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December
31, 2007
Dear Reader,
Unfortunately, with the holidays and with the traveling to
and fro, I didn't write for this blog any more in December
than I did in November. I promise to be better in January.
Thanks to everyone for your support throughout the past year.
You've all been great!
Have a happy new year!
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
November 13, 2007
Dear Reader,
The response to my last newsletter has been a little overwhelming!
Thanks to everyone for their kind emails.
I had another really fantastic writing day on the 6th of this
month. I wrote three more religious-minded poems. Right now,
I'm calling them "The Necklace," "The Ghost
in My Prayer" and "God Forgive Me." I've been
playing around with forms a little bit more lately, and as
a result, "The Ghost in My Prayer" is a ballad,
and "God Forgive Me" is made up of two quatrains.
Each line of "God Forgive Me" is eight syllables
long. "The Necklace" was loosely formed based on
the style of the poem,"This
Is Just To Say,"
by William
Carlos Williams.
I do love those so-called Imagists!
A couple of years ago, I decided to study another Imagist:
Marianne
Moore.
I did it because I really didn't care for much of her poetry;
I didn't understand her point of view. I decided to read all
of her poems, and then, to read several books on her life
and her poems. In this way, I came to appreciate her work
differently, and to admire her. As most of you probably already
know, she edited Poetry
for several years, and came to be known
as a harsh but excellent editor, deigning to edit poems by
people whom many considered to be above the need of an editor.
She never married. One interesting fact, which I will never
forget, involves an incident that took place while Marianne
was in college. Perhaps you'll be as shocked by it as I was
when I first read about it! You see, apparently there was
this cat that had been running around Marianne's neighborhood.
If I remember correctly, an acquaintance of Marianne's had
caught the cat, and was keeping it, but didn't want it. Marianne
said she would take the cat, which she did. But rather than
keeping the cat as a pet---here's the clincher---she chloroformed,
dissected, and then buried it.
I wrote a poem about Marianne in September of 2005. Here are
the last two stanzas:
You were married to Poetry
like some women
are married to God, truer to It
than to your own flesh---that is my guess,
but
not out of fear, almost Dickinson-esque,
like an abbess,
who made her choice,
who had her call.
Well,
my husband's home again now, so I'm going to leave you to
practice playing some music. I've been playing my bass a lot
lately, working on my blues chops and learning new songs.
Yesterday I learned how to play
Pink
Floyd's
"Money."
There are fifty songs, in all, that I want to learn by the
end of the winter.
Wish me luck!
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
November 1, 2007
Dear Reader,
As we look toward the holiday season, which will come, whether
we're ready for it or not---and the new year, which will come,
too, whether we've done everything we said we would do at
the beginning of the year or not, I can't help but think of
the experiences I had when I first moved to Chicago. I've
come a long way, but oh!---there's so much more that I want
to do.
It
is with the future in mind that I present an essay I wrote
shortly after moving to The Windy City. Whenever I start telling
myself that I've done so little of what I want to do, or when
I start to believe that what I've accomplished is small, this
piece is one of those that I can look back on and say, 'Well,
hey, at least I'm not there anymore!'
As
many of my essays do, this one began as a letter to a friend.
I haven't been able to see it published elsewhere, so I hope
that it will enjoy a little life by being printed on my "dear
reader" page.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Jumping Into---Instead
of Out Of, Life
____________________________
Not too long after I'd moved to Chicago, a man jumped several
stories down onto the pavement outside the high-rise where
I was working as a temp. Fortunately, I didn't see his body,
but I did watch a detective as he picked up a sad brown shoe
from the ground and waved on what I supposed was the last
patrol car to leave the scene.
The ladies in the management office said that it was lucky
he landed on the small patch of grass and rocks rather than
the nearby iron gate; if he'd landed on the gate, we really
would have had a mess on our hands.
When I left for lunch that day, I walked past the spot where
he'd landed. The weather was fantastic-the first autumnal
weather I've witnessed since moving to Chicago, and my walk
was invigorating.
I went to the Flower Flat Café, where I ordered a vegetable
sandwich and glass of water. I love it when restaurants add
a slice of lemon to their ice water without being asked to
do so beforehand. It makes me feel as though even my lowly
glass of ice water deserves to be dressed up! When my lunch
arrived, I was happy to find that Poppy, who works in the
kitchen, had melted provolone cheese on both the bottom and
top slices of bread. It was more than a decent meal.
Still, I left the café a whole 30 minutes before my
lunch hour was up because I wanted to walk around the neighborhood
a little bit before heading back to the office. I thought
about "the jumper," and how funny our judgments
about acts like the final one he perpetrated can be. Was it
a coincidence that I'd just been doing research on suicide
for an article I'd been thinking of writing? One of the studies
I'd run into, "I Bask in Dreams of Suicide: Mental Illness,
Poetry, and Women," by Dr. James Kaufman, fascinated
me more than the others. However frightening it might have
been to admit, I realized that nearly every single paragraph
in the study spoke something of me.
I called my husband, Kirk, on my cell phone after sitting
down on some steps outside the gates of an old apartment building
set behind a large courtyard. I didn't tell him about the
man who'd died that morning; instead, I spoke to him about
the study that had captured my interest, and about how I felt
that reading it had served me. As a poet, and as someone who
continues to deal with her anxiety, depression, mood swings,
phobias, superstitions, or what might otherwise be considered
spells, it had been wonderful to find out more about the legacy,
about the minds of the writers, the women that have gone on
before me, and about how I might be able to keep from letting
myself sink so far into my own head that I can't find any
way out. I told him that I was especially glad to find out
that poets who wrote less in the confessional style seemed
to be able to handle whatever psychological ailments that
derailed them a little better than those who did write poetry
in the confessional way. I'm not saying I'm determined to
take the "I" out of my poems, but it's good to know
that if I'm having a spell of some sort, I might be able to
get back on track by writing material that requires less introspection.
I don't know why I didn't tell Kirk about the man who jumped
until I got home that evening. It's almost as if I forgot
to tell him when I spoke to him on the phone, but I know that
can't be true. I think I was scared to tell him, scared that
he would worry about me for the rest of the day.
The truth is that yes, I have seriously considered suicide
at least twice in my life, but that the last consideration
was more than six years ago. While I still suffer from self-deprecating
feelings and sometimes engage in self destructive behavior,
I believe the worst is behind me.
Whatever poetry may or may not be, it's a helluva lot more
interesting than suicide.
And anyway, killing oneself is out of style, apparently. When
the subject of the man who jumped came up again later yesterday
afternoon, one of the ladies in the management office had
the nerve to say, "Well, shit happens."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Wishing you all of the best as you continue on your own journey,
DR.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October 25, 2007
Dear Reader,
I found a
Carl
Sandburg
quote today that's worth sharing: "I
am an idealist. I believe in everything---I am only looking
for proofs." It made me think of a line in the play,
Mother
Courage and Her Children,
which reads, simply, "I have lost some of my idealism."
What kind of old friend does Idealism become to you later
in life? I hope It remains a friend; I'd hate to have It for
an enemy.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October 17, 2007
Dear
Reader,
I've been trying to keep up the pace, in terms of writing
these new religious poems, but it's been difficult. I don't
always want to go to the places some of the poems I have in
mind want me to go. It's probably good that I've been busy
with my freelance clients, and with courting potential clients.
Yesterday, I had to go to the Sears Tower for a meeting, and
admit that it felt good to wake up in the morning, put on
a pair of black, pin-striped cigarette pants and matching
top, new earrings, and my shiny black boots. I painted my
nails for the first time in months! And it was nice to be
downtown, to be carrying my notebooks and day planner in my
favorite Nine West bag, walking that downtown walk. I'm glad
that I'm not dressing up and going downtown every day like
I was back in June, but I had fun playing the "girl on
the go" again. I also really enjoyed my commute home,
which requires that I take two trains and a bus. (Mr. Crazy
sat next to me on one of the trains. He had a little notebook
full of the names of people he's met. One of his entries included
a girl's name which I couldn't quite read, but started with
an "A." Next to the name, he'd written the words
"cello" and "Canada.")
After I grabbed a bite to eat at the house, I went back out
and dropped off some poster designs at a potential client's
place of business, and ended up meeting another potential
client. He offered to make me some free business cards! I
also met a retired firefighter who told me told me some great
stories. All in all, it wasn't a bad day.
I'm spending most of today at the house. I've already done
a load of dishes and a load of laundry. I'll work on freelance
work from about 1:00 PM to 3:00 or 4:00 PM. I'm going to try
to go to a neighborhood restaurant when they open at 5:00
PM in order to take some pictures in their photo booth. I'm
a little nervous about hopping in a photo booth by myself.
Isn't that silly? But I have this fun idea for the new website
I hope to launch in January, and I need photo booth pictures
in order to make it a reality.
I got a letter from the
Poetry
Society of America
today, announcing the winners of their
chapbook contest. Funny, but
I didn't see my name listed anywhere!
Ho-hum,
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October 10, 2007
Dear Reader,
Recently, Kirk, while working at one of his three jobs, came
across the oddest thing. It was bird, hanging form a telephone
wire by its beak. It was obviously dead, and dead after much
struggle. One of its little feet was still balanced on the
wires, as if it had died trying to pry itself free.
After Kirk told me about the bird, I asked him to take a picture
of it the next day. Here it is:
What
an image! Doesn't it make you want to sing, cry, laugh, scream---something?
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October
5, 2007
Dear Reader,
I finished that fourth poem---the one from yesterday, and
wrote two more today.
It's late, and I'm tired.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October 4, 2007
Dear Reader,
Last night I read an article in
The
New Yorker
about
the artist
Kara
Walker.
Upon learning about her work, I was struck by how brave she
is an artist, and by how her choice to explore her own identity
no matter how uncomfortable it makes other people, is noble.
The article made me think again of the
Jong
book.
One of the book's
reoccurring themes has to do with choosing to write the truth
even when people, including the people closest to you, don't
want you to do it. (I found this a little ironic, considering
that Jong used aliases for certain real life characters mentioned
in the book. I guess telling the truth doesn't mean that you
can't draw a line in the sand somewhere.)
I was thinking about Walker and the Jong book when I stepped
into the shower.
Have you ever heard something that in one way or another,
you know you've heard most of your life, but that finally,
one day, reaches you? Of course I knew that exploring one's
identity---the search for the truth about oneself, and the
ability to do it as an artist could be a powerful thing. I
knew that long before reading the article on Walker. And over
and over again, I've heard writers and other artists say that
it's important not to censor oneself for the sake of one's
family. Yet it wasn't until I was in the shower last night
that I suddenly felt that my attempts to veil things in my
writing for the sake of my family, my very loving and very
religious family, could be holding me back from becoming the
writer---and person, that I want to be.
No, that's not really it. What I really felt was that
I might at last be brave enough to explore my own identity.
It's not that my poetry and other work isn't revealing or
is dishonest; it's not. But I have held back when it comes
to the experiences I've had growing up in a religious household
and about how I have tried to abandon my old religion. I've
held back about how those experiences have shaped me.
It's funny, the things we tell ourselves. For instance, for
years, I've told myself that I've been holding back because
I don't want to hurt my family. Now, I'm beginning to think
that maybe I'm not giving them enough credit. Maybe, if they
couldn't exactly support me in my efforts to explore my old
religious self in my writing, they would at least be more
understanding than I've let myself believe they'd be. And
maybe, just maybe, I've been using them as an excuse not to
uproot this particularly heavy-footed tree of personal pain.
It's not that all of this is just occurring to me. Just as
there are things you can hear and understand all of your life
and never apply to your life, there are things that you can
know intrinsically and never apply to your life. It's just
that last night, I felt suddenly brave enough to take to take
on an old, long-ignored challenge.
I wrote three complete poems after getting out of the shower---all
of them having to do with my childhood religion, and started
a fourth. It was quite something! I don't think I've ever
written more than two complete poems in a day. And last night,
I nearly wrote four in a little over an hour.
In a sense, I feel reborn. I'm eager to do whatever it is
I'm going to do next!
I'm certain that giving myself the freedom to write this stuff
is going to free me. I've been a bit stuck, unable to tackle
the other projects I've had on deck. It's time to put
the veil in the drawer.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October 3, 2007
Dear Reader,
Here is where I stare at the screen and know in my gut that
this is the place---one of the places---that I need to go
in order to believe the fact of life, to acknowledge the view
from my northside window, to remember to smell the scent of
the days going by, to feel the skin of things, and then to
go past the skin, to go inside, and then, to return the favor.
Here is where I can tell someone, anyone---everyone---that
I write so that I can look into my wounds and see them for
what they are, learn how to heal them, and then, to open them
back up in the hopes that one day someone will be helped by
my words like I have been helped by the words of others, and
all of those other mishy-moshy, pishy-poshy-sounding sorts
of things.
So many of the books that have become important to me were
books that I stumbled upon, or that found me instead of the
other way around, if you want to look at it that way.
Midnight
Salvage
by Adrienne
Rich
was certainly one of these. I remember
reading it for the first time in the library at the University
of Texas at Arlington. Lines like, "but I have driven
that road in madness and driving rain / thirty years of love
and pleasure and grief-blind," and "You kept your
senses / about you like that and I keep this vigil for you,"
whispered to me. They told me their secrets, and more. They
whispered, 'These words were written by a real poet. You know
they were written by a real poet because you are a real poet,
too.'
Here is where I can admit that I'm afraid that I will never
be able to write what I want to write and make a living.
When will one of my manuscript's be picked up? When will some
Gepetto-like editor bind together the loose pages of my life
and make my book a real thing, too?
(I guess here is where I whine as well!)
The day I found Midnight Salvage, I left the library
and sat down on a large rock bench in the middle of campus.
I remember laying down and letting my face meet the sun so
that it could make its designs on the insides of my eyelids.
Was I surer of my future, then? Did I hope more?
Sometimes, for no reason at all, the words "I miss you"
repeat in my head like a chorus. Am I missing my old self?
Am I missing the writers who were writing before me, the writers
who are gone?
I don't think I hope less. I think I hope more. But
there they are again, the words: I miss you, I miss you,
I miss you.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
October 1, 2007
Dear Reader,
Yesterday, after visiting some friends in the afternoon, Kirk
and I went out for a late dinner at
The
Waterhouse
to
celebrate our anniversary. Partly to save money and partly
because we've both been so energy-depleted lately, we kept
things low-key. We had a good time.
We've both had a lot on our minds lately. Kirk works three
jobs and is trying to get another as a music teacher at a
local college. I'm trying to get more freelance clients, and
to work on my own stuff. And we're both trying to keep the
kitchen clean, but the dirty dishes never seem to end. I hate
cleaning dishes.
Before we went out yesterday, I managed to send poems out
to 3:AM,
2River
and 1097
Magazine.
I also started a redesign of my website. I want to launch
something in January that includes more of the freelance work
that I do. Hopefully it will be a way to bring in more clients.
I'd like to write more, but that kitchen's starting to really
bother me.
I'm off to the trenches,
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
September 27, 2007
Dear Reader,
My friend,
Ellen,
recently gave me a book to borrow:
Seducing
the Demon
by
Erica
Jong.
Have you read it?
I enjoyed it, and actually teared up twice during the first
50 or so pages, but nevertheless walked away from it on Monday
thinking that the writing wasn't that great. I think I would
have gotten more from the book if I'd read her earlier works.
I did identify strongly with her struggles as a writer, and
particularly, with the struggles she had when it came to writing
things that her family might not want her to write. And I
most certainly identified with her genuine love for poetry.
Speaking of a genuine love for poetry... I'm excited that
The
Green Muse
is coming through on their promise to
make me the featured writer in their November issue. They're
going to print 10 of my poems! I wrote to the editors the
day before yesterday, asking if I could add/remove poems from
the first batch of 10 I'd sent them back in 2006. I think
I've figured out the 10 I'm now going to submit. Here's the
list:
1. Acidalia Planitia
2. I See the Lake for the First Time in Years
3. Mallorca, Two Doors Down From 18-A
4. The Actress in the Film
5. I Would Promise to Immortalize You
6. Wildflowers
7. The Daughters of Danaos
8. In a Whorl of White
9. Zombie
10. A Poet Rides Out
By the way, my reading at the Mercury
Cafe
this past Friday went pretty
well. I hadn't felt much like reading when I got there, but
I think I managed to do a passable job. A few people I knew
were there: the host, Vito,
of course,
CJ
Laity,
who read a terrific rant, Buddha and
Conrad
Lawrence.
Jahlyn came with me. I think she had a good time.
One of my latest fantasies is to put on a reading that resembles
a pop concert---complete with an oversized, hair-blowing fan
and backup dancers. What do you think? Do you think I could
pull it off?
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
September 25, 2007
Dear Reader,
My friend, Jahlyn, flew in from Texas this past Friday and
stayed until yesterday evening. All weekend long, we had a
good time running around town, catching up on each other's
lives, brainstorming about our futures, about what's holding
us back, what's propelling us forward.
The absolute highlight of the long weekend was the
Sinéad
O'Connor
concert we attended on Sunday. The show
was extremely emotional. I knew that I would enjoy it, but
I was still surprised by how heart-filled I became. Sitting
in the CSO
and listening to Sinéad and her
band, I was immediately taken back to the first times I'd
heard some of those albums. I remembered how in high school
I felt so sure that someday I would be and experience the
things and feelings those albums' songs expressed. I was especially
moved by an acapella vocal performance by Sinéad, her
bassist and cellist. What a lovely trio of women! They stood
in front of one microphone, their arms around each other,
and sang the prettiest harmonies...
After the concert, Jahlyn, Kirk and I went to Miller's
Pub
downtown for a late dinner. Dinner was
a little unremarkable, but what happened after dinner---well,
"remarkable" doesn't even begin to express to begin
how I feel about what happened after dinner! What none of
us could have expected, what none of us would have even thought
slightly probable, was that after paying our bill we'd run
right smack into Sinéad herself!
You should have seen Jahlyn. She turned to me with this wide,
shaking mouth, her eyes going from me to Sinéad and
back again: two blue ping-pong balls. I heard Sinéad
tell the host, "We're just looking for somebody."
She sounded even more Irish than she had when speaking to
us from a microphone on stage just a an hour or so earlier.
And she's so tiny... She really can't be much more than five
feet tall.
Outside the restaurant, Jahlyn, Kirk and I paced aimlessly
for several minutes, not knowing what to do or how to react.
We wanted to respect Sinéad's privacy, but somehow,
couldn't make ourselves leave the sidewalk in front of the
restaurant. (I should mention that Jahlyn may very well be
the biggest Sinéad O'Connor fan on the planet.) It
was while we were deciding what to do or what not to do that
I noticed Sinéad's bassist and cellist walk up. Jahlyn
and I decided that we would follow them into the restaurant,
and just see where they were headed---from a distance. By
no means were thinking clearly or behaving...maturely, but
in our defense, we were at least trying to be respectful.
A few moments later, back inside, I rounded a corner and---Wham!---found
myself standing directly to the left of Sinéad, who
was sitting with her band in a booth in the bar. She looked
up at me. I said "Hi." She smiled. Then, as if the
floor beneath us had suddenly caught fire, Jahlyn and I turned
on our heels and flew in the opposite direction. We decided
that we had to leave. We couldn't stay. It was just too much!
We hopped in a cab and ended up meeting some of Jahlyn's other
Chicago friends at a heavy metal club in another part of town.
Man... If you're only as cool as you behave when you see a
famous person you admire, I suspect I'm in trouble.
Bronmin
P.S. - I received an email acceptance from
VOX
on
Sunday morning. They're printing two of my poems in their
upcoming winter issue.
_______________________________________________________________
September 13, 2007
Dear Reader,
What am I doing?
I'm
supposed to be working on my new book, but instead, along
with my regular freelance work, I've been working on a screenplay.
I'm fairly certain that it's terrible at this point, but I
have to admit that it's been nice---refreshing, even---to
work on something that doesn't require my full faculties.
It's not much, the screenplay. Right now, it's about a four-piece
rock band in an unnamed city doing not much else but talking
to one other. It's a soap opera, really.
I'm
writing a soap opera.
I
did work on a couple of poems today, but neither of them have
anything to do with the book I'm supposed to be writing. On
the upside, I guess there's no reason to hurry to write the
new book; no one's published either of my first two.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
September 1, 2007
Dear Reader,
Last week, as I was leaving the dentist's office, it began
to rain. I waited underneath an awning for a while to see
if it would let up, but it soon became apparent that these
rain clouds weren't going anywhere. By the time I got to the
bus stop, I was soaked from head to toe. I was soaked, but
smiling. What else was there to do?
The bus came before too long. Still, what should have been
a fifteen-minute bus ride turned into a forty-minute bus ride,
traffic was so terrible. When the bus finally did reach my
stop, I discovered the source of the slow-down; the lights
at the intersection near my house had gone out. I groaned.
I would have to play Russian Roulette with oncoming traffic
in order to cross the street---no way around it.
A
girl wearing a plastic poncho stood beside me at the curb.
She saw me hesitate when it was our turn to cross, and loudly
said, "You just have to go! You just have to do it! You
hesitate and they'll run you over for sure." We stepped
off the curb and began our hustle-shuffle across the road.
My sandals were squishing beneath me, and once, I nearly slipped
into what could have been a good tumble. The girl and I parted
when we hit the opposite sidewalk, but not before she repeated,
"You just have to go!"
By
the time the next round of thunder rolled, I was sitting on
the couch, towel over my head like a nun's habit, and there
were enough candles lit in the living room to make it look
positively churchlike. I thought to myself, 'How am I supposed
to succeed as a writer when I'm more scared of failure than
I am of this blackout?'
I pulled off my funny hat and went out onto the porch. The
entire street was dark. A rabbit sprinted down the sidewalk
and hid in some nearby bushes. Hours passed. The air in the
house was sticky and gross, but outside, the air was alive.
How
long had it been since I'd been truly quiet? Being that I'm
a writer, you might think that I've had many a quiet moment,
but in reality, even when I'm writing, I'm not exactly quiet---not
the sort of quiet I was as I sat on my porch, looking out
at the rain and wiggy trees, anyway.
I
considered crying, but knew that crying would just be a way
for me to entertain myself for a while. Then the words of
the girl in the poncho came back to me: "You just have
to go! You just have to do it! You hesitate and they'll run
you over for sure." Maybe her words were meant to be
an answer to my question. After all, a sure-fire way to fail
as a writer is to let your fears get the best of you, keep
you from doing the real work. You just have to go. You
just have to do it.
The power didn't come back on in the house until early in
the next morning. Thankfully, I didn't spend the rest of the
night alone. Kirk came home from work, and the two of us went
out to a well-lit, well-powered establishment, where we waited
out the worst of the storm with the other scaredy cats. The
next day, the news was all broken limbs, smashed cars, and
interviews with government officials and city workers in raincoats
and hardhats.
I turned off the TV, sat at my keyboard, and got to work.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
August 30 , 2007
Dear Reader,
In this liberal heart of mine beats a love for the works of
C.S.
Lewis.
I know, I know... I'm not supposed to harbor such a love for
works championed so often by more conservative folks, but
love them, I do. I don't read his books as often as I did
when I was a child---in fact, I only have one or two of his
books on my shelves, and can't remember the last time I actually
picked one of them up (before today), but some of what I felt
upon first discovering this author has stayed with me, remained
impacful.
One
of my favorite C.S. Lewis quotes is from
The
Great Divorce.
I'd underlined the passage years before realizing that many
other people must have underlined it at some point as well,
because it is very famous. It's most often quoted by Christian
groups, but it to me, it initially spoke less of God and more
about what it means to be an artist and human. It reads:
Every
poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is
drawn away from love of the thing he tells, to love
of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot
be interested in God at all but only in what they say
about Him. For it doesn't stop at being interested in
paint, you know. They sink lower---become
interested in their own personalities and then in
nothing but their own reputations.
Each
time I read these words, I am inspired to note that while
some of my days are spent thinking more about submissions,
rejections, acceptances, and what people will think about
my writing, than about what it is I'm writing about, and why
I chose to write about it in the first place, there's a space
inside me that does hold running my feet through soft, wet
summer grass above getting published. Inside me, there is
a world in which a stranger's smile on the El Train means
much more than networking with the right people. I may sometimes
spend too much time deciding whether or not to submit a particular
essay to a radio station or magazine, but in that---dare I
say, "sacred" space between my gut and my head,
I'm acutely aware that making such a decision is not as important
as what drove me sit down and put my fingers to the keyboard
at the start.
How
incredible is it that reading can help to refocus in
this way? How amazing is it that a book, a quote, a verse,
a word, can actually serve our souls?
If
I'm getting too touchy-feely, DR, I apologize. It's just that
I have to think that there's a great hall somewhere between
poetry and ambition in which we can find time to linger, and
linger often. I'll bet it has lots of windows.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
August 20, 2007
Dear Reader,
When I was a little girl, each time I got a new reading book
from school, I'd take it home and tear through it, reading
all of the poems first. Next, I'd read the stories that looked
the most interesting. Finally, I'd read the stories that looked
the least interesting, until the entire book was finished.
Then the cycle would begin again. I'd reread everything. I'd
reread it all, again and again---especially the poems.
These days, I do nearly the
same thing today with
The
New Yorker.
My latest issue contains two poems by
Gerald
Stern
and
Charles
Simic,
respectively. Both are beautiful, and very emotional. Reading
them today, I actually hurt.
Something's missing. I thought
that working from home would give me more time to find it,
but I still feel lost. Last Tuesday night, at my girlfriend's
birthday thing, Terri, the birthday girl, gently pointed out
that I've only been at it for a couple of weeks now; it takes
time to adjust. I know that's true, but I can't help but think
that there's something wrong with feeling so…off.
I can be a touch dramatic.
Terri's right, I'm sure. I should just keep working, work
harder, and wait out my discomfort. I should be more like
a fisherwoman, patient and quiet at the water, hooks dangling
in the deep, than the fish, jumping, diving, and seeking out
every shiny thing. For now, anyway.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
August 9, 2007
Dear Reader,
It's difficult to stay motivated to work on my own stuff.
Going out and interviewing people for my new project is more
difficult than I thought it would be, too. (I'd tell you more
about the project, but I'm trying to keep the details somewhat
hush-hush, for now.) I'm more nervous about it than I'd assumed
I'd be. I don't like to feel as though I'm intruding, but
that's exactly what I'm doing; I have to make peace with doing
it. Or I have to be okay with doing it, anyway, or this book
won't get done. And nobody wants to eat a half-baked cake,
do they?
I've
fallen behind on my recordkeeping, too. There are envelopes
with rejection notes in them that haven't been catalogued,
and rejection emails, too, that haven't been properly filed.
There are a few publications that I need to contact. I've
received at least three fairly recent acceptances for poems,
but have not yet seen the poems actually go to print. I'm
afraid that one of the magazines may now be defunct.
I
have been given great opportunities in my life. It is important
that I don't waste any more time than I already have, or slack
off. That's how I feel… I get tired, though, irresolute,
and listless. I have bravery in me, but I often trade it in
for comfort---false comfort. How and when will I put my life
in order? How do I ready myself for life's bigger troubles,
should they come? How will I ever remain steady? If I manage
to piece the scraps of my life together so that the poetry
of it is beautiful, wise, funny and strong, will I set myself
with foundation enough? There has to be something to come
back to, doesn't there, even if you sometimes like the boat
to tip, to feel your body become almost weightless in the
water? There has to be a house built on the rock, even if
you know how to enjoy the sands shifting under your feet.
On
days like today, I think that we are always just growing up.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
August 6, 2007
Dear Reader,
Whew! What a weekend…
My
dear friend,
Jen,
came to Chicago for a visit. With her, she brought her great
laugh, her bright photographer's eye, and enough enthusiasm
to make me want to go downtown on a Sunday morning and take
that long and quick elevator to the
Hancock's
touristy Signature
Room.
(I should mention that we'd stayed up until the wee hours,
cavorting and dreaming and thinking aloud, the night before.)
She flew back to Dallas today. I miss her already.
The
Signature Room's not so bad.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
July 22, 2007
Dear Reader,
The Printer's
Ball
on Friday night was great fun and a
great success---until the end of the night, that is. At the
end of the night, about 200 to 300 poets, writers, publishers,
editors, journalists and their friends were ushered out of
the Zhou
B. Arts Center
by police and security after the event
had been declared a fire hazard.
Personally, I think that the police might have been looking
for a payoff, and that when the money didn't come, they flexed
their muscle. Ah, Chicago. There's no other city like it---except,
maybe, for Gotham.
I spent last night at the
Monarte
Gallery
on Canalport Ave. I'd been invited to
read by Vitto
Carli,
a boulder of a man and a Chicago poetry scene icon. He'd requested
that the features for the night read some of their own work,
and then a translation. For my part, I read four or five of
my own poems, and then for my translation, "The First
Evening," by Rimbaud.
It's a jaunty little poem, and typical of Rimbaud
in that it's absolutely irreverent.
I've been thinking about Raul,
and also, my friend,
Tammy,
all week. I need a Texas trip soon. I need to see the North
Texas landscape again, feel the stickiness in the air. I wouldn't
mind having an omelet at
Cafe
Brazil
at 2:00 in the morning, either,or sitting
barefoot for a few hours on my friend Wendy's porch.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
July 15, 2007
Dear Reader,
It has come to my attention that poet/activist/educator
Raul
R. Salinas
has become seriously ill. If you would
like to honor him, please write a letter to Warren Strauss,
Director of the Austin Parks and Recreation, and request that
a space or room in the
Mexican-American
Cultural Center
be named for Mr. Salinas. Send your
letters to:
Warren Strauss
Director
Austin Parks and Recreation
P.O. Box 1088
Austin, TX 78767
Thanks, everyone.
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
July 13, 2007
Dear Reader,
Well, DR, it's tough going for a young female poet these days...
That's not entirely true. I'm having a raucous Chicago summer,
running around with local poets, going to their readings and
parties, having them come to mine. And yes, I did manage to
convince the firm I've been working for to let me work from
home part-time starting in August so that I can finish my
latest book. No small feat. Still, I can't seem to get either
of my two manuscripts published by anyone even semi-reputable.
It's frustrating! As a young person, I waited consciously
before putting out too much poetry in the world because I
wanted my work to mature, to be able to handle being out in
the world. I waited and waited, and now I'm really
waiting! Every other week, I get something in the mail that
says I didn't win this or that chapbook contest, or that my
work didn't get accepted by this or that magazine. I know
it's all part of the business of selling words, but between
you and me, I could really use some good news. It's not that
I'm sinking emotionally; it's more like---I've been doggie
paddling for days and need a lift. I just want something to
happen.
What about you? Do you have
some good news? Drop
me a note and let me know, won't you? I want to get
excited, I want to feel dizzy, I want to think to myself,
'This is unbelievable!'
Bronmin
_______________________________________________________________
July 1, 2007
Dear Reader,
It's morning, and I'm looking
up at the bulletin board above my desk, at the scraps and
bits that make up my life. There's a note from editor extraordinaire,
Rebecca
Sherman,
another from the talented
Robert
Fanning,
and another from my old friend,
Abraham
Smith,
a poet whose new book is coming out soon. In the upper right-hand
corner, there's a drawing I bought from an artist I met on
the street in Dallas some years ago, entitled, "Vacation
Bible School," and a list of vocabulary words written
in black marker. Of course, there are poems dotting the cork
landscape, too. Finally, in the upper left-hand corner, I
find a quote from Ed
Weiler,
Goddard Space Flight Center Director, NASA, that reads: "Mars
has been a most daunting destination. Some, including myself,
have called it the 'death planet.' Why do we say that? Two-thirds
of all missions that have flow to Mars…have failed. Just
getting to Mars is hard, but landing is even more so."
I like the quote because it
reminds me that however difficult this business of writing
may sometimes seem, reaching one's goals is not impossible.
I like it because it reminds me that my failures are teaching
me something. I like it because it makes me want to believe
that while it may appear as though I'm hurtling into the unknown
without much evidence that the outcome will be a positive
one, there is a destination that will yield sweet surprises
if I can just remain focused, if I can surround myself with
people (Houston, do you read me?) who will help repair
the engine that sometimes threatens to go out. I like it because
it reminds me that while folks may want to label you as one
thing---the "death planet," let's say---it doesn't
mean that they're right, or that the label fits. It doesn't
mean that there isn't fire beneath the hood, or water raging
beneath the crater that once held a river. Lines from the
Anne
Sexton
poem, "In Celebration of My Uterus,"
come to mind:
Everyone in |
