entertaining infinity

daring

April.  (ahh)

While we're still feeling that crazy not-quite-winter/not-quite-spring weather here in Joisey, the simple change of the date on the calendar brings with it just a little more hope for renewal.

So, isn't it fitting that National Poetry Month is also in April?  As Poets.org say on their NPM FAQ page: "T. S. Eliot wrote, April is the cruelest month. It is our hope that National Poetry Month lessens that effect."  (me too)

I love poetry.  For those who read my irregular musings with any regularity, you know how I do; I look forward to The Dodge Poetry Festival like a little kid looks forward to Santa.  Listening to poetry is a spiritual experience for me; an invitation to the sacred.

And while I write a lot (but clearly, not that often here), I don't identify as a poet.  I'm a prose writing gal pretty straight on down the line, but when I was a kid, I wrote poems like crazy. 

In junior high, my journal was the place I vented in excruciating detail about the crush I had on Randy (or bill or scott or ... whoever the boy of the week was), or how I was annoyed with any one of my they-don't-understand-me family, but poems (and song lyrics) were where I poured my soul without the story.  It was all feeling, all raw emotion and energy. 

I don't know when or why I stopped playing with poetry, but other than the rare stab I've taken over the years in my writing groups, poetry's something I read, hear, and love, but it's not something I do.

Then, in the last several months, I've been feeling a pull to write differently ... a little experimentally; and so I started playing with poems again (might post some if i'm feeling braver). When I was reminded that it was National Poetry Month, I went to Poets.org to see if I could get some ideas and inspiration for this month's writing group.  Almost immediately, I fell in love with this poster image ... and found the question simmering at the back of my mind a lot.  While I was wandering the site, I'd noticed NaPoWriMo.  NaPoWriMo (national poetry writing month) is an offshoot of NPM; and while I've been aware of it for a few years (a few of my blog buds participated in years past) I'd never even considered taking the plunge. 

The idea of NaPoWriMo is to do a full-on poem every day and post it to your blog, and while I'm not open to that much quick-change discipline and universe disturbance at once, I thought I'd venture out on a smaller scale: 140 characters of smaller, to be exact. 

Yep, this month I've committed to a Twitter version of NaPoWriMo - a 140 Twitter poem(ish) every day for the month.  It might be poetry, and it might suck.  (and it might be poetry that sucks ...) But I'm going to play with the structure and see how it goes.

If you dare to disturb the universe just a little, I invite those who Twitter to follow me @uncle_deb; let me know you're playing, and hashtag your bits with #twitterpoetrymonth and lets see if maybe, by months end, one or two of those 140 character poem-ish's inspires a little of that junior high passion. 

And when the month's done, we'll look at the universe, and well see ...

5

About this time 5 years ago, I was standing in a hospital room holding my mom's hand, waiting.  The doc said it was only a matter of time ... an hour, maybe less.  When he came downstairs to the surgical waiting room he'd told us: We can't put her back together, and I remember thinking he was talking about Humpty Dumpty, only he was talking about my mother. I know the docs busted their humps to make things right, going to great lengths to save her, but she was tired and there had been one complication on top of another, and meanwhile, the cancer was still quietly doin' its thing. 

One of the interns cried when he saw me come upstairs to the room where they'd moved her; he'd fallen in love with my mom (as many did) and like so many others who loved her - he was clinging to that slim bit of hope, even though he later told me I shouldn't have; I knew better. 

I was alone with her when she died; my father and brother had gone downstairs to wait for my sister to arrive, and even though Mom wasn't awake, I talked to her, just in case she could hear.

That morning she asked me to come to the hospital early; she wanted me there before Dad and Bean arrived because she knew she might not make it out of surgery and she wanted to talk.  We'd always talked a lot, and there had been lots of conversations about what might come after we'd shuffle off this mortal coil, even before she got sick.  That morning she told me that she wasn't concerned for herself: If I wake up dead, I wake up dead, she laughed; it's all of you that I'm worried about.

But we'd be OK I told her; not that we would like it, but we'd be OK.  I said it that morning, and I said it again in that room with the curtains drawn.  And we are OK.  We miss her; her absence is always felt, but we have done OK. We keep on keepin' on; what else are you going to do?   

And while I thought about it today (hard not to on the anniversary), I wasn't overcome with huge waves of sadness just because it's the day.  Sometimes I get sad about it for no particular reason, but today it just hung around like a mist.  It's there, but you can see through it.

And I guess it helps that I get something in a way I've only fully gotten since the sun rose on March 31, 2004: That until the day when you wake up dead, you wake up alive, and you get on with it. 

 

first day of spring '09

two great things that go great together ... (no, make that three)

Legos and The Princess Bride.  Brilliant.  (i'm such a geek.)

(as you wish)

(as you wish)

This is pretty awesome too: Star Wars lightsabers mashed with Inigo's vindication duel in The Princess Bride.  (oh yes, my geekiness is legendary.)

(as you wish)

sun, sun, sun here it (almost) comes ...

Turned the clocks ahead last weekend and am already feeling the difference.

I love daylight saving time; I hear some people kvetch that they hate waking up in the dark, but I don't mind: it's light by the time I leave the house, and it's light when it's time to leave the office - color me happy.  And while I really love that DST has moved up a couple of weeks, I also notice that I've been bracing myself because it's still not spring yet (even though the crocuses and some other spring flowers have bravely begun their push). The hint of the spring just feels like a tease to me now.  I can't relax into it because there's no assurance that winter has breathed its last.  Must get through just a few more unpredictable weeks.

And in the meantime, I notice that I'm starting to come out of the winter-funkness just a little bit more.  The other day, a friend mentioned that he'd been worried about me; he'd noticed that I was turning down invitations a fair bit this winter and said it seemed like I was hunkered down at home a lot.  He wasn't the first to notice; over the years I've learned a lot about how the winter funk impacts me by listening to friends comment about the difference in my energy from season to season.   

I try to be open about it; I tell them that it happens, and how it usually manifests, but I suppose I still hide a lot about it too.  I don't want people to worry about me (there's nothing they can do), I don't want them to think I'm weak (although i often find myself thinking it's a weakness of character), and I REALLY don't want anyone to try to talk me out of it.  (it's not something i can be talked out of; it completely defies logic, and talking about it does no good; it just makes me feel pathetic). Nope, I'd rather just hunker down and ride it out.

Sometimes I wonder if it's what bears feel like.  Depressed?  Hell no, I'm hibernating; it's what I DO.   (grrr ... now leave me alone while i chow on some carbs and sleep a lot more than usual.)

It's just that, when people point out the difference, I'm reminded that I'm like two different people: the spring/summer/fall Deb, and the late fall/winter Deb.  Late fall/winter Deb is not a  complete basket-case ... depressed and immobile (although i'm sure in a clinical way, what happens to me is a form of depression).  But if she's not bummed out/depressed, she's not energetic and up-beat either; she's just a slow mover ... one who feels like she's got a coat of molasses on every inch of her body (and no, not in a good way, you pervy readers ...). 

Funny thing is, every year I convince myself I'm doing better at it.  And yes, I probably am doing better: I recognize how it gets to me, and I have more and better coping mechanisms - but it's still there and once the spring explodes, I wonder how I made it through.  

So ... while I start to wake up, enjoy the "more light" and wait for spring to really unfold, I wonder if you lurking readers have any recommendations for me? (beyond what i already do: the SAD lamp, exercise, and an escape to warm weather at least once in the winter ...).  (i suppose anti-depressants are an option too, huh?)  Do any of you go through this?  How do you cope?  What do you do to get through?

when's the last time ...

 ... you saw THIS?

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(someone on a pay phone?)

 

touching down (again)

Randomly tossed:

• This writer - who has written that there is no such thing as writers block - has been feeling uninspired (duh, last post was nearly 3 weeks ago ...).  Is this writer's block?  (oh, the cockiness ... oh the folly...)

• I finally saw the BBC's Pride & Prejudice; I totally get the Colin Firth/Darcy thing now.

• Daylight Saving starts Saturday ... not that I have been counting (for the last month and a half ... or maybe since we changed the clocks back in november ...).  Joisey (and almost the entire east coast) got hit with a big snow on Monday; it's been under 30 degrees for the last couple of days ... but on Sunday, it will be light until about 7; I've almost made it through another winter.  There is reason to celebrate.

• In a recent conversation with a friend about men/women and the curiousness of relationship, I wound up sharing two thoughts that she said every man and woman should know.  Far be it for me to withhold such potentially powerful information, so ...

A note for girls: It's panties, not underwear. (and don't just say it, wear 'em.  a little more "porn star" and a little less "granny comfort" will go over BIG.) (and just cause they're called panties, doesn't mean they have to be uncomfortable ...)  Trust me, he'll be grateful.

A note for the boys: You're right and you're not right.  Where you're right: a massage IS foreplay.  But where you're wrong: it might not be immediate foreplay.  (that may seem like an oxymoron ...)  If you give a good massage and she gets so syrupy that she falls asleep, you'll be thinking it was for naught.  It's not. Trust me, she'll be grateful.

(note to self: single now how long? what do you know?)

Fun sites:

• The creative process: art, music, theater all rolled into one at Sketch Theatre.  It is what it sounds like: artists are filmed (or at least their hands and their sketch pads are) while they create ... all set to music: Sketch Theatre.  (why theatRE as opposed to theatER?  are we fronch?)

• I'm lovin' this site: Fifty People/One Question.  Again, it's pretty much what it sounds like: filmed interviews of fifty different people being asked the same question on the same day in a random city.  I love how they explain what they do: ... just trying to capture a little slice of humanity.  Yum.

• With my sporadic postings, and current unfocused nature of the blog-beast, I may just need to do a little blog-visioning.  Great article on how to do that here.

And for those of you still here, thanks for still checking in with me; I enjoy your company here in my little slice of blog-land.

feelin' the love

In my (new-ish) life on Facebook, I've been fascinated by the wild craze that was (and still is, i guess) 25 Random Things About Me.  Today at my writers group, I had the babes play with a variation on the theme: Random Things About Love.

Just a few (random) things that came up among us:

It's hard to write about love without quoting songs.  (for me in particular) (no surprise there, huh?)

We've heard that "love is a many splendored thing," but none of us quite got what "a many splendored thing" was supposed to mean (but i remember there was a soap opera).

Divorce isn't necessarily a failure of love; sometimes its a changing of form.

Poetry is the ultimate all-access backstage pass to the soul.  (and rumi seems to be the ultimate guide, with hafiz coming in a close second ...)

We like sex but we like it better when in love.

Strawberries dipped in dark chocolate are really, really good.

Many of us associate good food with love.  (and when mickeyg writes about food, we all fall in love ...)

We are mixed on the whole Valentines Day thing ...

... but the Valentine Peace Project is a great way to re-think the day. (i don't see why it needs to be reserved for just one day though; i might do it tomorrow too ...)

John and Paul were right: Nowhere you can be that isn't where you were meant to be.

We sometimes get in our own way with love.

Hugs from kids accelerates heart expansion.

Sometimes the heart wants what it wants; we are not perfect.

It's easier (and harder) than you think to write randomly about love. 

But we still love love, and we love writing about love.

(oh yes we do)

(feel free to add/expand on this in the comments writer babes ...)  (and anyone else who cares to play ...)

beyond the mara

Back in Joisey.

The week immediately following the mara, I was in Florida hanging out with Dad and I couldn't seem drag myself away from the beach or pool long enough to give a blog-recap.  But now, with a little distance (and no pool to sit by), I've made some the time.

What an experience. 

January 25th ... up at 4:30 am - Dad had driven down from his sister's place in Ft. Lauderdale at 3:30 am to meet me at the hotel ... then came with me where the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network team gathered at the American Airlines Arena under a big-ass promotional poster of Julio Iglesias for a photo op (this will always be etched in my memory, and now, if anyone mentions julio, i will think of gathering there [but wondering: does anyone actually mention julio anymore?] ...) (but i digress ... ).  After wishing me well at the team photo, Dad went back to my hotel room for a little nap (smart dad).

Reports say there were over 15,000 participants in the marathon, and the Pancreatic Cancer fund-raising team comprised just under 45 of those.  Together we - and our supporters - were able to raise over $144,000 to contribute to pancreatic cancer research. (not too shabby) (thanks again supporters; you are fabulous.)

As I've said, I don't run-run, I run-walk, and I did probably 85% of the mara at a fast-walk pace, the other at a slow-jog, but I was mostly happy with my time - 3.23 (according to the cool little chip you attach to your sneaks that clocks when you cross the start line, and then stops when you cross the finish line).  For a woman who was 30 pounds heavier this time last year and who most people would laugh their ASSES off if they ever heard that I was participating in a half-marathon, I say again: Not too shabby. 

The route itself was pretty amazing; in addition to the drag queen and cigarette smoking cafe goers I mentioned in my audio-posts, there were Boy Scout troops and other random volunteers handing out Gatorade and water at the mile markers, cheerleaders shaking pom poms, cops holding traffic back all along the course (some, like this fabulous woman, really getting into it), high school drum corps banging out rhythms to keep us pumped ... and always, the beauty of the course (over cause-ways, through south beach, water, water, everywhere ...). 

Around mile 12 my legs were starting to feel like lead and I was cursing the times I'd stopped to take photos, slow down to send an audio-post, help a woman figure out her iPod, or hug a volunteer who'd yell out "Go Cooperman!" (the name was on my race 'bib') ... I cursed all these little detours cause by then I was pretty sure I was going to go over my goal of a 3.15 finish time.  But then I came upon a band perched on a corner singing 'Eye of the Tiger' ... I couldn't decide whether this was cheesy or inspirational, but since a little inspiration never hurts (and i've never believed that cheesy could not also be inspirational), I shook my groove thing as I jogged past and pushed it out. (at one point, mid-way through the race, i was jogging and keeping pace with a woman who said: i'm not sure why i run at all, since my running pace is no better than my walk pace, and i could totally relate, but somehow, it felt like running was the only sane response to the lead-leg feeling and 'eye of the tiger'...)

And of course, through it all, I'm thinking of Mom.  She's the reason I did it, the reason I wish I didn't have to do it.  And glad as all hell that I did. 

At a post-race lunch, the members of the PanCan team gathered to celebrate our little victories, but we couldn't stop talking about the people we'd lost - the ones we had run for.  It was inspiring, and it was damn sad.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the whole experience and wondering what I'm going to put my attention on now that it's over and I'm back to life without this central focus.  Bro's talking up a 5K this summer, but I never got into this to become a runner ... although I might do it anyway, since I find myself appreciating the gift of a goal and the longer distance work-outs.  But I'm not sure what it's all going to mean when the dust settles.  Or if it's supposed to MEAN anything at all ... or just be what it was.

What I do know is that I walked and ran 13.1 miles on January 25th, and I (and my fabulous supporters) raised almost $7,500 for pancreatic cancer research.  The rest, I think I'll figure out as I go. 

And since I've learned that I get a lot of really good thinking done when I walk/run, there will be more miles ...

audio update - finish line

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