"she wants to write a thesis on the population underprivileged"

Someone once described me as being a part of the burgeoning student poet scene in Fredericton. I've never felt like I belonged to that scene, not really...in the company of such talent, and then there's me?

Patrick and I went a poetry reading at Molly's last Sunday, and met Ray Fraser, and were just sitting in the back having a good time and then I realize I'm in the same room as Travis Lane. Or the woman who organizes these poetry readings, she encouraged me to bring in something to read for the next reading, since they do open sets after the scheduled reading.

Anyway. Talking about this disconnect between self and "belonging" to a writing scene with Patrick. He made a good point:

I watched a documentary today, sorta a TV show about writers...and they were talking about community, and how there's a definite community, and they're technically a part of it, but none of them feel like they belong in it...we never realize that we're a part of something greater, especially when we're artists, because it's our job to step back and observe"

I'm constantly trying to straddle the world between academia and poetics. It just leaves me feeling as though I'm on the fringes of the fringes, sometimes. But I'm cool with that, I like it best here.

"oh death, why couldn't you have been a maintenance man?"

It's been awhile since I've written here. Real life has a way of creeping in, I think. It seems like every time I sit down to write here, I have something else more productive I should be doing. Even now, I should be writing a Criminology paper, and I'm here, instead.

I'm writing the paper on poetic therapy as an aid for self-injurious youth, though, so maybe this counts as field research.

I feel like sometimes my words start getting away from me, and I have to reign them in. It's been awhile since I've written anything decent, a few weeks or so. Well, at least anything I even vaguely intend for trying to publish. Some things just stay within small circles. I seem to enjoy writing those little snippets for now.

Maybe it's because there's less pressure with them? I still take the time to place my commas where I want them, to rephrase lines, cut them out entirely, shift line breaks...but there's no pressure involved in it.

I should rephrase: I write because I love to write. As of late, though, what I've been writing isn't really anything I want to extend past small groups.

See what I mean about my words getting away from me sometimes? I feel like I can never explain things properly anymore. I tried to explain versification and meter to Patrick last night and just kind of failed miserably. I try to articulate things and just feel like a mockingbird.

A few weeks ago, I was terrified that my depression was coming back full force. After last year, I can't go back to that.

I was published in stuart, our literary journal. I'm pretty sure you all know that. For those of you haven't been able to grab a copy, here's my favourite of the two they chose to publish:


There's a voice that you don't have

so you find it in the sheen, wear it on your own
skin. Sp lit s. Follow the s and carve it out.
worhtless lover,
softer than the boys you always dreamed about.
Ignore the ribcage and the eyes you never met.
some soft of spillage we cry over, pink bath mats and loudquiet.
Teeth:

canine for a reason.

I just got back my first real criticism of my poetry by a Published Poet.

The upshot: I'm too self-consciously clever. But apparently my poetic voice has a dark tenor he wasn't expecting.

I completely see where he's coming from. I just need a thicker skin, I think.

I feel like I should have something to add now, but I really don't.

I should be reading Saussure right now

I could be spending my time working on papers and assignments due before the semester is over. Instead, it would seem that I argue the finer points of feminist theory and paint in between classes.




My head is a funny place to be these days. Things are mostly well, and sometimes not well, and sometimes great.

Here, have a Sue Goyette poem:

"The True Name of Birds"

There are more ways to abandon a child
than to leave them at the mouth of the woods.
Sometimes by the time you find them, they’ve made up names
for all the birds and constellations, and they’ve broken
their reflections in the lake with sticks.

With my daughter came promises and vows
that unfolded through time like a roadmap and led me
to myself as a child, filled with wonder for my father
who could make sound from a wide blade of grass

and his breath. Here in the stillness of forest,
the sun columning before me temple-ancient,
that wonder is what I regret losing most; that wonder
and the true name of birds.

echo shadow echo shadow sterling silver burning furnace

Aaron and I have gotten into the habit of referring to the person I turn into when in a bad head space simply as Other. I treat her as separate as me, because she's me but she's not. I feel everything of her, I have some cognizance of being down in a well and muffled in the back of my mind, but she's cold and vindictive. Hyper focused on either a couch pattern or running over something in mind like a tape skipping. Quiet. Even when angry, cold, apparently. He'll say "come back to me" and I'll try.

Now that I've that out of the way.

I tried logging onto this blog using my facebook login, and then realized how long it's really been since I've written on here proper. I think it's a culmination of school stress, general busy days, and getting things out through poetry.

I am such a confessional poet. Also, I need to stop looking at that like it's a bad thing.

What I'm thankful for (because I might as well):

- family
- friends
- love, love, love
- language
- literature
- alliteration, apparently
- class (because even if it drives me up the wall with the amount of work sometimes, I'm an academic. I learn and I breathe and I write. It's how I roll.)
- school in general
- residence (because having your best friends in your hallway is so nice)
- and, y'know, I'm probably forgetting lots. Like how Erika climbs into bed with me and is just a total furnace, and how Cecilia calms down when I put band-aids on her scraped hands, and how Destini immediately jumps up for a hug, and Molly just snuggles right in and falls asleep on me. Or a million little things Aaron does that I won't list here because 1) long list and 2) who really cares other than he and I? It's private. And I'm thankful for the million little things that make my university experience amazing.

That was longer than intended. I now need to return to my weekend of paper writing and turkey eating. Gobble gobble, folks.

I am being serenaded by Jesse McCartney. Make it stop? D:

oh dear me

Last night, I drank more than I should have, and I drank it too quickly.

And then the anger came. And I don't know where it came from. And nothing set it off. It just came and hit me and then I ended up scrambling out of Aaron's arms from the kitchen to the living room, bashing my head against the floor because it was the only way I could hurt myself, ranting about MotherFuckingFinGETTHEFUCKOUTOFMYHEADIT'SBEENMONTHSANDI'MBETTEROFFWITHOUTYOUSexAaronLoveWhyNotYetWhatDoYouMeanNotYetFamilyFuckingWorthlessPieceofShitTrashWhorePatheticStupidBitchthatIam.

My wrists are sore from Aaron holding me back from myself. Reports vary--it lasted anywhere between 45 minutes to an hour and a half. He said "hit me" and I went limpwon'tdoit. Chantal held my hand when I was calmed down enough. We all ate lava cake afterwards and I sheepishly apologized and leaned against Aaron. I was still drunk.

Aaron said it was the worst he'd ever seen me. I think that was the worst I'd ever seen me, too.

I think I need to call Kathleen next week.