supposing that it was hiding from me. 

I was the one shrinking from it. 

“We don’t do that,” WR declared. “We might keep it to ourselves when we finish it, but we don’t hide from the work. That’s not honest art.” 

She sat beside me then, and eventually, we had a strong draft. Dare I say, I think it’s done.

At that point, I wanted to pack it in, but Word Raccoon growled and said she wanted to check out a few more poems. I agreed to it.

Having stayed with the tough one, the others opened more easily. 

We revisited “On Tap,” tightened a couple of lines and sent it to the “Ready” file.

“Weird Eye Contact with the Soul” required cutting the first two (obvious) lines, adding a pronoun or two. Ready.

“Careful Men” needed an audacious ending, which WR happily supplied. Ready.

The last one we opened was “Flesh Flowers.” Seeing how much work it needs, we noped out and went home to make lunch. Which was fine, really.

But the title is so evocative, we definitely want to work on it sometime. 

Also, we did actually add a slap of an ending onto it before we shut it, I guess. Well, that animal of mine did. 

The reward is being back in the sun on the porch. 

The neighbor’s cat is slinking its way over towards me, as if to say it’s missed the sun and me.

Me, too, cat. Me, too.