ALL THE HEAVY FURNITURE (The Visit)

All The Heavy Furniture (The Visit)

We visit on a Saturday and I search for you in all the heavy furniture you, the young woman who taught me how to drive over that breathtakingly narrow bridge, who drove me to Super-X and bought me Trojans “just in case.” I spot you in places, familiar in your art room scattered with zines — me, swinging playfully like a teen, indoors, in your hanging basket chair . . . Read the rest at Medium where I am now blogging.
https://gaepol.medium.com/

I am blogging over at Medium Now (Link In Body Below)

IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR ME, I AM BLOGGING OVER AT MEDIUM NOW: https://gaepol.medium.com/



FIND ME ON MOST SOCIAL MEDIA AT GAEPOL.

Friday Feedback With Lori Landau: Play With Your Art and Other Downward Dog Epiphanies

"How do flowers experience life? 

What do humans have in common with birds, or water or grass? 

How does the body carry and interpret 

consciousness?"

These questions opened the draft blog post of my guest host, my amazing friend Lori Landau.  The rest of the post is coming to you, soon, below.

But first a bit about Lori. 

Her poetry, essays and articles have been published in books, magazines, and online, and she has shown her art in a variety of venues in the tri-state area. 

My full of love and light friend. . . 

In addition, she's a certified yoga and meditation teacher, and offers experiential writing workshops that are deeply inspired 

by her connection to poetry, spirit, and elemental materials like water, earth, branch and stone. 

She's also currently an MFA candidate in Interdisciplinary Arts, and is working on a book about contemplative creativity.

Whew!!!

I have known Lori since we were young (young) adults, have always admired her art and poetry, and have even featured her at least a few times, like here, on my blog. 

But with all that said, she's never hosted Friday Feedback before. 

Then, a few weeks ago, we were out to dinner with my family. My husband, who is a beautiful singer, was lamenting how he doesn't really sing very much any more. He gave her a bunch of lame reasons that made me sad. I backed away from the conversation, it being one he and I have had before. 

Then Lori asked him, "When was the last time you just enjoyed it all? Played with your music? Had fun with your craft?"

The question was so pure and simple and perfect (and different than anything I would have come up with to say to him), it got me thinking how wonderful it might be if she pursued the thought a little bit more here. With me, her and YOU.

So without further ado, and springing off from her above three questions that opened this post, here she is. Lori Landau:

Daily Drawing Practice

Rilke advised the young poet to “live the questions.” I read that line when I was seventeen, the same year that I had my first poem published (in Seventeen magazine). From an early age I experienced life as a series of mysteries and the questions themselves have become a part of my cellular being, and my creative practice which is writing and making art. 

I have written poems, essays and made art since I was a teen. (Including trading poems with Gae, who wrote gloriously even before she graduated high school). In my attempt to be the best I can be, I have studied art, writing, yoga, meditation, Buddhism, and countless other things all in an attempt to learn as much as I could about myself and my crafts, and still I struggled. 

I was the quintessential, perfectionist procrastinator, better at distracting myself or making myself wrong than actually sitting down to do what I loved.

I was the quintessential, perfectionist procrastinator, better at distracting myself or making myself wrong than actually sitting down to do what I loved.

That is, until I realized that in trying to be perfect, I was going about it all wrong. I was losing out on what I loved best about making art and writing: the process of discovery.  

Daily Drawing Practice

That’s when I began to apply all of those meditation lessons and downward dog epiphanies to my writing. I realized, if I want to write and make art without all the pressure I was putting on myself, I would have to make it fun. 

Remember fun? 

It’s hard to allow ourselves to cultivate a sense of play in our culture which puts a high value on productivity.

My tutelary spirits. . . have all given me ideas for how to put the emphasis on process rather than product. 

But my best work happens when I can get out of my own way and just do what I love. Making my art and writing fun means getting curious about myself, and about the craft of writing and art. I study how other writers and artists create, by regularly reading the work of my tutelary spirits. John Cage, Jenny Saville, William Kentridge, Lao Tze, Ryokan, David Hume, Martin Heidegger, Anselm Keifer, Bell Hooks, Yoko Ono, John Berger, Twyla Tharp, Mary Oliver, Walt Whitman, have all given me ideas for how to put the emphasis on process rather than product. 

Now, I bring a sense of exploration to my own practices. I am deeply fascinated with how elements like chance and intuition affect the creative process. Focusing on that fascination means allowing myself to try things without an expectation for a fantastic outcome. 

I have found that allowing myself to just enjoy what I am doing yields much better results than over-efforting.

For instance, if I want to draw a portrait and don’t like the way it is coming out, I try drawing it with my left hand (I’m a righty) in order to unleash the intuitive mind. If I can’t come up with a brilliant poem or paragraph, (yes, I do still struggle with perfectionism sometimes), I set a timer and “free write” for 15 minutes. I have found that allowing myself to just enjoy what I am doing yields much better results than over-efforting.

One practice that really works for me is to make a drawing or write a poem as soon as I wake up. I make it a daily ritual to “gift” myself 20 minutes to draw or write while drinking my first cup of coffee. Admittedly that was harder when my kids were little, so eventually I figured out how to find little pockets of time to draw, such as when I sat in the car on the pick-up line at school. 

A large part of my practice is wandering, literally and figuratively. I let myself daydream, I carry a journal everywhere I go and write ideas down when I have them, and I get myself outside as much as I can. I believe we mirror nature, so I find it helpful to get as close to the trees and water as possible. The more I see myself through the lens of a larger world, the more connected I feel to myself and that world, and the easier it is to create. 

For me, finding a sense of fun also requires slowing down. My practices allow me to question myself. I regularly tune in to figure out what my subtle body is asking for. Sometimes all I need is a deep, full breath to get going. Other times I have to discipline myself to stick to my intention and creative routine before I get to the fun part. Finding the fun in any kind of creative practice is itself a practice that like anything else, gets easier over time. 

Can you remember when you just purely 

loved writing? 

How can you change the way you think about writing so you can bring a sense of wonder and enjoyment to what you do?

Daily Drawing Practice

Can you remember when you just purely loved writing? How can you change the way you think about writing so you can bring a sense of wonder and enjoyment to what you do? Today I’d be so curious to read a passage that was fun for you to write. Maybe you can try something new. If you usually write fiction, try your hand at a poem or a free write about something you love. No matter what you choose to share (or not), bringing a sense of play to your writing will free up your imagination. You might even surprise yourself.

The passage I’d like to share with you here is a living example of a piece of work that was really hard for me, until I allowed myself to just have fun with what I was writing. It’s an excerpt from a book that I am working on about consciousness and creativity. It is a book of poems, artwork and critical writing.  

I’ll be checking in all day to read your excerpts and comment. I always find it an inspiration to see what others are working on.

 And, remember, if you're not familiar with the RULES please read them there first!

---- 

“The unpredictable arithmetic of being human means that at any moment something can be added, subtracted, multiplied or divided from us. That’s why the great sages teach us to cultivate practices that help us let go of our attachments and find the middle way. The middle way allows us some flexibility, and the ability to be intimately “present.”

In viewing our endless balancing act as opportunity, we can step out of our conditioned perspective that tension in relationship is a problem. In doing so, we create a small space between emotion and reaction, and in that space we can empower ourselves to make choices that serve both ourselves and the other. 

Being willing to co-exist in the moment-to-moment fluctuations of relationship creates openings through which we can more deeply experience how intricately we are tied to everything and everyone else. All of the things that exist as form, the body, with its blood, bone, veins, the natural world consisting of trees, grasses, clouds, water, soil, stone shapes us. Form is what makes essence visible. 

----- 

           

To connect further with Lori, you can follow her at @LoriElleLandau on Instagram, where she often posts her drawings, or a small slice of life. You may also email her at Jesart@aol.com

Friday Feedback: If I Can't Go In Reverse, I'll Settle for Verse

okay, fine, that's really me swooning in winter
so what?

Meh. Groan all you want at the title of this post, I like it ;)

Anyway.

<------ This is me.

Swooning.

Lamenting the almost-end of summer.

I should really stop whining, but I can't.

Waaaaaah. I want my whole summer back.

But if it has to slip away, no one better to edge us gracefully toward fall and Back-to-School than the lovely, adorable, talented Caroline Starr Rose.

Trust me.

This is Caroline:



See what I mean?

Her first novel in verse, May B., was released to starred Kirkus and PW reviews:

I've known it since last night:
It's been too long to expect them to return.
Something's happened.

May is helping out on a neighbor's Kansas prairie homestead—just until Christmas, says Pa. She wants to contribute, but it's hard to be separated from her family by 15 long, unfamiliar miles. Then the unthinkable happens: May is abandoned. Trapped in a tiny snow-covered sod house, isolated from family and neighbors, May must prepare for the oncoming winter. While fighting to survive, May's memories of her struggles with reading at school come back to haunt her. But she's determined to find her way home again.

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"If May is a brave, stubborn fighter, the short, free-verse lines are one-two punches

in this Laura Ingalls Wilder–inspired ode to the human spirit."  - Kirkus Reviews

       

I confess: My first writer-self was a poet. I didn't attempt stories or novels till adulthood.

My childhood, adolescence, and college years were spent writing poetry. I've even started two novels in verse -- well, one in verse, one with a verse component.

Yet, somehow, I'm scared of it now.

How does one turn a story from a bunch of poems to plot?

a poetic little spot in my father's gardens. . .

Well, here's the awesome thing for you (me). We've got Caroline here today, sharing just that. How she takes her stories from Poem to Plot. Here she is:


The more I write, the more I firmly believe there is no one way to write a book. I have yet to approach any of my manuscripts the same way. Here, though, are some things I’ve learned from both reading and writing verse novels:

Subject matter must be right for poetry

Some topics lend themselves more easily to poetry than others. Some subjects refuse to be written as prose. Many times an author will use verse to mimic the rhythm of the story. Here are a few books that come to mind:

Sharon Creech’s HEARTBEAT, about a girl who loves to run

Karen Hesse’s OUT OF THE DUST, where the spare language reflects the stark Dust Bowl setting

Lisa Schroeder’s FAR FROM YOU, about a girl who sings and and writes songs

         

Protagonists must be right for poetry

Often (though not always) verse novels are told from a very close first-person point of view. Such writing calls for a lot of introspection on the protagonist's part.  Other times verse is used as a way for multiple voices to be heard, almost like a Greek chorus. Here are some examples:

Thanhha Lai’s INSIDE OUT AND BACK AGAIN, about a Vietnamese girl’s efforts to understand her new American home

Karen Hesse’s WITNESS, where the Ku Klux Klan moves into a quiet Vermont town, and citizens reflect on the change they bring

Poems should be able stand alone

Each poem in a verse novel must capture one moment, scene, idea, mark of change in your character's life. Poems should also be able to function separately from the rest of the story.

Poems must contribute to the whole

When I worked through my own verse novel, MAY B., I kept a quilt in mind, treating each poem like its own square of fabric. Each patch had to be able to function separately while at the same time move the story forward. I trusted that if certain patterns and shades in my story quilt were repeated (think themes or story strands), eventually the interconnectedness would surface -- a much more organic approach than is normally taken with prose. 

Varied poem lengths

Some scenes flow, some end abruptly. Some thoughts wander, some jab. Without the structure of chapters, verse novels are simultaneously abrupt and fluid -- poem lengths can be jagged yet aide the plot in moving through scenes swiftly. It is often difficult to find a place to stop reading, as one poem often bleeds into the next.

Varied line lengths

Verse novelists play with key phrases or words they want to bring to their reader’s attention by the way they arrange words on the page. Line breaks can be used to slow down reading, to draw the eye to important phrases, and to best "speak" the poem.

Emotion and structure

The structure of a poem often communicates to readers a character’s emotional state.

How might fear look structurally?  A verse novelist might use little punctuation or words tightly packed together. Maybe the language of the poem will unfold in short bursts, reminiscent of a child peeking into a darkened room and quickly slamming the door.

Poetic form

Some verse novelists use specific types of poetry (sonnets, for example), as Pat Brisson did with her book, THE BEST AND HARDEST THING. In writing about Sylvia Plath in YOUR OWN, SLYVIA, author Stephanie Hemphill chose to mirror the format of several of Plath's poems, giving her readers a sense of the poet's style, subject matter, intensity, and character.

The visual and the aural

When I was a teacher, I used to tell my students that poetry should be seen and heard. There is something special that happens when a reader experiences seeing, hearing, and saying a poem all at once -- the fullness of the poem is discovered this way.

*If you ever feel stuck with a verse novel, find a private corner and try reading it aloud.*

Verse novels aren’t books with strange line breaks. They are stories best communicated through the language, rhythm, imagery and structure of poetry. I hope you’ve found something here that sparks your imagination and helps you move from individual poems to a complete novel in verse.

Okay, seriously, I barely want to finish this post. I want to go work on my verse novels instead. :)

Anyway, because she is not only lovely, talented and adorable, but also awesome, Caroline's Friday Feedback excerpt is, yep, a poem from one of her WIP's. A historical novel in verse. So, here we go! Friday Feedback. You know the RULES (if you've got a poem today and want to share it, go ahead! Otherwise, feel free to post 3-5 paragraphs of your WIP).

 

It’s just a pigeon, Uncle said,
his big hands folding the bit of wood into mine.
What he carved is graceful in the way
its wings rest so daintily,
its neck gently curves.
This Uncle Samuel promised me:
pigeons return to their homes
no matter how far they fly.

A bird set free might wander
but will rejoin his flock.


At first,
I believed this was Uncle’s pledge to come back to me,
but when Father said we too
would make our way to Virginia,
I thought of something else:
What if a flight of pigeons followed the wandering one,
joining him on a journey entirely new?
Returning would not mean going back
but traveling onward;
reuniting with the missing one
would make them whole again.


Home isn’t only where you live,
it is also whom you love,
like they that call across an ocean
for your return.

- Caroline (& gae)

Friday Feedback, Dream Five

Lori is working on a book of dream poems
and illustrations.



This is my friend Lori Landau. She and I have been friends for a long (long) time.

Among many things, she is a columnist at Technorati (Lifestyle: Social Goodness) and shows and sells her jewelry and photography at the Open Center in NYC.

As teens we wrote endless poetry together, but she has continued to work on her craft and grow as a poet, while I have veered in other directions (she has also forked and veered, but has taken her poetry with her).

And, the truth is, few other's poems move me the way Lori's do.


So, when, I found a poem of hers -- Dream Five -- in my email box the other day like a small gift, I did what I always do: I coveted it.

Her poems make me want to eat them, drink them in. I have tried once or twice to suck them up through the computer screen but the glass intervenes.

So this morning, I did the next best thing. I sat down in front of my computer, turned my webcam on and read the words aloud, hoping by doing so, I could somehow send them into the universe in just the way I heard them in my head and have you understand.

I sent the vlog to Lori and asked if I might post my reading of Dream Five here and she said yes. First I will post the written version below.

Because it is Friday Feedback, and because it is my page, today I'm breaking our usual FF rules. I'm not asking for any constructive critique of Lori's poem (or of my reading of it, thank you very much) but rather just offer it up for your appreciation and enjoyment.

You may also offer up an excerpt or poem of your own in the comments as always and tell me your wish for feedback.

So, then, below is Lori's poem and below that the video of my reading.

-gae

Mixed media dream dog by the multi-faceted Lori Landau.

Dream Five


The plane has already taken off but I am unseated. The rows are full of travelers, settling in, gazing out windows, opening books, leaning back, eyes closed, to listen to iPods. I pass by them on my way to the doorway that separates coach from a part of the plane I never knew existed but enter anyway. The thrust of the plane overcomes the drag and the plane is pushed up through the bright air. I am in some type cargo space, stripped clean of carpet and seating and storage. The floor is whitewashed, with blackened steel planks, held down by rivets and antique fasteners. It is the type of place that in another time might have housed sturdy parts: landing gears, propellers, spare luggage bins, but as of now, it is empty, save for two seats that are anchored to raw metal and facing me from across a divide. They are slatted chairs like you’d find at a movie theater or a ballgame, attached at the legs and bolted to the floor with antique studs. No safety belts, just old-fashioned straps made to wind around knees and waists like a harness, clumsily buckled, like arms that are poised to grab hold. The whole thing feels like a throwback to the 40s, like some kind of old military jet, it hums with the purgatory air of a waiting room. By the force of motion, I know we’re ascending. The plane shifts then stabilizes, and I eye the two empty seats, deciding whether or not they will hold me to gravity, when I see that my two long-dead dogs, Annie and Gypsy, who are very much alive, are here, just a few steps from the sealed exit door. To see a dog in your dream symbolizes intuition, loyalty, protection, two must be doubly so. I know this as well as I know that I am dreaming. I am overjoyed to see them, but I am aware that in waking life they are still dead. I realize that they are here to tell me something I’ve forgotten, some important information that has slumbered long within me. I look out the windows of the plane to see what direction we are going in, to assess the likelihood of turbulance, to see if the plane is trailing some message, skywriting symbols that will decipher why I am here, and where I am going, and I see through the cold glass what has been there all along, the altitude of blue sky and everything beyond, and I am flying through it, carried like Dorothy hurtling toward Oz ,holding on by my feet, rooted to the unseen, to that which has come before and all that is yet to come, soaring toward the unknown without a safety net, flying far over the articulation of earth, away from the bent elbows of women squatting long over muddy water, over corrugated fences and bitter branches weighed down by leaves and birdsong, over the long slow trains that run past crumbling walls etched with graffiti, lifting over the hinge of the horizon, on my way to waking.

What's Your Unfickle? (Pursuing the Horizon)

I admit it. I'm Aesthetically fickle. What I loved to read, watch, look at, wear, this year, are likely not necessarily going to be the same things that resonate with me next year. I get sick of old things and fall in love with shiny, new things, with few exceptions (including my own works of fiction).

Even the books and movies I "love" seem to have a time and place for me, meaning, the few times I've gone back to reread or rewatch them, they just haven't held the same allure. As such, I don't often try to do so.

Of course, to every fickle rule, there are exceptions. And here are a few of mine (list definitely NOT exhaustive):

I never get sick of:

from A Wrinkle in Time

ANYTHING Maira Kalman, especially her picture books;

A Wrinkle In Time, The History of Love, Pride & Prejudice, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, and most things Dr. Seuss;

The Graduate, Swingers, The Swimmer, A Little Romance; Bridget Jones's Diary (the movie) (I know, sue me, I think it's Colin Firth);

a few select poems by e.e. cummings;

and, for some reason, the longest hold out, this poem by Stephen Crane which has resonated with me for more than 30 years:

"I saw a man pursuing the horizon"


I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never —”
“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.

I can't tell you exactly why this poem resonates for me year after year, only that I go back to it and when I do, it does.

What does this for you?

What's your unfickle?

-gae

Sneak peek at a work in progress...

So, writing-wise the summer has been both slow and all over the place. No good news on Swim Back to Me (my piece of women's fiction). No news, yet, on Frankie Sky (my YA option book).

Honestly, it's made it hard for me to concentrate, to focus and feel purposed. Writingwise, I've worked some on my piece of women's fiction in progress; i've worked some on a new piece of YA -- still untitled -- and I've worked some on revisions to Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me, which my agent loves but also has given me notes on.

The truth is, none of them seem to move me right now... I'm hoping with September and a change of pace, I'll find new energy and new inspiration. In the meantime, I'm slowly plugging along.

Still, with little to blog about, I decided to post a sneak peek at the current opening of Jack Kerouac... would love any thoughts and/or feedback. Does it hook you? Does it bore you? Do you want to know more?

Or do you want me to go back to the drawing board?

mood: angsty and restless. (And, yes, I know you didn't ask. ;))

Delias hyparete metarete – Common name – Painted Jezebel

Chapter One.

It is believed that the Jezebel’s brightly-colored underside

serves as a warning pattern to predatory animals.

     The butterflies arrived on a Saturday, but I waited till Sunday to open them since I needed Max’s help with the greenhouse. It was late April, and I had been dating Max Gordon a few weeks by then, but that particular day stuck with me because of how he built the greenhouse, and also because of what Aubrey had said.

     We were all in my room unpacking the boxes. I gave Max the box with the greenhouse parts, and Aubrey and I sat together on my bed tackling the ones with the butterfly larvae. Well, mostly, I tackled, while Aubrey flailed around bored on my bed.

     She used to like the butterflies almost as much as I did, but lately she seemed to be over them. Or maybe it was part of the whole thing with her and me and how we were growing apart. She wanted to blame Max for it, but I just think it was one of those things.

     “You could always go home,” I said without looking up at her. Instead, I worked at a piece of masking tape that sealed a small bubble-wrapped box with air holes in the top. In fairness to Aubrey, it was a gorgeous spring day outside. It’s not like I would have blamed her or anything.

     I glanced at Max. He sat at my desk, head down, earbuds in, working on the metal frame. Occasionally he’d sing some lyric out loud which was kind of funny because he liked old fashioned rock and roll by people like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix that I’d only ever heard of from my parents, so I had no idea of the words.

     “Under that apple suckling tree, oh yeah! That's underneath that tree, there's gonna be just you and me. Underneath that apple suckling tree, oh yeah!!”

     Aubrey looked over at him and rolled her eyes then gave me this look that said ‘what on earth do you possibly see in him?’ but I ignored her because I knew deep inside she was just jealous of how hot and heavy things had gotten between us. Plus, I didn’t care because I thought it was cute how Max liked the old music that pretty much no one listened to anymore. Even if the lyrics were seriously weird, especially the ones he was singing now.

     “Now, who's on the table, who's to tell me? Oh yeah! Who's on the table, who's to tell me? Oh yeah!”

     I laughed out loud avoiding Aubrey’s eyes, and kept working on the box instead. It was sealed tightly with clear packing tape and marked “FRAGILE” on one side and “JEZEBELS” on the other in black Sharpie. There was a second box still in the shipping carton marked “GLASSWINGS” but those were my Nana’s choice.

     Both the Jezebels and the Glasswings were gifts from my nana for my 16th birthday which wasn't really until the end of June. But since they were Tropicals they had to be flown in from Australia, so we ordered them early to allow for the shipping and to make sure the larvae would hatch in the spring.

     At least Nana still liked the butterflies even if Mom didn’t seem to care about them anymore. Which surprised me in a sad way, but less and less by then. Anyway, it was me who had chosen the Jezebels, while Nana had picked out the Glasswings.

     "Ooh, what about these here, Jean Louise?” she had squealed like a little kid as she ran her finger over the glossy catalogue photos of a specimen that looked like it was made of stained glass. And Nana was right, the Glasswings were beautiful, but for some reason I liked the Jezebels best. Especially, Delias hyparete metarete, common name Painted Jezebel, which looked like a boring gray moth on the top and hid its amazing colors underneath like a secret.

*  *  *