Schmutzie All-In-One

137/365: The Dry Cuckoo

2013-05-18T04:23:04-00:00

They drove into a land with wide swaths of trees,
ponds of water dotting rocky soil,
drier bark leaning into green wood
deep enough to fold into distant dark,
and she reckoned the accident of her birth.
She had flown too far,
overshot the stretch of hills and trees and water,
and landed in a flat space
mowed, ploughed, and dry,
fell to ground that ran off to an endless horizon
and sucked her out,
vacuumed her dry,
planting its cuckoo in her belly.

Within her chest
within the fast car,
she felt the green wood's sudden pulse
against what dust remained
and vowed survival.

Five Star Friday 238th Edition Is Brought to You By Saul Bellow

2013-05-17T13:23:11-00:00

This week's Five Star Friday is brought to you by the power of female physical strength, an anniversary, the complicated tangle of ethics that is international adoption, a love of the sea, an alternative way of learning to mother, and Saul Bellow:

photo credit: MDCarchives

There is an immense, painful longing for a broader, more flexible, fuller, more coherent, more comprehensive account of what we human beings are, who we are and what this life is for.

— Saul Bellow

Happy Friday!

"This Trendy 'Strong is the New Skinny' Thing (and what it could mean for the next generation of girls)" by Sophie at Sophieologie:

Almost every single food, diet, and gym commercial marked towards women stresses the importance of reducing calories and dropping pounds. Not a single one will ever mention the fact all women will look & feel healthier by gaining muscle mass & reducing body fat — an accomplishment that the hallowed bathroom scale will never reflect.

"16 Years" by Tanis Miller at TanisMiller.com:

When I see my husband now, I don't see the optimistic idealistic boy with big dreams and great hopes I once married. I see a gentle spirited, patient, intelligent man who wears the same look of sorrow in his eyes that I have. It's easy to miss his hurt because he hides it behind a big smile and an easy laugh. But it's there. I see it.

"Examining Adoption Ethics: Part One" by Jen Hatmaker at JenHatmaker.com:

Sometimes when you wave a $100 in front of someone, he or she will do anything to get it, even something knowingly harmful. Let’s stipulate that rich Americans flooding impoverished countries with millions of dollars to adopt its children will absolutely garner attention. Money has always been a magnet for corruption. While there are obviously lots of true orphans, without question, that much cash flow will generate some “created orphans” to satisfy demand, especially for babies.

"An Abrupt Course Change" by Tele Aadsen at Hooked:

We've seen other fishermen allow this kind of news to destroy them. For so many of us, our work is not a mere job. Releasing the dock lines, tilting our heads back to take a deep, salty breath, feeling our bodies become one with the sea and our vessels… We find ourselves whole out there, while we wander, incomplete, on land. Out there, we know ourselves in a way that, on land, we often aren't quite sure who we are or where we belong.

"On Mothering" by Vikki Reich at Up Popped a Fox:

Years later, when my mother had mellowed and we had reached our fragile peace, I mentioned that day and she said, "Yeah, you should have had stitches but I took care of it."

Mom, you tried to scotch tape my ass.", "Yeah, you should have had stitches but I took care of it."

She laughed and said, "Well, that probably wasn't one of my best moments."

Please come back and share good writing with us over the coming week to be featured on the next Five Star Friday. If you have read a really good piece on someone else's weblog, submit it by Thursday at midnight CST to have it featured on Five Star Friday.

And because you are a fan of finding good new writing on the internet:

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136/365: Ed Norton Fantasy Poem #11, Magic Giant Ivory Sea Canoe

2013-05-16T19:55:01-00:00

Ed told me that he has been taking lessons
so that he can build us a giant ivory sea canoe.
Clearly, he's mad, but I like to humour him,
because his improbable inventions make me happy.

He says that its large size is what would make his canoe sea-ready,
and its ivory exterior would ensure
both smooth sailing and the appearance of great wealth,
which is often predicated on ignorant destruction.
I can hardly argue with him.
Who doesn't want to look well off?

There will be a girl goat, Ed said,
because they're nicer than boy goats,
because the boat would be our home, and homes need pets,
and we would rig up an on-board water distillation system,
so that we could save space for other cargo,
like all the breakfast waffles we will need for our journey.

Ed refuses to pick a precise destination,
because, as he keeps telling me,
a giant ivory sea canoe can be nothing but magic,
by which he means
that we're just going to plunk ourselves down in the ocean
and let the Fates drag our sea canoe around the planet.
I am somewhat sceptical,
but Ed is an incurable romantic
and obviously a great believer in magic giant ivory sea canoes
with a goat that, he assures me,
can both mow and fertilize her own food patch.

I haven't yet asked what kind of lessons he is taking
to make our magic giant ivory sea canoe a reality,
but I have faith in Ed,
and, as long as his lessons aren't about
how to kill and dismember wild elephants for their tusks,
I am along for the ride.

Let the magic giant ivory sea canoe adventure commence!
Ed yells over the whine of a band saw.

His excitement must be contagious,
because the goat just unloaded
an impressive amount of fertilizer
on its patch of grass.

This may work out after all.

135/365: To Be Loved and Seen and Held

2013-05-15T18:48:00-00:00

Who doesn't want this?
To be loved and seen and held
through all of their days?
I am so blessed to have you,
just one soul to hold my hand.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

A Beautiful Thing Will Grow Out of This Very Hard Thing

2013-05-15T17:40:04Z

Yesterday, for the first time in a very long while, I ventured outside alone to go to the corner store. I wanted to see if it was open so that I could buy something cheap and sweet, but the store was closed. It was only a short block I had to walk to get there, but I felt so exposed, so far from my nest of safety, that my collar bones ached with the tightness in my throat and chest.

I am sometimes afraid to leave my home.

This fear happens when I am shifting, when I am changing my patterns of thought or behaviour. I panic, and my panic turns inward, where I question all the good of which I am capable. I have spent a week sure that I cannot write or make or do valuable things, that my faultiness far outweighs my abilities.

This insecurity is usually followed by the hatred of my own appearance, and this week was no exception. I became convinced that my own appearance was so terrible, so below acceptable standards, that I did not want to be seen by strangers who did not already love me.

"I can't go out," I sometimes say. "Strangers will see my face, and I can't have that."

I came home from my harrowing trip to the corner store with that familiar burn of shame running up the back of my neck while I tried to catch my breath, and I immediately asked the Palinode to come for another, slightly longer walk with me. I knew that my well-being depended on killing this thing in the moment.

I know my mind. If I let leaving be so terrible that it scares me back, and then rest into my safe spot on the couch again, I will more deeply train a pathway in my brain that confirms the messages that Leaving Is Bad and Staying Is Good. I imagined myself in the future on a talk show saying "I don't know how it happened, but one day I just stopped leaving, and now it's been 17 years since I walked out my front door."

The Palinode and I walked to another drugstore further away, and as we chatted about things like whether grease is wet or dry¹ and what the actual elements of moisture are, my chest loosened. The stuck feeling in my throat eased up.

That pathway in my brain, one that could have so easily become a deeper groove, unkinked itself a little bit. I bought myself some more time with freedom.

I haven't said much about my depression, anxiety, or addiction issues over recent months. As much as I've written about them before and talked about them in front of audiences across two countries, I am afraid to write about them here.

I am afraid that no one will believe me anymore that shame can be used to see rather than punish yourself, that your courage is bigger than you know, and that fear is surmountable. I am afraid that I don't have what it takes to stay on this path I have fought so hard to find and bushwhack my way through. I am afraid that people will second-guess hiring me, thinking that I am not up to the job.

Part of my job on this earth, though, and I deeply hold this to be true, is to be very publicly human.

I do have the strength, though. We all do. This is a bones deep knowledge I can't shake.

I'm just experiencing retreat after battle, or, as Brené Brown calls it in I Thought It Was Just Me, a "vulnerability hangover". You shouldn't trust someone who hasn't lived their subject, and so I'm treating this phase of change as intensive study. I'm diving in.

In the end, Ghandi said it most succinctly²:

We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme. A wonderful thing it is and the source of our happiness. We need not wait to see what others do.

This course I take repeatedly through anxiety, depression, and the hard work of sobriety is difficult and terrible at times, but the most beautiful parts of my whole life grow out of the soil it helps me to turn over.

Fear is gripping, but love and belief birth hope, growing capital-c Courage larger than the self.

And, so, a beautiful thing will grow out of this very hard thing, and you will not see me on a show in 17 years wondering why I never left my home again in all that time. This, I can promise you.

^{1. It turns out that grease is a non-Newtonian fluid that can be both wet and dry. Thanks goes to brainiac @jannymarie for the information. ↩} ^{2. This paragraph is often paraphrased as "be the change you want to see in the world", which is an unverified misquote that Ghandi never actually said, because he didn't speak Bumper Sticker. ↩} ]]>

134/365: Joy Is a Madness

2013-05-15T04:22:17-00:00

My heart is freed open to joy
with the bliss
of the pendulum's deep drop.

None of this matters,
because all things are erased into anonymity by death.
All of this matters,
because all things are erased into anonymity by death.
Both are true.

We hold it in the moment's sway
through all and nothing,
nothing and all,
all and nothing,
nothing and all,
all and nothing.

Joy is the madness
of both in one
hung in the unbound space
between left and right.

So, a Blogger and Food Critic Walk Into an Asian Restaurant

2013-05-15T03:52:44-00:00

taken with Afterlight

This is what supper out with a blogger and a food critic looks like.

133/365: Humid Hurry

2013-05-14T05:58:05-00:00

Asphalt,
softened still by old heat
late at night after a first hot day,
bends to the heel
that presses through
the slick of rainwater
inking the ground.
Thunder thrums heavy and low,
thickening the air with ozone
and the animal familiarity
of humid hurry.

132/365: Tedium

2013-05-13T03:10:00-00:00

I eat to survive.
Later, I will defecate.
I'll inhale, exhale.
Some days, this is tedium,
and it devours my will.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

101 Things We Love (aka Grace in Small Things: Sunday Edition #134)

2013-05-12T21:04:49Z

My kitty, Onion, is pretty darn lovely.

I asked the people on Twitter to tell me what they loved, and it turns out that they love a lot of things. They love more than a hundred of them, in fact, so I curated and edited the following compilation of our loves to spread it around a little:

the sound of snapping open a fresh can of something fizzy
coffee
the smell of freshly cut grass
reading
friends who get it
a fluffy cat curled up next to me and cooing like a happy pigeon while he sleeps
having written
a good toilet flange
my husband's hands
yoghurt, specifically spelled with the H in the middle
holding my hand out the window of a car while going down the highway in summer
a good latte
great writing
avocados
callouses on my fingertips from playing guitar
lavender
my kid snoring
darjeeling tea with coconut flavouring and milk
the ukulele
ice cold water
the feel of suede
new book smell
the way I get goosebumps when my husband looks at me
that moment in a movie you've seen a hundred times before that still takes your breath away and paralyzes you as you wait for it
Hendrick's gin
new jammies
performing
laughing
hot buttery popcorn with garlic powder and hot sauce
connecting again with a person you love but thought you'd lost
kitties
happy hour with friends
cooking a good meal
discovering new music
British miniseries
Sunday afternoon naps
watermelon
a clean house
chosen families
that kids wear costumes just because they can
kissing
almond biscotti drizzled with chocolate
rainy days
smoked swiss cheese
singing loudly
cheesy dance moves
my dog
green buds on trees
thunderstorms
fuzzy kitty bellies
popsicles
the power of music to connect people
surprising my stepson
pizza
rain drumming on the roof late at night
pedicures
feeling like I belong
love
crunching through ice cubes
cats purring
burritos
listening to a tone deaf person who loves to sing butcher their favourite song
finding a bra that fits just so
chocolate cake
the first night you notice the fireflies have come back for the summer
summery days with thunder clouds off in the distance
peppermint
street fairs
pesto
listening to wild birds outside
Mad Men
going out for brunch on the weekend
crafting
swimming
the colour of the light at golden hour
grapefruits
being read to
Scully and Mulder's dedication to bringing out the best in each other in The X-Files
sushi
photography
random acts of kindness from strangers
the cool side of the pillow
kisses from my son
drinking iced tea in the shade on a hot day
finishing a creative project I feel really good about
Sam Cooke
cracking through the shell on crème brûlée
poetry
learning
time travel
how excited my dog gets every time he sees me
dulce de leche ice cream
the sound of my kids laughing
clean sheets fresh from the line
roasted Brussels sprouts
old school rotary telephones
dancing until my body hurts
bowties
warm sunshine with a slight breeze
sleeping in
long lists of things people love

Thanks to all the good people who answered my call!

What do you love?

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things. ]]>

131/365: Goodness

2013-05-11T23:21:00-00:00

A breeze crossed my face,
soft through an open window,
and woke me from sleep.
Life's goodness often happens
quietly, invisibly.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

130/365: The Accountants

2013-05-11T05:59:26-00:00

Whenever I see
saturated video or photographs
of young people looking open and joyful,
I think
Oh no, they will be dead soon,
and also that it will be tragic,
spontaneous and unjustly violent,
their future history disappeared before them,
because that's how it happens:
we love too much,
we see too well,
our joy swells too high and bright,
and then the universe clacks the numbers out
on its machine and says,
Enough,
and the allotment's been spent.

This mourning of every young smile
and every light step
is melodramatic, sure,
but I am watching them go,
dying all the time,
and it is only right that they are known
before the accountants
take their due.

Five Star Friday's 237th Edition Is Brought to You By Claire Messud

2013-05-10T08:24:33-00:00

This week's Five Star Friday is brought to you by a trip through depression, a nasty con game, a pretty damn good list, expanding yourself into a more beautiful life, a powerful little human, a call for a more inclusive Mother's Day, diet craziness, a happy discovery of pragmatic agnosticism, how a specific fictional character rose out of an author's experience, and Claire Messud:

photo credit: PalFest

To a degree, literary taste is a subjective matter. One can admire a work of fiction without particularly enjoying it; one can dislike a novel even while appreciating its value.

— Claire Messud

Happy Friday!

"Depression Part Two" by Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half:

At some point during this phase, I was crying on the kitchen floor for no reason. As was common practice during bouts of floor-crying, I was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular and feeling sort of weird about myself. Then, through the film of tears and nothingness, I spotted a tiny, shriveled piece of corn under the refrigerator.

"Not Just a Girl" by Jaime Moore at Jaime Moore Photography:

My daughter wasn't born into royalty, but she was born into a country where she can now vote, become a doctor, a pilot, an astronaut, or even President if she wants and that’s what REALLY matters. I wanted her to know the value of these amazing women who had gone against everything so she can now have everything.

"The Dove Sketches Beauty Scam" by TheLastPsych at The Last Psychiatrist:

Self esteem is sold to you as an inalienable right, not something to be earned; and if you don't have self-esteem it's because fake society made you feel bad about yourself. But fake society also made you feel good about yourself, it propped you up. The reason you got an A and not an R and believed it is because you actually believe you are an A kind of guy, Math, English, History, Science, PE, and Lunch notwithstanding. A, not R. But if everyone deserves it, it has no value. Which is why getting it is unsatisfying.

"An Open Letter to Pastors (A Non-Mom Speaks About Mother's Day)" by Amy Young at The Messy Middle:

A pastor asked all mothers to stand. On my immediate right, my mother stood and on my immediate left, a dear friend stood. I, a woman in her late 30s, sat. I don't know how others saw me, but I felt dehumanized, gutted as a woman. Real women stood, empty shells sat. I do not normally feel this way. I do not like feeling this way. I want no woman to ever feel this way in church again.

"Rules for Life" by Jenny Lawson at The Bloggess:

7. Critics aren’t automatically bullies and you’re doing yourself a disservice if you ignore all of them out of hand. That being said, it sucks to read shitty stuff about yourself so find an honest friend to read your criticism and tell you if it’s something worth listening to or if the critic is just a crazy fucking douche-canoe.

"Dieting Last Resorts" by Margaret Elysia Garcia at Girl Body Pride:

Once we broke up, I gained again. I noticed my aunt and uncle seemed to be both super slimmed down and hyper alert. My grandmother suggested I ask them the secret of their dieting success. My uncle wouldn’t tell me but his wife, a giantess, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Drugs. Hard drugs."

"Creative Rehab: 7 Myths About Creativity" by Andréa Balt at Rebelle Society:

You'd think it's innate — this ability to transcend the mundane and discover a second, more magnificent world within the one you've been taught to argue with. And maybe you do come with superpowers at birth but you lose them as your mind conquers your heart over time.

"I'm Coming From Where I Have Been" by Jenna Cole at That Wife:

I realize that this will be an opportunity for some to write me off as someone who wasn’t righteous enough and gave in to the natural man. I have accepted that this may be something some people may believe about me no matter what I say in my own defense. Living authentically and openly is more important to me than avoiding any malicious or untrue statements that might be made about me because of choices made about my lifestyle.

"Why is Park Korean?" by Rainbow Rowell at Rainbow:

I think the question is more about me than Park. It's — why did I make Park Korean? There aren't a lot of Asian boys in YA; the character calls attention to himself. Why would a white author write about an Asian guy?

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129/365: A Solitary Unit of Stars' Aftermath

2013-05-10T05:24:28-00:00

It is the place of anesthesia,
gormless and indiscrete,
and the moments in the dark alone
when you look out into it
and know the whole, hollow weight
of being an only one,
a solitary unit of stars' aftermath
crucified under a blanket,
that leaves you wondering
who will roll the stone away for you.
When you have spent three decades
vigilant enough, but anxious,
leaning into the hope
that the story,
as it is usually told,
will offer you the same affection,
there is not much else to do
but wait it through.

Onion, Our Resident Stoner

2013-05-09T22:33:35-00:00

taken with Afterlight

That little pillow at Onion's feet is stuffed with what I assume is catnip. We got it as a gift from People For Animals Saskatchewan, because I do some work for them in the name of all the heartbreakingly sweet lost kittens that need families.

Onion dearly loves this pillow. He launches vicious sneak attacks against it around corners, hunkers down on it like a chicken with a new egg, and licks it until it is in a sopping wet puddle on the floor.

He's making a day of getting stoned today, so he keeps forgetting where it is and whines at the hall closet door until I open it to show him it isn't there. For him, it is always in the closet, because that is where we found it before he got high for the first time this morning.

Onion is our resident stoner, and, frankly, I am envious.

128/365: Mellified Man

2013-05-09T05:13:00-00:00

I'm fascinated
with tales of mellified men
honied before death.
Their sacrifice of last days
seems too strange a delusion.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

I Spoke, I Saw, I Re-evaluated What I Love: Mom 2.0 Summit

2013-05-08T18:47:52Z

Mom 2.0 Summit from May 2nd to May 5th.

Now, before you worry that this is one of those annoying conference posts that cheers RAH! RAH! while telling you nothing of import, I swear this is not one of those. Unless you don't give a fig for the state of women, social media, and the health of Us. I hope you do, because this is the future we're in, baby, and the water's fine.

Also, this might be long-ish. Get coffee.

The conference was held at the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel, which was undeniably ritzy.

I am one of those people who opens her suitcase, pulls out every last item, and then proceeds to throw each article across different pieces of furniture. My brain calls this "organizing my outfits", which is hilarious, because I don't have outfits. I have black, black, and more black occasionally broken up by a pattern on black or a brown shirt. Aaanywaaay, I exploded my suitcase, left the room, and when I came back, everything was folded square and placed neatly back in my suitcase.

The staff at the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel are incredible. They are beautiful and friendly and will hang your thong underwear delicately from the bathroom doorknob if you are the kind of blogger who might indelicately leave your thong underwear out in the middle of the bathroom for your roommate's enjoyment.

Which I am not. ~~Okay, I so am~~. I miss Suebob already. She was the best roommate.

You maybe don't know this, but I'm afraid of flying, so I distracted myself on the way to the conference by making fun of a giant children's toy at the Calgary airport. Who couldn't, though?

As you can see from its plaque above, the toy is in memory of Punch Dickins, a bush pilot who flew a Fokker through Regina. The jokes just write themselves, and I'm sure that that toy must defile the minds of thousands of children every year.

I apologize for my immaturity if Punch was your uncle or something. I'm sure he was a lovely man.

Anyway, I got on the plane, I made my peace with my place in the universe and the things I have done in it, and then I survived again, as usual.

My mind, it brings on the drama.

The conference was a string of gorgeous events from the opening party to the last,

with meals under palm fronds in sunny, oceanside courtyards,

and, well, the OCEAN was there, but all of that natural beauty and the posh environs were not what made Mom 2.0 Summit a success.

Whirlpool made me lusty after appliances and avocado pesto over pasta.

What made Mom 2.0 Summit such a success was the dedication of both its founders — Laura Mayes and Carrie Pacini — and the conference sponsors — Dove, Honda, and Lowe's, to name a few — not only to the social media and marketing end of things but also to truly meaningful engagement and social good.

This was what I found in my conversations with the attendees, as well. While we had honest discussions about our desire for professional growth in social media, most of those discussions also included ideas about how we can incorporate social good into the work we do. Sure, it was nice to get free gift bags of a company's product, but we also wanted to know how that product, that company, or our relationship with that company would work towards bettering the world we live in.

Jessica Ashley and Meagan Francis getting manicures

I've watched blogging and social media grow and change over the last ten years, and, at least in the parent blogging communities of which I am part, all childlessness aside, it is growing up into a fine, fine thing. The people I met were mindful and focused and inspired to contribute both to the communities they inhabit and the world at large.

Gone was the childish elbowing for swag for which bloggers have been criticized. At Mom 2.0, I saw attendees, sponsors, and film and television personalities, such as Kyra Phillips and Amanda Peet, engaging with one another on more equal footing, watching and listening and figuring out the next steps through this medium together. There was an equality and a shared purpose that I had not seen before.

I say all this as someone who does not focus on sponsored content in my own work but who believes that the blogging and social media community's health depends, at least in part, on its ability to handle its connections with marketing not only well but also meaningfully.

Women bloggers are smart, focused, and generous, contrary to The Wall Street Journal's take on us.

I did have a low point, though. I'm not going to lie. Conferences tend to overwhelm me, because, despite the fact that I get on stage to speak, and I travel the halls hugging people and trading business cards, I am a fairly extreme introvert.

I finally broke on Saturday afternoon — too much socializing coupled with a vulnerability hangover from the "Fear and Becoming Known" talk I delivered to a couple hundred people on Friday afternoon — and so I took some time to go for a walk on the beach alone and reconsider my entire life up until that point and going forward, because why not reassess your place in the universe and freak out about middle age and feel completely lost and more than a little hopeless in the middle of one of the most beautiful places on earth?

Again: my mind, it brings on the drama.

By the time I made it back to the hotel, though, I felt like I had been set aright again. Sometimes, all I need is a little bit of a realignment. Call it soul chiropracty, if you will.

I looked around at my community, and I was proud of what I saw. The entire community down to the last blogger is not always a stellar example representing the whole, but, by and large, this is the kind of community I have been trying to build up, hoping for, the kind of community that strives for quality, creativity, and meaningful action.

That's why getting together with my peers in the field is so important. I learn, change, go through the ridiculous process of freaking out about said change, because even good change can mean a difficult adjustment, and then I grow again, both personally and professionally.

It's a little like moulting, only less reptilian and more with the crying on the most beautiful beach in California.

This is Polly, me, and Jim. I win in a hair fight.

In short, if anyone tells you that women in blogging and social media are just a pile of over-sharing narcissists who need to get real lives, what they're really telling you is that they have no idea whatsoever about what is actually going on.

I admit it, I was doubting the health and future of our group of early adopters a couple of years ago, but no more. There is a sea change afoot, and we're just getting started.

Dear everyone I met at Mom 2.0 Summit in Laguna Niguel, you rocked it out. Love, me.

----------------------------

And, last but not least, if you would like to see the slides from my Mom 2.0 Summit talk, "Fear and Becoming Known: Connection and Growth Through Selfish Acts", you can see them in the slideshow below.

Fear & Becoming Known: Connection and Growth Through Selfish Acts
from Elan Morgan

]]>

127/365: The Loudest Thing On Earth

2013-05-08T05:55:00-00:00

They stood in a field on a still day,
midafternoon,
shifting their shorts
where the young wheat itched their knees.

You hear that? he said.
That humming? she said.
Yes, he said. That's you.

And, suddenly,
she was the loudest thing on earth.

Hummmmmmm.

126/365: McDonald's Does Its Worst

2013-05-06T17:38:00-00:00

Here's what meat is now:
ground assorted animal.
Food becomes object.
I put it in my mouth, chew,
and feel its metallic tang.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

Break Dancing + Yoga + Arthur Cadre = Remarkable Possibility

2013-05-06T17:07:28Z

Mom 2.0 Summit in Laguna Niguel, California this last weekend, I urge you to watch this video, and not only because this guy does insane things with hips:

When I watched it, I was struck with the possibility it points out. I doubt that anyone looked at Arthur Cadre at birth and thought "At the 33-second mark in a video in 2013, he is going to demonstrate a remarkable dedication to yoga, dance, and art that is exceeded by few others, if any", but he does it anyway, because human beings have an incredible faculty for surprising themselves and each other.

Each of us has created or been a part of something remarkable that stretches the bounds of possiblity, even if it doesn't have the polish of good filmmaking and wasn't done quite on purpose. We can't help ourselves but be a part of remarkable things. It's just what happens with the incredible spark of existence with which this universe endows us.

What really makes me marvel at Arthur Cadre, though, is that he can do these things with his body on purpose without being involved in some kind of violent accident.

Check out Arthur Cadre's YouTube channel for more. ]]>

125/365: The Tube Homeward

2013-05-05T17:09:00-00:00

Morning airport chill
pours down my neck from a vent
ten feet higher up.
We herd apart through the chute
to shuffle the tube homeward.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

30 Reasons Why I Might Not Follow You Back On Twitter

2013-05-05T01:46:05Z

You have #TeamFollowBack in your bio.

You don't reply to anyone in your tweet stream.

Your tweet stream is little more than a list of giveaways and sponsored posts.

You are hyper-focused on one topic and never stray into human communication.

You constantly tweet links telling me to follow you on another social media platform.

You only retweet other people while rarely saying anything yourself.

You call yourself crazy, drunk, weird, or passionate.

You promise your followers things if you gain a certain number of them.

You only tweet links to your blog or content on other sites.

Your bio claims that you are a social media guru or maven.

You promise to commit to social good activities only if your followers promote your content.

You are a business who sells tractors or diaper supplies or whathaveyou three thousand miles away from where I live.

You are heavy on the leetspeak.

Your bio claims that you are an expert on three or more things.

Your tweet stream is cluttered with app spam from the other apps you use telling me where you are, how many calories your burned running, or what your twitter stats are.

You make sexist, pornographic, or otherwise hate-mongering comments.

You have no bio whatsoever.

Your company bio reads like a board room mission statement.

Your whole stream is inspirational quotations.

Your bio claims to be that of an appliance, as though I want to have a relationship with a food mixer.

You have only two tweets to your name, but you already follow 2000 people, only 12 of whom follow you back.

Your avatar is still the default egg picture.

Your account is private and you have little to no information in your bio to help me figure out if I know you or why I would want to follow you.

You have multiple people tweeting from your account but never specify whose tweet is whose.

The majority of your tweet stream is you tweeting at celebrities and big brands.

You use exclamation marks in every single tweet.

You don't tweet in English.

Your bio states that you want to spread your religion.

Your bio focuses on you as a salesperson.

Your content is devoted to bitching about how other people are doing it wrong :)

]]>

124/365: Fat Girls On the Beach

2013-05-04T22:43:00-00:00

Fat girls on the beach
stagger through white sand,
bikini tops tied tight through flesh,
and giggle behind spread fingers,
darting overt stares at boys down the line
who have their tongues in the mouths of older girls
with longer legs riding virgins to a fault.
Embarrassed and nervy,
the younger ones run to each other and collapse,
their cheeks pinked with 12-year-old's pornography.

They pull their hair
down from the wind
to cross their mouths
and hide their delight.

123/365: Astonishing and Grand

2013-05-03T20:32:00-00:00

I took this photo at the Ritz-Carlton in Laguna Niguel during the Mom 2.0 Summit.

The hotel room's lawn
stretches, green, away and down
to the ocean beach.
That I can be here at all
is astonishing and grand.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

122/365: An Eager Speech

2013-05-02T20:17:00-00:00

The taxi pulled me
through the early morning dark,
rushing to the plane.
I worked over an eager speech
to wring out my disquiet.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

121/365: A Resort Far Away

2013-05-01T19:57:00-00:00

I buy plane tickets
to a resort far away
with palm trees and sun.
It's strange to know I'll be gone,
stranger still that I'll be back.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

120/365: They Know the Way

2013-04-30T17:38:06-00:00

Remember your feet.
They move on assuredly.
They know the way there.
They've borne you since your first year,
and bear what you cannot see.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

25 Things On My To Do List Before I Head to Laguna Niguel to Speak At Mom 2.0 Summit

2013-04-30T16:03:15Z

1. Look forward to getting out of Saskatchewan for a few days, because this is what our spring dumped on us last night. For serious:

2. Sand the devil callouses off my feet so that they look less hoof-like in sandals.

3. Shave my legs. I have what we Canucks refer to as "insulation" going on, but I don't think anyone's going to be complimenting me on my luxurious fur in Laguna.

4. Find the business cards with my actual name on them, because, believe it or not, I have a name other than Schmutzie!

5. Practice my talk over and over until my voice cracks.

6. Try to rework my talk, because it takes ten minutes to get through, not the seven it's supposed to.

7. Fuss over writing a sentence that ends in a preposition, because procrastination by grammar worry feels productive.

8. Laugh at the men's deodorant in Shoppers Drug Mart. BELIEVE IN YOUR SMELLF:

9. Work on my word enunciation, because maybe I can fit all ten minutes into seven minutes if I speak really fast.

10. Go clothes shopping, because I am still wearing the clothes I bought for BlogHer '10.

11. Launder all of the things.

12. Feel like I'm marching headlong into old age while organizing my vitamins and allergy medication into a days-of-the-week pill organizer.

13. Investigate my suitcase for signs of cat urine, because Onion is an evil bastard who likes to thwart my travel plans.

14. Listen to the whole of Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" album at least three times, because repetition is my lorazepam.

15. Pick up American money at the bank.

16. Play dirty words in Scrabble to amuse myself enough to forget my travel anxiety.

17. Feel the old burn of the grudge I hold against my grandmother for that time she wouldn't let me play FUCK on a triple word score for many tens of points.

18. Place a panicked call to my hairdresser. Leave a panicked message when she doesn't pick up. Panic.

19. Practice gelling my unruly sideburns behind my ears.

20. Make both Onion and the Palinode wheeze with extra squeezes, because I'll miss them when I have to sleep without them in my hotel room. The other two cats are being pissants, so they can suck it.

21. Try to keep my cool about the fact that I get to room with the inimitable Suebob.

22. Make sure I have my itinerary handy, because I have to make my way through seven airports on this one trip, and I WILL NOT FAIL.

23. Write extra poetry in advance so that I can keep up with my #365poems project while I'm travelling.

24. Write a prayer tanka while waiting for the herbal anxiety tincture to kick in:

Remember your feet.
They move on assuredly.
They know the way there.
They've borne you since your first year,
and bear what you cannot see.

25. Pack my suitcase. ]]>

119/365: Cleanliness Metronome

2013-04-30T03:25:00-00:00

The laundry machine
is a mnemonic device
for meditation,
a cleanliness metronome
pulling me into slow breath.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

Grace in Small Things: Sunday Edition #133

2013-04-28T19:19:08Z

The ability to take short but decadent breaks in a hot bath with coffee and a kitty
The dinner party we hosted for the first time after 12 years of being married that was populated by artists and writers and speakers, and why haven't we done this sooner?!
Smelling a freshly opened, new tube of mascara
Mud, because it means that the temperature is above freezing, finally
The cake I am going to sneak for a late breakfast

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things. ]]>

118/365: Fantastic Tribulation

2013-04-28T18:32:07-00:00

My childhood's spiritual education
was delivered through the vocabulary of persecution.

Our people were without nation.
We were one with all who sought asylum from oppression.
Our isolation was the guardian of our spiritual wealth.

The summer camp romance novel
of our Anabaptist fate was seductive,
raised up in a chorus of Negro spirituals
sung by white children who believed
these words of injustice and alienation lived too
in our confessions of mean kids at recess.

We were historically embedded underdogs
play-acting Moses' circular desert trek,
marching ourselves through fields until sweat ran
to become both more Hebrews-compassionate
and hungry enough for lukewarm chili
ladled onto melamine plates.

My child's heart suckled on intemperate tragedy,
savouring the fantastic tribulation of my body in a cage
hung from the steeple of Münster's church,
where the birds could pick clean my sacred bones.

117/365: The Guests Have Gone

2013-04-28T05:53:00-00:00

It's late.
The guests have gone
and left a quiet space
where, before them, it was so loud.
I breathe.
I forget this about people.
We try peace through retreat,
and loneliness
drains it.

----------------------------

The above poem is a butterfly cinquain, which is a nine-line syllabic verse that follows the pattern 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 2 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2.

116/365: Fool Be Gone

2013-04-27T05:27:00-00:00

"So, you work from home?
I wish I could play all day,"
he said, and then died,
because my work is valuable,
and fools needn't be suffered.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

Five Star Friday's 236th Edition Is Brought to You By Daniel H. Pink

2013-04-26T06:01:00-00:00

This week's Five Star Friday is brought to you by the importance of longer form writing online, a Boston Marathon spectator, a call for more mindful communication, the effects of culturally ingrained white social advantage, knowing when to walk away, the value of storytelling, dealing with the darker emotions that come with breast cancer, a struggle with self-image, and Daniel H. Pink:

photo credit: CIPD

While complying can be an effective strategy for physical survival, it's a lousy one for personal fulfillment. Living a satisfying life requires more than simply meeting the demands of those in control.

— Daniel H. Pink

Happy Friday!

"We Used to Speak In Essays" by Sarah Dopp at Dopp Juice:

Broadcasting distilled, emotional battle cries without background context to our entire Rolodexes is further polarizing us as a community. And aren't we polarized enough as it is?

I want us to speak in essays again, to connect compassionately over our differences, to listen, to be respectful, and to learn from each other. The fact that our audience has broadened to everyone we’ve ever met makes it that much more important to be real, human, and long-form about where we’re coming from and why we feel the way we do.

"When Is It Time to Walk Away?" by Jen Hatmaker at JenHatmaker.com:

There is a tipping point when the work becomes exhausting beyond measure, useless. You can't pour antidote into a vat of poison forever and expect it to transform into something safe, something healthy. In some cases, poison is poison, and the only sane answer is to move on.

"Quaker Mode" by Mike Monteiro (NSFW) at The Pastry Box Project:

As the world seems to be falling apart, and social media introduces a new level of cacophony of misinformation, speculation, and downright venomous bile — we should ask ourselves, is what I am about to say better than silence? Am I adding anything to what's already being said? And possibly most importantly, is my desire to say it keeping me from listening to what is already being said. Because waiting for your turn to talk is not the same as listening.

Have I actually improved the silence?

"Why Do You Write?" by Vikki Reich at Lesbian Family:

After the birth of my second child, I started blogging and, again, had no idea why I was putting words on a virtual page to be read by strangers (if at all) but I did it and I am still doing it seven years later.

But blogging changed me. It helped me realize that every piece of writing is a story unfolding, that my life is a story unfolding.

"First Impressions" by Ashley Austrew at Zebra Garden:

And then the tears are rolling down your cheeks, silent and warm, and you hate yourself for it. Your husband comes up to check on you, see how much longer you'll be, and you duck into the closet, pretend to be looking for something. You don’t want him to see because he wouldn't understand, he couldn't understand. How could he ever understand how something as simple as getting dressed can make a person cry?

"Boston Marathon Snapshots Take On New Meaning" by Lauren Crabbe at Digital Photography Review: Connect:

While it's not surprising that civilian photos are being used in an FBI investigation, the potential amount of raw footage under review may be unprecedented.

"The Sound of Startled Agony" by Lisa Boncheck Adams at LisaBAdams.com:

Perhaps I feel the written land of the upbeat is for others. My niche is here, in the agony of this disease. There is so much emphasis on "being positive" and all of that; I feel the compulsion to show the flip side, too.

"I'm Not Your 'Black Friend'" by Crystal Sykes at The Bold Italic:

The thing that is hardest to explain is that these jokes are coming from a position of privilege my white friends don't even realize they have. This social advantage is so ingrained in our culture that they aren't aware their comments are coming off the backs of centuries' worth of hardship and oppression. The tipping point for me was about two years ago, at a friend's house, when I was introduced as "The Black Friend." As my friend laughed off his statement, my heart dropped at this oversimplification of me as a person. I quickly realized that the joke was on me, and the punch line was my race.

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115/365: Sticky

2013-04-26T05:47:00-00:00

I could be annoyed
at sticky counter leavings,
where his knife was stuck,
but I remember instead
his smile while he licked fingers.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

The World Has Stories to Tell Us About Ourselves If We Listen For Them

2013-04-25T17:56:17Z

The trip, which covered no more than two blocks there and back, felt momentous, because it had been a full week since I had left the apartment. A particularly disgusting and painful version of the common cold had anchored me to an armchair, and while I wasn't feeling well at all yet, I needed to acknowledge the land of the living.

While I waited to pay for my groceries, I watched a little boy play with one grandmother in a small children's area outfitted with toys and books while his other grandmother chatted with the cashier.

"We asked him where he wanted to go," she said, "and he told us he wanted to come here!"

"That's so cute," the cashier said.

"This is his favourite place," the grandmother said.

This little boy's favourite place was this grocery store, and I could see why. They made him feel welcome. They gave him a place in it that he was free to use as he pleased. The woman at the sandwich counter sneaked him a chunk of carob. This corner of the grocery store had become his place, too, and he wanted to share it with people he liked.

While watching him, I realized that this is what we all want, really. We want to feel, and actually be, included. We want to be given the freedom to stake our claim to communal spaces and be accepted. And, more than finding acceptance, we want to share our good communal finds with each other and deepen those connections.

This idea, this extended welcome, is behind how I write, design, consult, and speak, but I was unable to find the right words for it until I watched a four-year-old showing his extended family how all the parts of his favourite space worked and why he liked them.

It reminded me to watch the world more closely and the stories it has to tell. Our personal narratives — the very stuff that describes our goals, beliefs, and understanding of who we are — are informed and illuminated by these stories, and they can speak profoundly to us in the smallest, incidental moments. ]]>

114/365: Present Day Poets Are Narcissists

2013-04-25T04:29:36-00:00

Poetry is a diminished form now, some declare.
Its original intent was to explore larger concepts,
but now it is about subjective experience,
a stylized journal entry.
Present day poets are narcissists.

So, that's what's wrong, I think.
I am a narcissist.
I have the goddamned nerve to tell my own story,
to pick out the universal in the particular.

Then, I sit down and write a poem about it,
because this narcissist has a subjective experience to journal,
and she needs to stylize it.

Palinode At Night

2013-04-24T17:17:10-00:00

taken with Afterlight, and then run through Noise Master

Sometimes, low light and noise be damned, I like a photo anyway.

Check Out My Profile of Perseverance Interview with Arianna Merritt

2013-04-23T18:57:15Z

Profile of Perseverance Interview: Elan Morgan" to read my interview with creativity catalyst Arianna Merritt:

I’m so excited that today a role model of mine and fellow Canadian blogger, Elan Morgan (aka Schmutzie), is sharing her thoughts on perseverance with us... After hearing her Ted Talk, I had to ask her to be part of the “Profiles of Perseverance” series as Elan encouraged me to be more open and dig deep by sharing my personal narrative with others. I’m so thankful for Elan’s advice; she truly inspires me. Thanks, Elan, for your presence on my blogging journey!

]]>

113/365: The Precipice

2013-04-23T17:43:00-00:00

I hesitate now.
If I do press the button,
I must go forward.
The precipice is chilling
when you cannot see the ground.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

112/365: Ed Norton Fantasy Poem #10

2013-04-22T17:08:40-00:00

This is my Ed Norton-ized version of Amanda Palmer's poem, A Poem for Dzhokhar, which has garnered much criticism from places like Gawker, which called it "...the worst poem ever composed in the English language".

Ed Norton, you don't know how it felt to be me watching your long shorts brush your knees from my seat in a dark theatre where I ate chicken fingers and hoped you weren't cold.

you don't know how intimately the female gaze falls to your hemline.

you don't know how to stop talking with that flat affect of yours, and you're not going to.

you don't know how little you've been paying attention until you discover that, holy crap, you're 43 already.

you don't know how many times you can say you're coming until the neighbours in the next hotel room bang on the wall and tell you to just cum already, goddamnit.

you don't know how orgasmic the act of eating my savoury bacon and caramelized onion pancakes is.

you don't know how many people got punched in the face and liked it because of you.

you don't know how convinced your parents were that life wouldn't go by this fast.

you don't know how precious your thumbs are until you accidentally shoot one with a nail gun.

you don't know how to get away from the stupid buzz of celebrity.

you don't know how it's possible to feel such joy over breakfast waffles and such disappointment over making a film your heart wasn't into.

you don't know how things could get this bad on the planet.

you don't know how to make something, but you insist on trying to invent it anyway.

you don't know how to make sense of the fact that you once dated Courtney Love.

you don't know how to believe anything when Total Blueberry Pomegranate cereal doesn't even contain blueberries and pomegranates.

you don't know how to tell the girl in the chair next to you that it's okay if she continues to write poetry about you that's completely unmoored from anything actual.

you don't know how to explain why you look so hot in khaki shorts, but you'll accept the compliment.

you don't want two percent but the store's all out of one percent.

you don't know how claustrophobic your house is until you're stuck in one of those tight mountaineering sleeping bags that you bought for your trip and took for a test run on your living room floor.

you don't know why you let that guy go and rope you into doing The Italian Job, but contracts can be a bitch.

you don't know where your friends do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.

you don't know how to dance, but you know how to be the United Nations Goodwill Ambassador for Biodiversity.

you don't know how your life managed to be so awesome.

you don't know how to pay back your debt to the planet for existing, but you're doing your best.

you don't know how to separate milk, because, if you did, you wouldn't be buying this goddamned two percent.

you don't know how come people run their lives without making every effort to give something back and pay it forward.

you don't know how to measure the value of knee socks, because you're not some pervy lady sitting in a dark theatre watching Moonrise Kingdom.

you don't know how you walked into this exact situation, but it sure is amusing.

you don't know how to adjust the dial, but that's okay, because it's all touch screens now.

you don't know how to mourn for things like lost pets or broken toys in the face of global warming.

you don't know how to drive a tractor like a boss, but there's only so much call for that kind of thing.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

111/365: Syrup from Knives

2013-04-22T05:13:00-00:00

The pancakes were rare,
savoury with sweet onions,
minced and carmelized.
Afterward, we licked syrup
from knives and plotted for more.

----------------------------

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.

Grace in Small Things: Sunday Edition #132

2013-04-22T01:56:02Z

That deeply serious face Oskar, the black cat in front, puts on, because he is deeply serious about most everything there is
There is finally sun in the morning!
Taking a basic pancakes recipe and turning it into a savoury Balkan yogurt, bacon, and caramelized onions pancakes recipe
The small town dinner theatre I went to in Craven, Saskatchewan last night with my friend, Sabrina, where we watched a friend work it on stage
The Palinode's regular foot massages, which make me momentarily forget this brutal cold I am slogging through

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things.

]]>

110/365: Persephone's Worth

2013-04-21T05:31:00-00:00

Cheap laundromat detergent stuck to my hands,
which I worked out from between my fingers
with old underwear behind my back
while you wrote out an inscription in a used book
on top of a humming dryer.
It said This will carry you while you find your muse,
or Young poets never get old,
or something else you thought would move me,
and then you pulled a glass bottle of Orange Crush out of your satchel —
an anachronism, sure poison —
and a pomegranate,
which you picked open and fed to me with red fingers
as we walked down a hot street.
The sun gave slow sparks off the bottle
where we leaned into a brick wall,
and I knew I could never sleep with you.
Every pomegranate seed was a bolt
each word screwed tighter
with your retelling of Persephone's journey,
and I was worth more than six seeds.

Schmutzie All-In-One

137/365: The Dry Cuckoo

Five Star Friday 238th Edition Is Brought to You By Saul Bellow

136/365: Ed Norton Fantasy Poem #11, Magic Giant Ivory Sea Canoe

135/365: To Be Loved and Seen and Held

A Beautiful Thing Will Grow Out of This Very Hard Thing

I do have the strength, though. We all do. This is a bones deep knowledge I can't shake.

Fear is gripping, but love and belief birth hope, growing capital-c Courage larger than the self.

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Dear everyone I met at Mom 2.0 Summit in Laguna Niguel, you rocked it out. Love, me.

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