Tea, Toast, and a Poet

Day 8: Pamukkale

2010-05-31T10:42:00.000-07:00

In the morning our bus took us to Aphrodisias, the ruins of an artists' colony of sculptors, upon which a village had been standing not long ago. The man who discovered the ruins actually found the village built atop the old pillars, columns, fallen capitals, actually using some of the original marble furniture too! Here we saw a theater, bathhouse, that place where the council would meet and I forget what it's called, workshops, and the most awesome stadium. It's neat because the path leading into it at first only gives a view of one end, which just looks like another theater, but as you enter the stadium , and turn to the left, you gasp at the length of it; it stretches on forever! This stadium can seat 30,000 people, so amazing. On the walk through the ruins we saw by the path a flower, a smaller species related to the Titan Arum, on which I've written a piece in the past, which stinks of rotting meat, attracting flies and the like. Beautiful though and a neat find. When we reached the end, by the ruins of a temple and the tomb of the discoverer, Pleen and Barb and I saw sprinklers, and being as unbelievably hot as we were , we ran through the refreshing water, squeeling like children and thouroughly enjoying ourselves. It felt so good! At the site is a museum showcasing the sculptures excavated from the site. Ancient sculptures of the greeks and romans are by far my favourite, so I enjoyed seeing them. So beautiful, magnificent. With a bit of time left I went and saw photos taken at the time of the site's discovery, with village life built atop the ruins, then wandered over to buy an icecream. I pointed to the one I wanted, something with 'karamel', but he took out two cones. I pointed to the one I actually wanted, saying "just this one" but he said "promotion" insisting I take the second for only 50kurus more. Ok... it had a picture of cupid on it, and I ate it, too, haha. I couldn't guess at the flavour though. After seeing all the was to see, a trailer with seats towed by a tractor pulled us to where the buses were parked. Of course there were more stalls of wares. One of the things sold only here are little clay bird shaped whistles, which, when filled with a bit of water, make neat bird sounds. I bought an unpainted one, which looks more ancient/authentic than the tacky painted ones, for only 2TL, though I've yet to make it work very well. Oh well, still neat!

After wards the bus took us to a place for lunch. When we were all seated, a guy came by with a big trolley with examples to show us what we could order with Selcuk translating for him. They went through it a second time, this time we raised out hands when they named the item we wanted. Pretty efficient! I ordered the spinach and cheese pide. I'm not sure there was any cheese, but it did have egg in it, I'm sure, and it was tasty, with a bottle of water. The restaurant had peacocks at it, cool.

Then we headed to the hotel to pick up those who'd chosen not to go on the optional tour of Aphrodisias, and we rode to Hierapolis.

Hierapolis is an ancient acropolis. The mountain it is built on had one side covered in white calcification from the natural mineral spring that has formed terraced pools. To reduce the destruction tourism in the past did to the travertines, the portions open to tourists can only be walked on barefoot. The abundance of international feet in a variety of conditions dissuaded me from taking part, and I spooked Pleen too much for her to do so as well. The mineral water is said to have healing properties and a pool has been built on the site fed from the spring. for 25TL you can swim amongst topple pillars. Expensive, and honestly looked much like a fancy hotel pool, but kinda scummy. They have a cafe set up by the pool though, so Pleen, Jayde, and I enjoyed our free time drinking some Efes. On the way back to the bus we stopped into the museum's shop and I bought a gorgeous lavender, cream, and gold scarf and, since they accepted visa, bought a book on Turkey and its ancient civilizations' sites. As well as the museum that we didn't visit as it costed extra and supposedly not as good as Aphrodisias's there is the old roman theater and the largest ancient cemetery in Turkey, Cool.

Back at the hotel Pleen showered before dinner, we hit up the buffet, then I showered, more like trickled, ha, and then we went on a mission to find a corkscrew! Took a long time and was not unlike a scavenger hunt as we traced clues and rumours, but we eventually found one, thanks to James, whom we repaid with a glass of wine. Blackberry wine! Tastes like candy!! So with dinner, our water in glasses that just 'happened' to be shaped like wine glasses had followed us up to our room, and we brought these back down to the lobby topped to the rim with delicious wine. Sneaky! Haha, like ninjas. Then we lounged on the harem couch and wrote in our journals. Just as we finished up our last pages James' mum and her boyfriend let us know that the hotel's disco was open. When Pleen and I made our way down there just to see what it was like, they were the only ones there! Since the music didn't appear to be getting any better, we headed back to our room for the last few sips of wine left in the bottle and went to bed, but not before Pleen floundered about in the hammock quickly!

Day 7: Kusadasi-> Pamukkale

2010-05-27T10:54:00.000-07:00

Breakfast buffet, but I only had a yogurt with a wee bit of chocolate cereal and a couple of buns with rose jam and sour cherry jam, with orange juice, a red juice, and tea.

The bus took us to Miletus which had an awesome theater and roman bathhouse ruins. While pulling into the parking lot we pulled right next to a tour bus with "Vancouver Island University" on the sign in the front windshield; the VIU liberal arts tour is here, small world! We caught up to them at the bathhouse and Pleen's friend and co-worker, and an old classmate of mine, Megan, was there. They had a boisterous greeting, but had to move on. Before we'd even began the tour of the ruins, we had a bathroom break, wherein the ladies washroom became organized into 4 different lines, those who had brought toilet paper and those who'd have to wait for a stall with some, and those willing to use a squattie or not. Knock on wood, but so far I've been lucky enough to avoid this experience...

I can't help but think that there ought to be some kind of security detail to keep people from doing these things...

Afterwards we stopped for lunch at a buffet, where our feet were swarmed by cats! Such a strange experience.

Then on to the Temple of Apollo at Didyma. Very cool. Once again we met up with the liberal arts class, who arrived after us, playing up the reverberations of the entrance tunnels, singing tones and sounding like 5 times the number of people and rather spooky. This was once a place of oracles and priests, so it was fitting and fun.

On the way back to the bus Pleen and I bought icecreams, I got a cappuccino flavour one, very tasty.

Also while at Miletus I saw at the stalls the most gorgeous bowls, I hope so much to find the same at the Grand Bazaar. I did find the most perfect Turkey shot glass for my collection, and even bartered him down from 5TL to 4TL! Sweet!

The bus ride to our next destination took a while and we stopped halfway at a gas station. I bought a bottle of water, a glass of amazing fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a bag of chips, the picture on the bag depicting I think yogurt and herbs. They were tasty, whatever they were.

We arrived at our next hotel in Pamukkale, and it is like a mexican resort! Pools, indoor and out, regular and thermal, bars everywhere, and a great view of it all from our balcony! Le sigh. The buffet that night was great, and then we checked out the lobby; they have cushions on the floor arranged around a central fireplace, with cute low tables; it's a harem couch, how cool! I want to do the same in my living room someday, haha.

We'd had a chance before dinner to sit by the pool with Karen and her husband to drink a beer and soak up the resort-like atmosphere with some good company. It was nice to enjoy a bit of the hotel as there wasn't much chance after dinner; every morning is an early morning!

Day 6: Kusadasi

2010-05-26T09:43:00.000-07:00

Another early morning and another breakfast buffet. Not the best but not the worst. Bread, cheese, yogurt and strong black tea.
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To Ephesus! More ruins, haha. Very elaborate ones though, with an administrative section with a small theater, a long ramp that would have been lined with shops, an incredible library. We had the chance to take an optional tour of the rich people's houses, super cool, lots of mosaic floors and frescoes on the walls. Extra neat were the public latrines. Pooping was apparently a social event, everyone got to sit next to each other, took their time, chatted, no walls to separate anyone. Oh my. The keyhole shaped holes led to a stream of running water to take all that business away, while a gutter ran along the floor in front of you with clean water for cleaning. Very interesting, so odd to consider. Lots of tour groups here, and our guide ran into another guide with whom he went to school! Small world? Also, this man looked like the Turkish Johnny Depp and I took his picture lots, ha! And we saw the big theater. HUGE. The awesome thing is that we convinced Barb, who happens to sing opera, to stand at the center to sing. She did and the theater filled itself with her voice. All the other tourists fell silent, but burst into applause, and the cheers of a hundred languages, when she finished. Way cool, what an amazing sound system, ha!

Then off to Sirince for some lunch and to soak up the atmosphere of a quaint mountain village. Unfortunately the place we chose to eat at was a mistake! Pleen and Jayde's meal took a long time but mine took even longer:over an hour and fifteen minutes! Pleen and Jayde had been done eating for some time before mine came, and not even what I ordered, meat and cheese pide instead of the mix pide I'd wanted. Lots of other people from the tour came here too, including Selcuk, who was not impressed. As our time here was limited, and it had also been an optional tour for an extra charge, I scarfed down half and took the other half while we went with Barb to do some frantic wine tasting. The guys on the shops were super friendly, very accommodating. We tasted lots, and I bought a melon wine that I hope makes it home to Thomas, and a blackberry wine, as blackberry wine always brings fond memories. Across the street we went to another wine shop. This shop is actually where the blackberry wine was from, but the first shop was out, the guy had had some brought from another shop, apparently they all like to help each other out. The second shop was very charming, and he had us sit at a little table to do our tastings. Such a cute atmosphere, with stone floors, rugs strewn about, pillows and tables, maybe almost authentic, ha! I bought a pomegranate wine since pomegranates abound in Turkey, so the wine seemed very Turkey-ish :) Unfortunately our time was up. I was sad and disappointed not to have been able to spend more time in this cute cobblestoned-hillside-cottage village. So quaint, and so full of neat shops and stands, the merchandise here actually differed from what we'd seen in Istanbul and at all the tour shops. Oh well...

Back to the bus for a ride up a different mountain to visit the House of the Virgin Mary. I had no idea what to expect. The house is small, reconstructed from the original foundations, and looks very authentic. It is cute, very pretty, in a gorgeous and immaculately maintained setting, gardens, etc. The inside was dimly lit, no pictures aloud, no talking, music softly played. Religious artifacts were in there, on altars and on the walls. And people were in there praying, very somber, but they were really into it! I felt almost as though I were intruding to be honest. When you leave the house you can light the candle available before entering it, and then there are three taps of holy water, one for health, happiness, and wealth or good fortune. Pleen washed here hands in all three, but I only chose happiness, and we pretty much just copied what we saw other doing. Beyond this is a wishing wall, a wall where people can put wishes they've written on paper. Apparently the most commonly available paper is toilet paper, so the wall has actually a pretty nasty look to it. I had a notepad handy, so Pleen and I wrote our wishes, tucked them amongst the others on the wall and took pictures of them. Hoping that the wishes work nothing like birthday candles, we went ahead and told each other what our wishes had been! (I wished for happiness :) ) At the entrance/exit are some shops, filled with, among other things, icons and holy water, and where bargaining is not done. I'm glad for this as I'm terrible at it. I found a beautiful scarf, browns, greens, a hint of blue, that matches the octopus cuff I've been wearing this trip, for only 7.50 Euro, which isn't too bad. The scarf is gorgeous, and bonus: what a story to tell when/if people admire it and ask me where I got it, lol. I also bought a novelty icecream cone of pistachio flavour. Finally some icecream, and super delicious!

Our wishes live here now.

My new scarf, finally some ice cream, and a sneaky Barb.

The bus then took us to a carpet place where we saw how the silk is unravelled from the cocoons and how the carpets are actually made, which is way time consuming! No wonder they are so expensive. We also learned a lot about the different kinds of carpets, like wool on wool, wool on cotton, cotton on cotton, silk on cotton, and silk on silk. They took us to a show room, offered us drinks, I had a cay and a raki, and they started unrolling carpets, first one at a time, while they encourage us to get right on them to see and feel, and then more and more until there were carpets everywhere with more coming, so fun! I never thought I was much for Oriental Rugs, but I saw more then a few that I truly loved. Some day! Most shocking was how a group of people that seemed so ho-hum about the carpet thing ended up spending over 17,000$ combined! Holy shit! Who are these people?! Also, the man giving us our demonstration was Turkish George Clooney, ha!

I want to decorate like this, multiple carpets strewn about. It's great for lounging!

Turkish George Clooney!

Back to the hotel for dinner buffet. Afterwards we walked down the street, Pleen, Barb, and I, to use an ATM (I've got less money then I thought!) and for Pleen to buy a skirt. It is hotter then we expected. In fact, Pleen and I have been smearing deodorant on more than just our armpits, shh! HAHAHAHA. Back at the hotel I did some laundry, just some undies, but the sink stopper wouldn't open, so I couldn't drain the water out after. Ew, it was so dingy, how can 5 pair of lacy panties be soooo dirty? How embarrassing! What a day though, so much seen and done, it was time for bed. At the House of the Virgin Mary Pleen had bought a journal with the evil eye on it with leather and a fancy clasp; I call it the scary book and asked her to sleep with it under her pillow, lol, but she wouldn't. Damn that thing is creepy!

Day 5: Canakkale-> Kusadasi

2010-05-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

Another early morning, but the buffet was a little dissapointing :( Cheeses, olives, eggs, some breads, juices, tea and coffee, yogurt and fruits, some cereal. I guess I just really enjoy the sweeter pastries for breakfast!

And then it was bus time. After a few hours we stopped for a break at a gas station. I had a cay, which was of course lovely. Pleen and I also each bought a yogurt drink that we've seen people drinking everywhere. It tastes like salty yogurt and we didn't like it much at all. I also bought two bags of chips, an olive flavoured dorito and 'frito lay a la turca', I think tomato and poppy seed. Both flavours proved savoury and delicious.

The bus ride eventually brought us to the acropolis at Pergamon. It was amazing. When we had been in Berlin two years earlier we had visited the Pergamon Museum and saw the magnificent altar (?), so it was really something to visit the place where the massive structure had originally stood. I loved also seeing the theater, which is situated on a steep hill! Scary, cool, amazing, from the top seat it seems almost straight down to the valley floor below! I think it might actually be the steepest? My favourite part, maybe of this whole trip so far, was standing at the top of this mountain/hugely tall hill, seeing sprawled beneath me the town, and hearing the call to prayer ring out from all the mosques below. It was amazing, magical, almost spiritual to have such beautiful chants/ music/ exotic notes float up from such a distance, I can't even put this into words!

Looking down from the top of the theater. Those are all the stone seats, kinda scary steep, eh?

Back on the bus for a bit before stopping for lunch! This place must be used to buses of tourists, as they provided a quick but thorough explanation of the food provided. There was a bufe option or we could sit down to order meat and cheese 'pide' (turkish pizza) or kebap with chicken or spicy or not spicy lamb which would came with rice and salad. Pleen and I both wanted both kebap and pide, se we each ordered one and split them. I also ordered a Turborg. My meat and cheese pide was delicious and way better then Pleen's not spicy lamb kebap. The only unorganized part of this eatery was the paying, as it took a while for them to come to each person and finish the transaction. So I only had time to visit the washroom after eating and couldn't visit the shop for anything sweet for dessert. I really wanted icecream or baklava! Oh well, there's plenty of both around, though surprisingly enough I've yet to have a single icecream!

Another bus ride eventually brought us to our hotel. On the way I saw out the window the theater at Ephesus in the distance taking up the entire one side of a hill! Huge! I tried to imagine how incredibly awe inspiring it must have been for those in ancient times to have seen such a marvel when approaching the town! Wow! We'll see it close up tomorrow.

Our hotel room once again has an amazing view! Unfortunately our room was hot! And the airconditioning only works when we have the key fob in the slot. With only one such key, this means the airconditioning will only be on when we are in the room. I'm not sure the airconditioning even airconditions, it barely gets any cooler. By evening it's cooler outside so we might as well open the balcony door, which we did both nights we were there, even when sleeping.

Since I reached the room first, I threw all my stuff on the bigger bed, haha, dibs. Good times.

Dinner was at the hotel, another buffet of what I assume is traditional turkish food. Pleen and my favourite was the turkish pakoras with tzaziki sauce, though we didn't know what they were really called. The desert table was huge! I couldn't even get one of each on my plate! After dessert Pleen and I had more 'turkoras', sooo tasty!

After dinner Barb and Jayde came over to our room where I'd had our beverages from the night before cooling, to finally drink them! We'd had a drink each at dinner. I'd ordered my first Raki! It comes in a tall type of shot glass with a second glass or ice water. You pour as much water as you'd like into the raki, which starts out clear but turns cloudy white with water added. It tasted like licorice, but kind of sweet, so I don't hate it, ha, an appropriate drink when in Turkey, or when celebrating Turkey, hehe. So, having taken some chairs from Barb's room, we sat on the balcony enjoying the view as the sun sat, chatting, and drinking. Pleen and Barb each had some kind of cooler, an orange one and a green one, Jayde had a massive 1L beer, and I drank two Tuborg. It was nice! Then to bed.

Day 4: Istanbul-> Canakkale

2010-05-21T10:48:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to type the little doodle under the 'C' in Canakkale, so you'll have to use your imagination!
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The call to prayer woke us again and we were happy to find that breakfast was available before the advertised time of 7am and thoroughly stuffed ourselves, no other buffet may compare later!
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Our luggage and ourselves were loaded onto the bus for the 4 hour ride to Canakkale.
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Our room at the Kent hotel had been so nice, very modern. When we had returned to it yesterday the maid had cleaned and perhaps unrelated or maybe not our toilet stopped flushing. It did not miraculously fix itself after some hours so on our way out to dinner I stopped at the front desk to ask to have it fixed. I explained that out toilet wasn't flushing.
"What?"
"Out toilet is broken."
"Broken?"
"Ya it won't flush."
"Why?!" with the weirdest look on his face!
"Uhhh..." really?
Hahaha, so awkward! But he did call up to have it fixed, which it was when we returned later.
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Leaving Istanbul I marvel at the madness. There is no method here, traffic is without order as far as I can tell. Our tourguide told us that if we've a green, treat it as red. Tread with great care. The 'walk' light is even of a little green man running! On the roads, everyone seems to do as the please. The layout of streets and shops is without any sign of organization. Especially unusual is how shops appear stacked atop each other; second, third, fourth story windows crammed with manikins and merchandise. No wonder men work on the sidewalks to lure you in!Where is one to look first, everything is everywhere, and every space has ads plastered to it. It is disconcerting to understand none of these signs, I am lost in the chaos without the language to hold onto.
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2 hours into our bus ride we stop at a gas station. 1TL to use the WC (water closet, hehe). Pleen buys baklava and I get an Efes, turkish beer, to finally try, and a bag of mystery flavour chips. The bag has a picture of 3 spices, and tastes like Mr. Noodle powder. The beer is tasty, but nothing extraordinary.
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After more time on the bus we stop for lunch at another gas station. These places, like those we stopped at on our europe trip, are so much nicer than any I've seen in North America. I almost had a heart attack when approaching the WC, as another participant leaving the facilities asked us if we'd been practising our squatting! Oh no, I'm avoiding this as long as I can! But, relief beyond relief, there were both flushies and squatties, weird, eh?

There was a nice bufe to eat at. (Bufe has two dots over the 'e', and means like the buffet restaurants.) I ordered the 'mix plate' as suggested by our tour leader, Selcuk (squiggle under the 'c', which makes it a 'ch' sound as opposed to a 'j' sound), for 5TL and a bottle of water. My meal seemed to consist of rice, a chickpea dish, some kind of meatballs, fries with grilled eggplant, a potato dish, and a stuffed green pepper that I gave to Pleen. It was all just ok. Pleen and I also had a tea, a cay (squiggle under 'c'), for only 50 Kurus (squiggle under 's' for a 'sh' sound) afterwards. And since everyone else seemed to be buying beer at the attached market, Pleen and I got a couple of Efes, in funky stubby fat bottles.
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After filling up, it was on to Troy! Very interesting learning the history of the real location, the legends, the discoveries, but the best part was being able to climb up into a trojan horse. Pleen and I were like kids clambering up the steep stairs/ladder, sticking our heads out the windows, posing for and taking lots of pictures. Extra fun and worth standing, walking in the heat of the day through the ruins. I was also excited to be able to catch a photo of a 'Trojan' squirrel scampering across stones and scaling sheer rock walls.

It was time to hop on the bus and head to our hotel back in Canakkale, which we'd passed earlier on the road to Troya/ Troia (Troy). Our hotel is right across the street from the waterfront, like a fantastic sea wall with merchants selling cotton candy, roasted nuts, grilled corn on the cob, icecream, and various trinkets. As we pulled up alongside the building our tour guide Selcuk pointed out that we were just next to "Brad Pitt's Trojan Horse"; just down a ways on the seawall is the actual trojan horse model from Brad Pitt's movie "Troy", so cool! Of course we got pictures, though we couldn't climb into this one :(

While strolling on the sea wall enjoying the view, the people, all the pictures we could take, along came a marching band/parade of men in costumes playing drums, horns, waving scepters with bells, and sporting magnificent mustaches, sparkly vests, curly toed shoes, and Aladdin pants. Apparently they are reenacting the guards of... something. Very neat, very unique music!

It was time to have dinner, at the hotel. A buffet! Lots of interesting choices, I can't even begin to guess what they all were. It was pretty good, though nothing struck me as absolutely fabulous, so I didn't get a second plate of anything, unless you count my plate of dessert: one of everything! A cake layered with chocolate, whipped cream and cherries, chocolate pudding, and some kind of cookie soaked in honey. Everything here tastes fantastic soaked in honey!I totally forgot to take pictures of dinner, but did get one of dessert.

After dinner Pleen and I went for a walk with Barb, Jenny, and Jayde. We stopped at a liqour store, though all stores seem to sell liquor... anyways I found some Tuborg! Four cans and a Tuborg beer glass for only 10TL, so cool! Everyone else bought a few drinks too. We had big plans, but after heading back to our rooms and showering, etc, we all proved too tired and retired for the night.

Day 3: Istanbul (part2)

2010-05-20T11:37:00.001-07:00

We took the bus back to the hotel, napped, and awoke for a late dinner. We were on our own for this and so we wandered down the street in search of a good place to eat. We ran across another of the tour members who had already eaten and who said their dinner for two had cost 60TL (turkish lira) which they said seemed expensive but seemed at the time a reasonable price. Pleen and I eventually allowed one of the waiters on the sidewalk outside eating establishments to drag us to a table, pointing out items on the menu and saying "for you, only 8TL" when the amount listed below the picture was 11TL. Even the food can be bargained for I guess! Pleena nd I both ordered a lamb dish, and I also ordered a pomegranate juice. The juice came and looked fresh squeezed with pulpy bits and seeds. While the straw definitely looked as though someone had sipped my drink (we had a good, though nervous, laugh over this) I discarded said straw and the drink was delicious! Our lamb, which I guess had been cooked on a stick came with grilled pita bread, a tiny serving of fries, salad, rice, pickles, and sides of tzaziki and a red sauce with a hair in it, ha! Though ultimately tasty, some bits of meat seemed weird, fatty? so I skipped a few bites and left the salad, as our tour guide has warned us the tap water it may have been washed wiht may not immediately agree with us. The entire time we ate, our original waiter plus one other continued to stop by our table to ask how our meals were and to flirt endlessly and shamelessly with Pleen! Flattering, but kinf of exhausting. When we finished each of the waiters came by more then once to offer us tea, which we refused, and when we asked for the bill none came. Eventually, despite our multiple refusals, the brought tea. "a sample", "on the house" but also on the bill! Oh well, it was tasty! And served in very neat glasses; it would be nice to find similar ones to bring home as I think they might be the traditional thing.

In Turkey, to a salesman, "no" seems to mean "try harder". After the cistern, while waiting for our group to assemble, we had been approached and flirted with by a couple of very friendly waiters who seemed determined that we should have drinks, at the very least, at their restaurant. It took some time, effort, and little white lies to extricate ourselves from them only for poor Pleen to spend the rest of our time waiting, seated by a nice fountain, declining the offer for a book of Istanbul. He worked himself down to a very good price! before offering it to her as a gift, "for a small price", hahaha! Despite telling him repeatedly that she was positive she didn't want it and wouldn't regret not getting it, I really want a book of Istanbul now, as I haven't been able to get books for the places we've visited like I did on our last europe trip. They've either been too expensive, or too big.

Istanbul has cats like we've got pigeons! Eating the food dropped beneath tables, shooed by waiters, walking along sidewalks, fences, sleeping in the garsses. While they seem to like people, that are also... dirty!

The streets and filled with men. There are noticably more men then women and even the poorest looking of them still seem to make the effort to dress nice, in at least a suit jacket! They exude confidence and will not drop their gaze when you meet it. The call to women from the streets any english they know, either to simply flirt, or to sell you anything. "Hello pretty mama", "Happy birthday", You're break my heart", "Lady Gaga!". Pleen and I had some good laughs. Istanbul could be a place to come simply for the confidence boost; it's hard not to feel beautiful!

On the way back to the hotel we bought some baklava for a snack later, and visited another tour member's room to enjoy the amazing view! Pleen and I know that the baklava here is too amazing; back home it will never be nearly as good, it is as good as ruined. Our sleep then was sweetened sufficiently for pleasant dreams, our lips lightly honeyed.

Day 3: Istanbul (part1)

2010-05-19T14:41:00.001-07:00

Pleen and I awoke with the calling for prayer unable, either through hunger or excitement, to fall back asleep. Our tour of Istanbul was not to start until 9, with breakfast starting at 7, so we had several hours to leisurely get ready for the day.

Breakfast was amazing! I started at a table of sweets and filled my plate with shortbread, mini croissants, savory cheese filled pastries, chocolate cake, nut filled tarts and more! What little room was left I topped with a variety of cheeses, washing it down with coffee, cherry juice, and, as recommended by Pleen, "Cappucino with chocolate" from one of those wee machines. So yummy!

A short bus ride brought us to the Blue Mosque. We had to take out shoes off, carrying them with us in the provided plastic bags. So beautiful, every wall decorated with tiles, the dominant colours of the intricate designs being of course blue.

We had actually walked to the mosque from across what was once the hippodrome, of which only several obelisks remain. Men here sold scarves, funny hats, guidebooks, cameras of the disposable sort and accesories, spinning top-toys, and music pipes, walking amongst all the tour groups. In all of Istanbul, there are people selling anything everywhere, and any nook into which a store or stall can be tucked, crammed, or stuck, you'll find three or four.

From the Blue Mosque we went to Topkapi Palace, where once the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire lived. Pleen and I toured the Harem, which isn't as one would imagine. Life in the palace sounds so exotic and amazing and I'd love to learn more. The views of the rest of Istanbul was incredible! We also saw some interesting religious artifacts including Moses' cane and Muhammed's hat and footprint.

For lunch we were free to find our own place to eat, the guide recommending some meatball places and buffet type establishments. Pleen and I chose the latter, wherein one grabs a tray, points to several items, and pays before sitting to eat. I had a salad of lettuce, cabbage, carrots dressed with balsamic vinegar and lemon juice, and grilled eggplant topped with chicken and mashed potatoes, which was amazing. A bottle of water and some baklava rounded out my meal.

From here Pleen and I went to the Basilica Cistern. So! Cool! It's an underground cistern, the roof held up by massive pillars, the water home to coy, some of which were huge! We saw the two mysterious haeds of Medusa and the pillar the grants wishes? Halfway through all the lights, every last one, turned off and the huge cavern near roared with the collective gasp of the possibly hundred people trapped within. It didn't last long though, so I was able to uncling myself from Pleen and continue through, though many of the "mood" lights were much slower to turn back on. Despite getting dripped on by water (eww...) this has so far been one of the most amazing sights!

Afterwards we went to Aya Sophia. We were lucky to be here at this time as Turkey, or perhaps just Istanbul, is one of the cultural capitals of europe for 2010, and so the scaffolding the normally limits the views of the incredible dome has been almost ebtirely removed witht he rest pushed aside to provide an unobstructed view of the wonderful dome. Aya Sophia is a great example of what started out as a byzantine cathedral and has since been turned into a mosque and then partially restored. The different ways that the art has been modified to follow the edicts of Islam is very neat to see. This place is also a good example of the evolution of byzantine art, just like I have seen in art history books! One of the pillars within Aya Sophia is the place where a miracle of some sort took place; there is a hole in it and the legend is that when you put your thumb in it and rotate your hand a full 360degrees and make a wish it will come true. The worn is worn deep and smooth and weirdly shaped, the area of the pillar around it worn colourless where countless hands have swept across it. Pleen and I were so busy having our pictures taken while performing this ritual by each other that we both completely forgot to make a wish! I knew what I wanted to wish for though...

Day 1/2: Victoria-> Toronto-> Frankfurt-> Istanbul

2010-05-18T09:24:00.000-07:00

I'm back, alive, and sharing now with you my travel journal as written on busses, on planes, in hotel rooms, and in the more atmospheric hotel lobbies, unedited and complete with run-un sentences, spelling errors, and all the boring bits, with just a sampling of the 600+ photos I took that may make it onto Picassa, but only if I've the energy to caption them all, 'cuz otherwise what's the point? Lets us commence our adventures now. (Also as I'm vaguely fanatical about the spacing on this blog, er, and everything else in life, and I know photos will booger it up, you'll see lots of fancy stars, oh boy!)

* * *

"It's already tomorrow today."
*

The longest days are those that at some mysterious point while in the sky, the next begins before the first ever ended; when you find yourself already fast into the next day. This kind of travel is exhausting.

How many breakfasts can I possibly eat in a day? Coffee and doughnut before boarding the plane, muffin and carrots purchased one the first flight, full breakfasts served on both subsequent flights, with only the most random spattering of lunch/dinner tucked in with no regard to the general order these things are done in. Which breakfast signalled the start of a new day? I cannot say, I never can sleep while on the move.

Is it the food that fuels me, or the adrenaline/excitement of an escorted rush through Frankfurt airport in a deperate flight to catch a flight? Or the anxious moments spent filling out forms when your luggage didn't make it to the plane as you barely did? Or could it simply be love, of living a life travelled, of seeing the lives that exist on the other side of the world, or living out of a suitcase in (hopefully) fresh sheets each night?

Our first hotel is Kent, nearly across the street from a mosque and not far from the bazaar. With no luggage to deposit,we wandered the streets. Very few women to be seen, and well-dressed men everywhere. They openly stare at us, either because we are foreign, women, or possibly immodest in their eyes. The siewalks are hapharzardous, a strewn collection of cobbles and stones, steep, windy, and just as crowded. The traffic, even the parking, is without method. The stargest place I've yet been, nothing compares. I can't say I don't entirely enjoy the attentions, smiles, stares, comments of men, I'd been warned, and I'll enjoy it in the good humour it's meant.

A quick nap before dinner, out heads had barely hit the pillow when the call to prayer sang out from the mosque. Magical. The most exotic experience, to hear prayers echo though a city, bouncing over rooftops, through crowded streets, into every open window. I hope I never tire of it.

Dinner was what appeared to be authentic Turkey food! A cold salsa type mix served on grilled eggplant, a flaky pastry filled with soft cheese, breaded and fried white fish, and the best fruit salad for dessert: apples, oranges, cherries, pomegranate, grapefruit (which I ate around) amd kiwi! No stinking melons, I think I love it here!

The dessert was so good I forgot to even take a picture of all the good stuff that was in it :)

King Carrot!

2010-04-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

"You go get one carrot and I'll grab four onions."

He says to me: "Ok."

An unusual amount of time later: "I got the biggest one I could find."

He wasn't kidding! I present to you: KING CARROT!

And of course my artsy photographing diminished his glory. So here's another take:

My cutting board is too small! FYI that's a venti in the background (V 1p WM CGT tea, lol)!

And then I had to grate the entire mother-- :D

On the menu for tonight: slow-cookered beef and lentil whole wheat soft tacos with spinach, salsa, and cheddar. A new recipe and my first experience with lentils.

Um, what is a lentil? Like a bean? A grain? Veggie? Mineral? They look like tiny tiddlywinks.

Also, I blame the blurry photos on the caffeine. Or the general excitement of King Carrot.

Now to be a 'whoo girl'.

2010-03-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a poem!

I had plenty of other things to blog about but now, gosh, I'm entirely too busy which is unfortunate for all my millions of readers because this post was going to be awesome, with pictures and everything...

What's a 'twitter' for anyways?

Also, why isn't 'ashen' a verb? It would have been awesome, absolutely perfect. Damn you dictionary.com and all of google for not agreeing with me!

Joy:

2010-03-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

a little something like this. How fantastic! If I had a million dollars, I'd commision a little something to go with every animal poem...

I imagine myself excelling in my program come September, racing through every project and leaving myself time to meddle with metal. Fool some scraps into being something fantastical. I may need to add a workshop to the list of rooms my dream house must have.

On hobbies.

2010-03-22T12:46:00.000-07:00

I took up crochet years ago, but only ever seem to whip out my hook and yarn around christmas. I like to make cute or odd things like sushi and dinosaurs, and envision myself someday having the skills to go about modifying patterns to make even odder creations... dinosaur sushi? But, like writing, this is an activity that can only be accomplished at home, alone.

I have to count my stitches. Out loud. Every single one. I just totally lose track of where I am in my pattern otherwise and I can't really see what's going on with my stitches so undoing a row and starting over... gosh, I can't ever even tell where one row ended and the other started! So no, I can't have anyone around messing me up. I might be a bit of a perfectionist.

I like making things. And giving them away. I'd do it more but a part of me is terrified by how very few people seem to share my view of the world. What is so odd about crocheted brainslugs? You can't find a use for these?

I love seeing what other people make. And other people make wonderful things out of fimo!
BoltsandBots
PetitPlat
Articulate Matter

I could make things out of fimo, too. Oh, but my perfectionist nature would forever cringe at the fingernail prints I'd no doubt leave embedded in every porno-styled dinosushi I dished out!

One step at a time.

2010-03-19T12:34:00.001-07:00

Pick a subject. Make it small, tangible, concrete. Pick something you care very little about, or perhaps something that makes you vaguely uncomfortable, something icky maybe, or something you've never even heard of. Pick something around which you can craft a poem that avoids sentimentality. This will then become a poem that can attract a larger audience, one that needn't be familiar with you, your surroundings, your experiences. Pick something interesting.

Learn all that you can about your subject, recording anything and everything that is remotely fascinating. Try wikipedia. The knowledge you gather might not be factual, but it might be more inspired for it. No, scratch that last bit. It's the internet, once posted it becomes fact. Become a part of this phenomenon.

Write down in your file, page, notebook, spare bit of palm, the most interesting words you've found associated with your subject. Challenge yourself to think of synonyms for these words. Use a thesaurus when your mind has run dry as it can be your most helpful tool. Keep your eyes and ears open and be alert for similar sounds, spellings, structures. Explore this 'music'. Don't be afraid of puns at this point, and revel at those words found whose dual meanings you can sculpt. This is the point when a poems destination, narrative, crux, whole 'point', might be glimpsed, or forever altered.

Let all these ingredients stew for a time. Leave open your file, page, notebook, scrap of skin and jot down anything that comes to mind throughout the day/night, whether it be images, extended metaphors, whole lines, or random words. Any one of these might in time be the pinch of salt that rounds out your entire piece, or the poke that sends it in an entirely different direction. But of course, only time will tell, and at this point, your poem needs this time to marinate, ferment, rot a bit.

Have a cup of tea. Pair it with a chocolate chip hot cross bun. Marvel at the perfection that is a cup of tea and a chocolate chip hot cross bun.

It's the final countdown! Dodododoooo deetdodododooo!

2010-03-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

"So this is the magic trick, huh?"

"Illusion, Michael. A 'trick' is something a whore does for money... or candy!"

Tadaa! My countdown. Well, maybe just a rough draft. I'm tempted to make a new one. With even more stickers.

Oh sweet September, why must you tempt me by being so far away? My deposit is paid, my benefits are being taken advantage of while I still have them, and contacts have finally been successfully shoved into my eyes (only took three 45 minute appointments...) I'm ready. Well, except for all that other stuff that I have to wait to do. Student loan applications don't start until May and I won't get any more class info like a supplies list or class start times (like in case I need to buy a car if the bus won't get me there in time) until July.

Turkey is only 1.5 months away, though. Shouldn't that hold me over? I haven't been able to get excited though. Gah!

What to do, what to do.

Ugh, why do pictures mess up the formating? I'm very particular about my line spacing... I don't even know if I can post this in such a state!

I've been so bored. Especially in the evenings.

"Don't you have any hobbies?"

"I like eating."

"Everyone does. It doesn't count as a hobbie."

"Boogers!"

So then he says I should go write something. But I can't write when he's around. He's very forgetful and will forget to be shutted up. I don't even listen to music when I write, let alone participate in (or ignore) a conversation.

I wish I had art/crafting supplies, and lots of room for them to be spread out. I'd like to make something with my hands to go with some poetry...

Maybe I'll work on a spiffier countdown. With more sparkles and stickers... or candy!

Eyeball beatings.

2010-03-08T15:49:00.001-08:00

Dear eyeballs,
Suck it up! That's my finger, and it's coming at you whether you like it or not! Rawr rawr!
You and your stupid eyelids are not the boss of me, and I will poke at you until the end of time, so stop. being. difficult.

Blues beaters.

2010-03-08T11:38:00.000-08:00

There's something about coming home to the smell of slowcooking that lifts the spirit. It smells warm, savoury, dependable, comfortable.

I'm this close to once again sending out submissions.

But I think I'll eat a scone, watch reruns of Project Runway, and then go to my appointment.

I'm not sure what sticking my fingers repeatedly into my eyes will do for my mood, though...

I peep on you, mailman!

2010-03-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

I like to watch the mailman through the peephole. I race to the door when I hear him open the mail boxes and watch. I try to see if any mail is put into our box, but the silly peephole makes everything look tiny and far away. So... this accomplishes nothing. I'm just a creeper I guess.

I love the mailman.

Today he delivered some Dinosaur Porn. Gorgeous book! I flipped through and read some of the shorter pieces (of course). I love the cover, the paper, the eclectic work within, the unusual theme, the content warning at the beginning, the humour, and one poem in particular... ;)

The mailman also delivered an acceptance letter for the sheet metal foundations course! I guess that's what I'll take, as it beat the race against the electrical foundations acceptance letter that is no doubt on its way :D School starts in September, and donations* are welcome, nay, fully encouraged. I can find your excess monies a fine loving home, honest!

Dear mailman: please deliver my T4 and the letter I need in order to download benefits claim forms. Seriously. Don't fail me on this. I need all resulting cash. Now. No, yesterday. Or just soon.

Soon, all plans will be in motion.

*All donations will be accidentally spent on an all-inclusive to Mexico.

'An opera is an absurd thing'

2010-03-03T16:35:00.000-08:00

"It's fruitless to try to seperate them. Words and music are fused into one... One art redeemed by the other!"

Cue orchestra! Oooooooh soooo laaaaaaaa miiiiiiiiiiaaaaaAAAAAAAA!!!!

Oh, my goodness. Went to the opera for the first time. I wasn't sure it would be something I would enjoy, I get bored during movies, especially car chases and shoot-em-up scenes, and lots of german singing seemed along those same lines...

Oh, but it was woooonderful. The music! The set! The humour! The singing! The small bit with the ballerina! Even ze german!

Over 2 hours, no intermission, and marvellous.

Capriccio by Strauss, wherein a woman, torn between the love of a poet and a composer commissions an opera to help her decide.

I must do this again. I want to attend more cultural events, see more of the world of art and beauty. Ballets, operas, galleries. Maybe then I can connect again with my own art...

"...can you advise me, can you help me find the ending, the ending for their opera? Is there one that is not trivial?"

No :( Only :)

2010-03-01T15:47:00.000-08:00

BSO= no go.

Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Which totally makes me crave chinese food. Again! Mmmm, fortune cookies. Chowmein. Soya sauce on everything.

So. Perhaps the simplicity of situation that arises from this news will set my pen (er, fingers on keyboard, just the pointer ones though, no fancy spider-hands-typing here :P) to twitching, though I won't be surprised if that waits a teensy bit longer. I need to hear if I've been accepted to either of the trades programs I've applied to, get that load off my mind too. And then!

And then! With only that single probably-september day to look forward to, and everything else set in motion, I can write and mail and receive and file and write some more.

I will write of tonsil stones.

Cheap less of a cheat.

2010-02-19T12:39:00.000-08:00

I look like a child trying on mommy's sunglasses, but I bought a pair of avaitors anyways. They were cheap.

Cheap like the thrills I get from
Sheet.
Metal.

My head is too small.

Cheat.

2010-02-17T20:34:00.001-08:00

Sheet.
Metal.

Hodgepodges and 'Penned'ing.

2010-02-16T10:01:00.001-08:00

I need my glasses to find my glasses.

My least favourite part of 'Intervention' is the intervention.

I jog twice a week. I don't know how this happened.

People in this town walk their dogs at 5am.

I always leave less then a glass' worth of wine in the bottle at the end of a fun night. I don't know why I don't just polish 'er off.

I think I'll try to rock intentionally dorky glasses on my next spectacle purchase.

I bought myself this book, even though it was supposed to be my treat if I felt I did good on my interview. I had to get it though, either way. The cover is pretty. And the poems in it are animal poems, by some of my favourite poets. I've only lightly skimmed through it, but I like the cohesiveness of the collection and how all the pieces fit with the whole and play into and support themes of 'zoo-ness'. It feels dynamic but solid, finished, complete. I like it a lot, it's very much a 'me' anothology.

Confession: I've only read 3 poems in it. I'm a terrible critic right now. But the cover is pretty.

I want to devour this book. But I'll use it as a tool to get my own writing on track. No 'Penned' poems until I write a poem. Poems. Do it.

Menage a....

2010-02-10T19:28:00.000-08:00

Here's hoping good luck comes in threes.

Feb 9th, 2010:
1)Found five dollars at the bus stop. RICH!
2)Missed the (stressful and surprise) audit at work.
3)Interview went....

Well it went. 4-6 weeks for the results.

Either way, contingency plan: applied for Electrical Foundations, possible six month wait list, and I might as well jump on it now.

I don't want to be a welder.
Still to try: sheet medal, auto and heavy duty mechanic, carpentry, and plumbing.

What. What is this? A 'blog entry'? No. Couldn't be.

2010-02-03T15:38:00.001-08:00

I am formed out! And I wish I was talking about form poetry. Unfortunately, but probably, and most definitely probably, fortunately, I speak of the filling out of forms. Government forms. Like the type I am to bring to my job interview next week. Glee!

Ungleeful: the 3 plus hours of filling out obscure info about me and everyone around me. My poor friends, family, and coworkers must think I'm getting ready to heavily stalk them (heavy mouth breathing included) or perform mass identity theft, which might in fact prove more lucrative than my hopeful job... hm.

These forms. They are still not done.

And then there will be the photocopying. They didn't say how many bums they wanted in there though...

Well, ok, if you insist, one quick rant. Er, that's not form related:

Interesting headlines on the msn homepage? I shall click to read and learn more. But why must even the ones without a video symbol direct me to a video? I like there to be that symbol to warn me of the ones I don't want to click, because I don't like watching articles. I cannot passively receive my news. It takes too long. I much prefer to read, skim, linger, pause, and ultimately make it through the article in question quicker then anyone could read it to me. Seriously. What does it say about society that the masses wish to passively absorb all news? It seems that most people are only ever half-present. Where do the rest of their heads go?

Bonus: I totally spelled (oh crap, spelt?) 'receive' right on the first go up there. Go me, and blogger spellcheck. We make a fine team.

Dear Santa,

2009-11-19T14:10:00.000-08:00

and all His reindeer, and every happy little elf in His command,
this.
Please.
Oh, pretty, pretty please.

ps. Opensource hardware? Way cool.

Porno de la Dino

2009-11-13T14:49:00.000-08:00

HappyDance!HappyDance!HappyDance!

For the grown-ups, this is.

2009-10-26T11:40:00.000-07:00

The 17 least appropriate playmobil sets for children, because obviously Playmobil isn't meant for the children. It's serious business. All terribly mature.

Raccoons, a boon?

2009-10-23T13:57:00.000-07:00

I always feel a little excited when I first hear the raccoons, their little warbles and chirrups. How nice, I think, of them to come and visit. They sound simply adorable, busy yet social, outside my window in the evening, late into the night.

I have a fondness for woodland creatures. They are the simpler beasts of our lives. Raccoons, deer, squirrels. Badgers and hedgehogs. The little birds.

Last fall much of my poetry found itself wound around the lives of these, my forest friends. I should continue to explore this phenomenon, before the weather shifts again.

I feel a growing excitement for the coming holidays, though. I bought a Playmobil Advent Calendar, "Christmas in the Forest". Everyday a new and exciting and fun and adorable plastic animal or set piece will be revealed, to amaze and astonish, to inspire. Or just for fun. Ah, Nostalgia!

In the mail: Playmobil Nativity Set with corresponding Three Wise Men and Santa's Workshop (aka My Take Along Holiday Home).

I feel can justify the purchase of so many toys by calling them 'christmas decorations'. I suppose I'll have to resort to having children if I want to expand my collection to include the awesome farm sets!

Dear Raccoons,
I love you. I truly do appreciate you coming to visit.
Please go to sleep now. Seriously. Shut up.
Thankyou.

Yes, dear.

2009-10-21T13:45:00.000-07:00

Today's creation a la slow-cooker: Peasant Goulash.
"Peasant is a bird, isn't it?"
"No, hon. You're thinking of pheasant."
"What are we eating?"
"Peasant means like 'poor people'."
"Goulash?"
"Stew. Soup."
"What's for dinner again?"
"Peasant Goulash."
"So, like... people soup?!"
Mmmmm, smells good already!

No Rocky Horror would be a terrible thing.

2009-10-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

The word 'anticipation' always brings to my mind the Rocky Horror Picture Show. No word has ever been so perfectly spoken as that one was in that film. Seriously.

Maybe I'm biased; I've been a fan for as long as I can recall. I'd never even seen the film, but as a child I had all the words to every song memorized. My mom had the soundtrack on tape (cassette tape!) It was awesome! I'm not even now much of a fan of musicals, but that one had, and still has, some of the most catchy, dramatic tunes to ever grace the screen. Although grace might not be the right word...

Of course I have as an adult seen the film. I watch it every year on halloween. Someone has yet to learn to love it, but maybe this year he'll finally understand. And not inundate me with stupid questions. I mean, really, with costumes and makeup like those, does the film really need to make sense?

I also always watch Ghostbusters on halloween. Holy jeebers did those dog-statue things ever scare me as a kid! I laugh now, but-- !!!

I like soup.

2009-10-19T13:44:00.000-07:00

I don't want to just sit and wait for the big changes to come along (fingers crossed for that government job!) so I'm making sure to throw in a few little ones, to keep life spicy.

I'm learning to use a slow cooker. And not just use it, but to eat the foods that come out of it without fear. I've always equated slow cooked foods with foods that have sat around a long time at a low temperature. Unattended. As in possibly teeming with bacteria from time spent in the 'danger zone'... Oh god.

I don't understand why I'm so squigged out by this. Food poisoning, it's not so bad right? And it's not like you can even see the germs wiggling about on your food, or even taste them. It's just the knowing. Knowing can be a terrible thing.

All of the following are terrible things: knowing, not knowing, waiting, a life of no antici pation, food poisoning, anti-soup.

These.

2009-09-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

Things I want to do when I make lots of money:

Learn to play the cello.
Take ballet lessons regularly.
Become fluent in french.
Have the equipment to hand print broadsides.
Be friends with an elephant.
See everything. Everywhere. Ever.

Liz Lemon says 'poo' a lot too!

2009-09-16T13:38:00.001-07:00

Poo, didn't get the job. It would have been a boring job anyways, but at least it would have been 40 hours a week of boring.

Chatted with some regulars at work and they just happen to be Aircraft Maintenance Engineers! They seemed eager to hook me up with a job-shadowing opportunity so I gave them my number. Now I'm crazy paranoid that I gave them the wrong number. I wish I knew their names. It'll only just be a tad bit awkward to call their company and ask for Mr. Venti-Seven-pump-Non-fat-Quarter-water-No-foam-One-hundred-and-ninety-degree-Chai-tea-latte or his friend, the Tall Chai Latte. No joke. They give me a laugh everytime they come in.

Applying online to Northern Lights College is free. So I did.

I won't jinx it!

2009-09-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

Fingers crossed!

But if that doesn't pan out, I'll still be one busy beaver.

Fencing lessons start later in the month, signed up for mainly for the novelty of telling people I'll be taking fencing lessons. Like seriously, who does that? I'm also trying to get into a pilates class. Being as poor as I am I can take classes at the local rec center at half off, but the pilates class requires that the class be half full before anyone can sign up with a discount, so, wait and see on that one. I just wish they'd let me sign up online, but with the card they gave me, I have to sign up for classes in person. How terribly primitive.

This month the Sidney Reading Series starts up again, at the Red Brick Cafe, and while they don't often feature poets, I like listening to all kinds of writers talk about writing. Among those who will be reading is Mary Novik, whose book I fell in love with after randomly pulling it off the shelves at the library and have since ordered my own copy in the hopes of getting it signed but I only just hope the 80%off sticker peels off cleanly because that might be tad bit embarrassing. I had heard a rumour Lorna Crozier would be reading at some point but all the posters I've seen around town don't mention her, which is a bit of a heart breaker. She is one of my absolute mostest favourite poet ever ever, especially since Ondaatje turned out to be... well... grumpy might be the nicest way of saying it. Fart works, too.

And if all that isn't exciting enough, I've also got a Trades Exploration course starting up in January at Camosun, which should help in refining my plans for the future!

After after allllll that, it's time to go to Turkey! I doth heart the adventuring... le sigh.

And tomorrow I'll either send out more poems since I recently added a number of literary magazines to my pile of flash cards, or... vacuum.

I wrote dinoporn poetry, of course I giggle when I say 'poo'.

2009-08-14T13:37:00.000-07:00

I'm terribly clumsy. So, long story short, we've been out a blender for some time. But no more will my frozen canned pina colada mix thing sit idle in the freezer, having gone on sale the day after 'the incident' and myself having forgotten and stocked up on frosty deliciousness, for we visited costco! My manfriend and I took his sister and her manfriend in, us having the much coveted costco card, to buy toilet paper. And of course we came out with a cart worth 200$... And...! No, not a blender, but something even better!! A 'Smoothee-Bar'! Ya, it's a blender with a spout bit at the bottom... but you can both blend and pour... at the same time! It's amazing. I'm amazed.

I'm also amazed that I survived an hour hike up a mountain that almost did me in, a full day on a lake, fishing from a sketchy raft we found, lol, and paddled around on with freaking sticks, in the rain, and didn't manage to catch a single thing. Like, seriously? Effort=reward! Get it right, nature.

Nature, though, has provided me with a nag. A wisp of an idea that I know must surely solidify into an idea, some fabulous thought, both deep and whimsical, that can then be teased into words, words crafted into poetry. If only I could just sit and think! I need moments (yes, plural, it's that vague of an idea, it's a nag after all, a wee tug at the back of my mind) to dedicate to the art of pondering. Pooh-style. (teehee, poo!).

My nag: A great big tree I pass in the morning, really really early in the morning, like pre-sun-rise-and-that-time-when-sane-people-wake-up, stretches its canopy over a large portion of sidewalk and throughout the night will have left a circle of sticky all around it, strong enough to tug at my shoes. What kind of tree leaks from it's leaves, it's branches' tippy bits? Is that what's happening? I don't know. But in the afternoon, walking home that same way, I always walk on that same stretch of sidewalk and see it sprinkled with bees, wasps, hornets, a potpourri of stingers in all different fashions of stripes, stuck or ... what? What are they doing? My shoes no longer stick, but these little fellows, a handful of them, have congregated, mellow and well-spaced, so I don't have to step on them, and they don't seem to get too riled up. How terribly interesting, no?

When I grow up, I want to be Tina Fey.

2009-08-03T12:06:00.000-07:00

A lot of looking to the future, not a lot of looking to the now.

What does this mean to the writer-me? Not a lot of writing. For now. And maybe not for a bit.

A year has passed since university, and life and writing-life never fit fully into any good groove. Work-work never got into a steady rhythm, and money always seems too tight. The up until now now-plan was to work part-time, write, and housekeep. But the now-plan was just that, a now-plan. It only works for the now, with no room to evolve into a future now-plan, since it sorta had no room for a future-plan. So it's time, having had the now-plan in effect long enough to know that it is not entirely fulfilling, to focus on the future-plan. And dream up a future now-plan.

So, what do I want to be when I grow up...?

I'm thinking of learning a trade. I'll follow the footsteps of other BC poets like Kate Braid and Jane Munro and finance my writing habit through hard labour. So I've been doing a lot of research, not into the mating habits of dinos (le sigh), but into all the different kinds of trades available, and where to learn them. And of course fishing up contacts for folk in the know who
wouldn't mind having a little buddy tag along for a day and see what it's all about, 'cause, in all seriousness, I don't know much about much.

Electricity comes out of walls.

Wings make planes fly.

Cars have wheels. Oh, and red cars go the fastest.

Boo Google. 50 dkp MINUS!

2009-07-28T13:38:00.000-07:00

Win a Sony Reader, but only if you live in the U.S. Boo-urns.

I entered anyways... :P

What will reading look like in 100 years? "Reading will be fluid. Novels, articles, poetry even, will be fully integrated into life. Words will flow from writer to reader as instantly as either desires. Reading will be then, and forever, the first love of many, words as intimate as though wrapped around our fingers; they may very well be."

Mexico was so hot the mexicans were sweating!

2009-07-09T11:49:00.000-07:00

Mexico was fantastic. I'll miss the abundance of guacamole and parrots.

Of course, upon coming home, I was hit with a case of the blahs. Real life is just so... blah. I like vacationing. It doesn't help that I came home to a work schedule of afternoons. I hate working later in the day; it gives me an entire morning to brood on the workday ahead, so of course I can't get anything done. So despite the mexican refresher, nothing new has been produced.

Periods in which nothing gets written, a dry spell one could call it, is not a bad thing if you can identify the causes, and endeavour to enjoy the respite. View it as a chance to wash clean of any bad habits that inadvertently crept into your writing, to dispel whatever was plaguing you before to get written, to distance yourself from the challenges that bogged you down before. Identify this as a time to 'not write' and be grateful for it. When you return to your desk, your pen, you will be as new, able to sit before your poems, written and not, and see them afresh. The main thing is to remain calm and happy, and not panic or beat yourself up over all the not-writing you're doing. Remember, lots of people are not-writing.

I had a fantastic time last weekend when a friend came to visit. I suppose any night the strata president calls with a noise complaint is a good night. Whoops.

And this weekend will have lots and lots of time spent with family

*** this is where my computer craps out and I start up the bfs comp to finish the post. While waiting, I run the dishwasher, put on a pot of water for tea, and check the mail. Ohh a package for me!

Ahem, this weekend will have lots and lots of time spent with family out of town, which I'm very excited for!

... His computer screen is so small. And this ergonomic keyboard is, uh, challenging to say the least!

Ya, my computer is, uh, ya. Earlier in the week my video driver... melted... corrupted... vanished? Whatever, I redownloaded it. I did see that one coming though, strange flickers in the video when playing WoW, the occasional blank screen, and then of course the full return to 8bit colour. Nice. Fixed now, but...

The firefox isn't so hot. Completely draining all resources, and after 6pm when my virus scan starts, my comp is totally out of commission for the day. Never mind the random freezes throughout. Buh. I can look over at my comp right now and see the task manager showing two firefox.exe, each at 50% cpu occasionally 49/51. Like, why?

Don't worry though, a bluescreenofdeath did prompt a full backup of all my writing as soon as I got back from the mexico!

My tea is ready.

My package from the mail? Let's call it a souvenir from mexico. Except instead of spending an outrageous amount of money at the resort's boutiques, I came home and bought the same thing off ebay for cheap. Lol. Savvy!

Maybe my rogue will get past level 74 today, cuz I ain't going in to work!

2009-06-08T07:09:00.000-07:00

Oh, I'm sick. So sick. I'm going to eat chocolate ice cream for breakfast, cuz my throat hurts, my skull aches, and my face is filled with goo.

Dear Mexico, please be kind to my weakened immune system, this cold is wearing me out.
Love, a super fan.

Dear Cold, goooo awaaaay!
From your worsest nightmare ever, rarr!

Dear Goo, get out get out get out!
From you-know-who.

Dear Friends and Family, if I don't make it through this, and I may not if the ice cream runs out, please have my remains placed in the pool at Cancun, so that I may float through eternity in sunshine. Also, tape a Pina Colada to my clenched fist, I like those.
Love, a somewhat pathetic sicky.

It's like a diary entry, without so much angst.

2009-06-03T11:35:00.000-07:00

It is hot out. The weather seems to have gone from "jacket and a scarf" to "god damnit now I gotta shave my legs" over night. But that's ok. I was gonna shave them soon anyways; I'm going to mexico in less than two weeks!

In other news, I had a dentist appointment yesterday, and was able to schedule a follow up appointment for this saturday. The hygienist there was very gentle and had worked in a periodontist office for a while and so understood my paranoia surrounding the gum graft I'd had done a year ago. The dentist himself was very nice too. And the receptionist was very accommodating when it came to scheduling appointments, as everything needs to get done before the end of the month, when I will most likely loss... loose.. er.. loos... looozze (what?) my benefits.

Not only does 'poet' not come with a salary, the benefits suck too. The hours are nice though.

A few more rejection letters, and a slew of lit mags have reached the end of their reading periods and wont be accepting any new material until september. I am considering sending material to online magazines, something I've yet to do.

I planted some mint. And by planted I mean I bought two thingers of mint in the plastic pots and stuck those out on my patio. They came with dirt in them and I threw a cup of water at 'em. They'll be fine. I'm gonna make mojitos! I have to make ice cubes first though.

I don't have much else to type about... so I will tease you with some sample lines from my bestest dino porn poem:

"Everywhere they go, a hundred tons
of flesh smacks against another
hundred tons..."

Writing this poem I learned three new words: thews, milt, and amative. Oh what fun!

I want to live in a StarTrek.

2009-05-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

Books are wonderful things. The covers, the paper, the binding, typography, formatting, size, style, the smell, the very weight of one in your hand, it all combines to create a thing of art. But can I ever become one of those people who can forgo all that and enjoy simply the words?

I've been looking into different eReaders, for reading eBooks, and wondering whether this is a thing I could work into my lifestyle. For one thing, the idea itself is cool and very sci-fi.

My bookcase is very much nearing capacity. Even with awful books, I can't bring myself to get rid of any, and I am very much a re-reader of all my books, so I like to have them in my life. I am a library user, but still wish to own the books I love. Could eBooks be the solution? They take up virtually no room, and hitting a delete button on those bad books would be easier than feeling the need to find a home for the print versions. I'd also like getting rid of the more pulpy/commercial books and having the room for chapbooks/artbooks, the rare and beautiful pieces.

There is a cost though. The eReaders are expensive, and the technology keeps changing and upgrading. And eBooks themselves aren't always as cheap as you'd think when compared to the print version.

I like what I've seen online of the Sony Reader PRS-700. It has built in side lighting and a touchscreen, with the ability to take notes. I especially like the idea of adding annotations, and when combined with the ability to download both .doc and .rtf, it opens up the option of editing my own work on the go. The touchscreen does decrease the contrast of the screen, so I'd want first to compare it instore with the PRS-505, though this one lacks a light and annotation capabilities.

But beyond simply liking the technology, are there any good books being ePublished? Any poetry? Any lit mags jumping on board? A lot of authors and publishing houses aren't, and I'd hate to be limiting myself, or spending the money on something I can't use universally. Although my very own library does offer eLending, so there's hope.

I can definitely envision myself reading off of a softly glowing metal slate, fingers brushing its buzzing surface now and then, spaceships zooming around outside my spacedome, rocket-dog at my feet, so I'll keep thinking about it and looking around at options, though it waits entirely on getting a better job and bigger paychecks!

Dino... porn? Well, if you insist!

2009-05-25T14:22:00.000-07:00

How can I possibly resist this? A small Toronto based press is looking for poetry submissions based on the prompt "Dinosaur Porn". So yes, I ran with it. Yet the master piece (if I may be so bold, and I shall, because frankly it is awesome) leaves me with a single word on my lips everytime I read it, every time I get to the end of the last line. "Ew".

I shall make more!

Read these other things, m'kay?

2009-05-21T10:48:00.000-07:00

Busy busy busy! I've only just now managed to catch up on all my blog reading. And to hold you over while I get back to blog writing let me recommend some reading for you :) It's the lazy way to blog!

I just finished reading Mary Novik's novel Conceit. For a book I randomly pulled off the shelf at the library, it was better than most books I've paid money to read! I can't recommend this book enough. I couldn't put it down, both the world within it and the langauge woven throughout are so rich, beautiful, delicious even. A book of love and passion that takes a route that in a way avoids any notion of romance, it is refreshing and bold. Oh, and there's a poet in it, too! I want to start reading it all over again, right this minute. This is a book I now need to buy, as it simply must live on my bookcase forever. And I had to share this with you all, 'cuz I hope you read it, and that it can be a thing you love as much as I do. I'm nice like that.

Also, a quick read on not being a poet from a blog I follow. Very interesting and definitely food for thought.

And now for some tea, some writing, and then some awful work work ( I am now actively looking for something else though, work work shouldn't be so 'ugh'), and some daydreaming of a week in Cancun.

Dinopoems are the tea-killer. This is a good thing.

2009-04-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

Many a cup of tea has been ruined by writing. All too often I look up from my work to an "ah shit" moment, when I realize that my cup or pot had been steeping for a very very long time. It's cold and bitter and I have to start again.

My second attempt at tea is now brewing. But that also means my work has been very engrossing. And of course dinosaurs poems would be!

The first one I wrote last week about a child pretending to be a dinosaur, snore, isn't very good, although still awesome for its dinosaur reference, but it did get the ball rolling on a few others.
And these other two dinosaur poems are fun, exploring alternative reasons why dinosaurs went extinct. Flowers, I tell you!

I've learned about "the abominable mystery" which, according to wikipedia (my very bestest and smartest friend, and also, being on the internet, never ever wrong) was what Charles Darwin called the one problem of his theory of evolution, that being the apparently sudden appearance of relatively modern flowers in the fossil record. And I would think that the sudden appearance of flowers during the cretaceous period, which is also the period of dinosaur decline, would have driven their tiny minds insane, seeing as how a million bursts of colour suddenly appeared in an otherwise green and brown world. So that's my theory, and I think it holds up.

So the first poem of what may work out into a series, since the idea right now seems fun, is about the first flower blooming, and this event being seen by a dinosaur, and the dinosaur I guess going crazy. This poem is done, and I love it like I haven't loved a poem for some time... so it's probably pretty inaccessible... le sigh.

The second poem was inspired by a sentence I came across on wikipedia as I was researching: "The general assumption is that the function of flowers, from the start, was to involve other animals in the reproduction process." My poem, which I haven't yet decided is done or not, explores the idea that dinosaurs were maybe just too big and/or dumb to fill that role of pollinator. Its a fun piece, with many parts that I enjoy. I worry though that it may, um, falter into the sentimental. It's hard not to get sentimental about dinosaurs though!

And since I enjoy poems that mesh well together, and could work as a series or perhaps a chapbook, I think I'll continue exploring other methods of dino-death. I like to think I'm honouring the fallen beasts...

These poems, they burn and hurt. And "dwelled" isn't a real word?

2009-04-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that I love mail? Even a rejection letter. This is the proof that someone has read my poems, and though they have chosen not to publish any of them at this time, at least they read them. And I think they probably liked them. I like them.

There is excitement in opening an envelope addressed to myself in my own handwriting that I know had been sent out ages ago in a bigger brown envelope, nestled gently against the papery feel of poems. And though the form printed letter that begins with "We regret..." or some such variant can put a sad look on my face (I can feel that it's there, I don't normally open mail in front of a mirror. That would be loving it perhaps a bit too much. And in a weird way) it feels so special when that scrap of paper, since they never send you an entire sheet when half or less will do, has, scrawled at the bottom, a tiny note. This note is hand written, by a real live person, the ink smudged a little here and there, and with a real name, written perhaps in haste and always with the sloppiness that comes with familiarity, tucked away at the bottom. Oh, I love that person, whoever they are. They loved a poem or two. But...

And there is always that "but". I don't know how I feel about it. Of course, I can fix the "but" within the poem... but to be soooo close and yet, still unpublished!

One of my poems in particular received its second "but", proof I guess that I need to reevaluate it, and I will, and in fact have, and it's better for it. It's very exciting that more than one editor liked it enough to comment, and interesting that they had similar things to say about it.

I don't know what to do about the comment though "that [my] poems falter in places into the sentimental." Oy. I dwelled on this a lot yesterday.

I mentioned once that I love my poems to give me that punch in the face that the poems I love of others' give me. And I suppose that with the familiarity that I have with my own work, I feel the need for an especially hard hit, but for a first time reader, who hasn't read the poem and its million-plus revisions, it can seem like I'm trying too hard to evoke something. I try to step back from my work, but really nothing I've deemed worthy enough to send out has given me the cringe-face I envisioned this poor editor to have had. But I may be immune to my own sentimentality. It's like when you've been eating a lot of curry, so much so that you don't even taste the curry flavour anymore. You know it's there, but your tongue can no longer detect it. So each time you make curry, maybe as you're trying to perfect a recipe, you add more and more of the spice. To the unfortunate taster who has not taken this culinary journey with you, your curry would end up tasting pretty awful and way too hot when your original intent had been to simply tickle their taste buds with a wee bit of delightful curriness.

What a terrible and long winded analogy! I do think I'll make curry tonight though. And try harder (or less harder?) to write poems that simply give me a pinch, in the hopes that a reader gets the full punch, as opposed to the ass-whooping I've maybe been subjecting them too!

Dinosaurs: nothing more ever needs to be said.

2009-04-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

Last week I sent out another small batch of poems, lots of it the newer stuff I've been writing. I'm happy enough with them, otherwise I'd not have mailed them away, but not as thrilled with them as I have been with other pieces. It comes and goes. I'll trudge through. Poems are happening, and the great ones can only happen if poems are happening. So, great ones will happen. Of course.

I'm not much for confessional poetry, but if I were one for baring my innermost self through poems, I'd be lamenting through rhythm and rhyme the fact that I won't be seeing them really really big big dinosaurs in person. You know the ones I'm talking about! Walking With Dinosaurs is in town in May, for less than a week, and tickets are apparently made of solid gold. And we're very very busy that week, anyways... and the bf can live without seeing them, so I guess I can too. But, at the back of my mind from now until then, and even after, will be the glorious dream of life-size dinosaur puppets stampeding through Victoria, all the way down the Pat Bay, to visit me! Hello, Stegosaurus, I baked you chocolate-chip muffins!

In my final year of university I made many a dinosaur themed sculpture as part of my Arts minor. I've never had so much fun playing with sculpture and all its elements as I did in that year. Unfortunately, like the dinosaurs, dino-art can't live forever... RIP 'Rumpy Nibbleton' and the way awesome interactive end-of-the-world-for-dinosaurs relief, of which I may not have any pictures... whoops!Check out Rumpy there, life size (um, according to Professor Moi) and completely handstitched with the most awesome free find: pastel green fluffy material. Also included is a garbage can (for structure), paper-mâché teeth, over 30lbs of stuffing, a big floppy tongue, and what can only be described as snuffalufagus eye lashes. He hung from the ceiling and his mouth opened and closed (onto art patrons no less!). It took five people to carry him from the studio to the gallery. He was my pièce de résistance.

I don't want to jinx it, but I must say that any poem about dinosaurs would automatically be great; there is simply no denying the supreme awesomatude and paramount fantastriousness of dinosaurs. So I suppose that if poems are happening, poems about dinosaurs could, and should, happen, and thus great poems simply cannot be denied. Yay, logic, always on my side!

Am I just hearing things?

2009-04-07T12:32:00.000-07:00

When I was very young I fell asleep on a couch. Actually, I'll never know if I was asleep and dreaming or falling asleep and not dreaming. Or maybe it was that weird in-between. Anyways, as I was 'sleeping' on the couch I saw, walking along the cushion right in front of my face, a bee. I was frozen stiff, terrified. I suppose this was before that time I was stung a lot, since that sort of cured my fear of bees; getting stung isn't the worst hurt in the world. But at this time I was terrified, indeed petrified. Frozen, unable to move, I watched this bee pass my face, out of view. I was absolutely convinced it had crawled into my ear. For years I would believe any ringing in my ears was the result of said bee, trapped forever, buzzing madly. It kind of bothered me.

When I was very young, I think now that I must have been very stupid, for in the still and quiet of the night I didn't know that it was my own heartbeat I could hear. I believed that the thumping in my ears was the footsteps of a giant that I could hear. In terror I was unable to move or cry out for help, otherwise the giant might hear me and find me that much sooner; he was always coming after me. And of course the more afraid I became, the faster and louder my heart beat; the closer and closer the giant came. I think I actually scared myself to sleep those nights.

I hate when I hear the mailman come, but I've already checked for mail earlier. It would look terribly odd to check the mail twice in one day, and return empty handed on both occasions. I don't want to look like a mail-stalker, or some kind of shut-in. I don't know who's watching me, but I have to look normal.

Windows and getting yourself 'out there'.

2009-04-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

There are only two windows in my condo. One is in the bedroom, and as we live on the ground floor and that particular window looks out onto the path to the building's back door, the blinds are always closed. The other is actually a sliding glass door off our living room. It leads to a small patio more or less enclosed by (ugly) bushes. There is some privacy, so the blinds could be opened, and I am sure very few people would peer in. But every sunny morning when I sit here at my computer typing away, the clacking of keys not quite harmonizing with the chirping of birds, the plain (ugly) beige blinds are transformed, as if burning, set afire by the sun, to a sort of glowing gold.... is it wrong how pretty I find this? That I keep the blinds closed rather then look out at an entire world transformed by sunlight, that I prefer this one small bit of magic to a greater whole?

It is April, National Poetry Month. It is also 'Child Abuse Prevention Month' and 'Alcoholism Awareness Month'. So that's something.

There are lots of things going on this month, especially online, and many of them are of course focused on writing poetry. April becomes 'Forced Inspiration Exercise Month', with many people providing daily prompts and challenging poets to write a poem a day. I suppose I could take part, but I don't have a lot of trouble finding things to write about, so there's not a ton I could take away from that.

But I do feel the need to feel more a part of a larger community of poets. And while Victoria features a weekly series of poetry readings and open mics at The Black Stilt Coffee Lounge, I've only managed to go once. I haven't been since because it took me two buses, almost three hours of total travel time, and I was only able to stay for the first half before I had to dash out to catch the last bus home.

Sidney itself has, at The Red Brick Cafe, had a monthly reading series going for a bit now, but doesn't often feature poets, and definitely doesn't draw a very diverse/young/lively crowd, which is something I miss from my university days. Le sigh.

So how about I celebrate National Poetry Month by thinking up some new exciting way of putting myself and my work out there? Some celebrate April with the Poem in Your Pocket initiative. People are encouraged to carry a poem in their pocket to be taken out and shared with others at every opportunity. But gosh, I'm shy. That won't do. Maybe if I can just slip a poem of mine into other people's pockets without them noticing....

A trip to Opus had me eyeing some blank Art Trading Cards. I've heard of these before, where artists create prints or original works the size of trading cards (2.5 inches by 3.5 inches) to be traded with other artists, or I suppose sold, but trading would be more fun. How about a Poetry Trading Card? One side would feature a poem, and the other would have a brief bio and contact info for the poet. It could also mention if/where the poem has appeared in print before, and thus become an advertising tool for publishers too (I'd stick at first with published works, no telling if lit mags would consider such a small endeavour as 'previously published'). They could be tucked into library books, left on the shelves of bookstores, on bus seats, and cafe tables!

I made a prototype Poetry Trading Card. Actually its just an index card cut down to side with everything handprinted... it's terribly lackluster. Very blah, very... amateur!

Ever get an idea that seems brilliant, and its sooo exciting and the more you think about it the better it gets... but then you over think it... and then it just seems stupid?

I got to that point. My fantastic Trading Card Idea hit the silly point. No one else seems to be doing this, who would I trade with? And the idea of hiding works in books has been done, although not with anything quite so 'take with you and share'. http://www.guerillapoetics.org/ This is cool, and I'd join in, but... 25$? Maybe next year.

So. Give up? Nah! Broadsides are too big, trading cards too oddly shaped... but business cards? Everyone carries business cards, hands out business cards, pins them to bulletin boards, leaves them strategically placed, hell, they even trade them! So the next obstacle to leap over... can a poem fit on a business card? I'm going to keep working on this. As I type I've got another window opened to http://www.moo.com/, an apparently awesome business card printer where you can get any number of images printed to one side of the card, with printed info or logo on the other. I'll experiment with this. We'll see.

Speaking of windows, did I mention my view of the dumpster from my living room sliding glass door? Maybe that's why I keep it closed ;)

Are any of them are done-done, though?

2009-03-26T14:40:00.000-07:00

A day of revision.

"These Are the Trees..." has been chopped into thirds. One third is gone (forever?). The third about birds has become its own poem, "This is the Unkindness of Trees", which I feel is quite successful. And finally, a third remains that is, perhaps the finished(?) and successful(?) poem I've been poking at for a bit now.

Another poem that has seen many many many months of revision has reached a point of... something. Maybe it's done. I don't hate it anymore. It's even got a not-awful title: "Feast". Mr.H needs to read it now, although it was his reading of an earlier incarnation that made me hate it so much and for so long. Something in it was confusing to my reader, but how to write the poem without spelling it all out proved challenging, to say the least. I definitely needed the time it took to stand back from the work, to detatch myself from the language and images I'd fallen in love with.

I was able to speed up that process a bit with "These are the Trees..." and if it's as done as I hope it is, I can be proud of myself. Being able to chop up your own creation is a much needed skill in all writing, and the quicker I can get it done, the better, so hopefully practise makes perfect. Or not hopefully. It would be nice to write more pieces that don't require an axe to finish, actually.

A few more poems have made it to the back burner stage, having seen some tweaking: "Poems Need Winding Up", "The Last Bottle of Red Rooster Merlot", "Our Bed is the Forest In Storm." They'll simmer and then I'll give them another stir and see how they are. Another poem might be done done, "Words to Spring", but it's one I keep going back to; it may be well written but I don't care for it much. A poem about poems, meh.

It's funny how some poems can simmer for great lengths of time and I don't mind, like "Words to Spring", but others, like "Feast" absolutely plague me to no end. I find myself haunted by some poems, unfinished works that claw at me, desperate to resonate. I never wish for them to go away though. I'd be so poetry-lonely without them tugging at my sleeve, my ears, my eyeballs...

Oh crap, I'm writing a bad poem...

2009-03-23T12:38:00.000-07:00

Still tweaking "These are the Trees..." Will it be spectacular? I don't know. It's tackling something fairly abstract, and I'm not sure the narrative would ever be able to carry it, convey this mental picture I have. It sounds pretty though, and the idea is cool...

I still remember the first poem I wrote for a university class. It was about two planets colliding. I know, right? Well, I remember that it had pretty good diction and showed an innate sense of rhythm and flow... But it was about planets. Colliding. After we submitted our work, the professor gave us our first lesson: avoiding the "big", the abstract. And while most of the other students had written poems about love, beauty, betrayal, all of them very "big" concepts, mine too had fallen into the same trap, although at the other end of the spectrum. Planets are kind of big, eh?

So, the biggest trap beginning poets make is to write about the abstract. And even someone who considers themselves well seasoned when it comes to verse is still a beginner if they are spewing out drivel about love and hate and all those wishy washy things, at least in my not so humble opinion. Especially if they use words like "love" and "hate". Poets need to ask themselves "what are these things? What are they?"

A poem is a concrete object. It is words on paper, vibrations in the air. The subject of them should be no different. A poem needs to be about something. An actual thing. Even poems about events, actions, or (god-forbid) emotions, need to have within them the concrete objects that made all that stuff possible. Readers don't exist within a void; writers don't exist within a void; poems should not contain the void.

People connect best with the things they can hold, touch, smell, hear, taste, see, not necessarily the things they feel, like deep down inside. A poem needs concrete things that can give people a sense of touch, smell, taste, sight, sound. These things provide a bridge to the reader. A reader cannot take away from a poem a sense of 'love', but they can take with them the sense of vanilla icecream melting into a warm chocolate brownie. Give the readers something concrete they can keep with them after reading a poem.

That first poem of mine failed because it was about great big planets doing great big things. Things, yes, but things no one has seen, or could see. So will a poem about trees killing birds and marching across the planet crushing rocks fail? Or can enough tools of poetry be employed to save this poem? I'm afraid to ask, but I guess I'm not afraid to try.

Rarr! But I just really want it to be done now and wonderful...

2009-03-17T14:56:00.000-07:00

Thinking about the progress of this poem, I know it'll be one of those ones I'll have to step back from. My instincts tell me it's not done. When I'm away from it, and run the gist of this piece through my mind, I know it's not all there for the reader, it's not entirely accessible. I like to think that, within my work, no matter how punched up the diction is, or scrambled up the syntax, the underlying meaning, narrative, whatever, is still there for the reader to find and hold onto. It's there, honest! If there's one thing I feel I took away from university, at least the writing program portion of it, it is how far your reader will go in order to understand a poem. I apply this knowledge every chance I get; it was always incredibly frustrating to have a room full of people say they just don't get it. And as a student writer, the first things I had to learn was that sometimes the room is not filled with stupid people. Sometimes, you just lose your reader. Sometimes, you need to pull a thread through the poem that can lead a reader along to the end, or knock out some of the obstacles, or uncoil dizzying chronology.

Or maybe sometimes, if a bunch of trees in a poem go crazy at the end, the stuff that happens in the middle can go ahead and happen, and no one really needs to make sense of it all anyways!

This is going to make me sound crazy, like a tree!

2009-03-16T14:56:00.000-07:00

My computer is alive and kicking, protected by free softwares that barely let me do anything: "Wordperfect is trying to connect to the keyboard! Allow?", but I suppose that's what you get when everything is configured to "Paranoid Mode". And yes, that's a real setting.

I am working on a poem inspired by a line that came to me this morning in the shower. "These are the trees going on without us", which has become the title of the piece. It's not done-done though, but so far, the ending seems to involve trees going kinda crazy... I don't know why. Probably just because the language that led to the conclusion sounds really really good.

Some of my best poems come to me in the shower. Something about the quiet, but not too quiet, atmosphere lets my mind wander. So it's probably not a bad thing that sometimes all I want to do is spend my day in there. Also, it's so very nice and warm...

Lines of poems not yet written are scattered in my brain. Maybe the over-abundance of steam (did I forget to turn the fan on again?) lets them knock loose and slide out my ears, or something.

Please invent waterproof paper.

I also can let my mind wander towards the poetic when I go for walks. Lots to see and ponder. The white puff of dandelions in fall inspired a poem that never got written; the sight of a smatter of dead bees littering the sidewalk beneath a tree lead to "The Mortality of Bees"; the moss leading up the drive to the home where the nun lives will, I promise myself, one day flesh out into more than just notes.

There's almost a mode my mind clicks into. And it's a shame but sometimes I just won't let it. I don't have the energy, the time, the paper or pen to let the words flow around like they need to in order to become poetry. The rest of life gets in the way, but it's a strong pull, an almost physical sensation, to the point where I feel as if I need to shake it out of my head when it gets going and I don't want it to.

When I do let it, though, the words sound like they come from somewhere else in my head, somewhere deeper. I sound crazy, but I wonder if that kind of thing would show up in a brain scan?

I've read somewhere that way back when, the egyptians believed the brain was nothing, just a bunch of gunk I guess. They thought that the heart was the seat of the mind and soul. I wonder if they heard their thoughts from their chest. I really do wonder about this. It kinda plagues me.

Ooooh, let's rant!

2009-03-10T13:37:00.000-07:00

I am a very patient person. I can easily put up with my computer's 'ways'. I can sit quitely clicking through multiple error messages when trying to simply close programs, or crtl+alt+dlt all day trying to fire up another. I don't mind. It would simply be nice to have a nice computer. A well-behaved one. Nice.

My computer runs half open. Like... the case has to be half open. The fan. There are issues...

I am a worrier. Bad things can happen. Bad things will happen. To me. And they do. And they did.

I am the person you know whose bank account has been emptied. I am the person you know whose car has been broken into multiple times. Multiple times! I am the person you know who has opened commercial cans of pumpkin to find ick, moldy fungus ick. I am the person you know whose very nice computer, very new, very not cheap, very nice computer lost a hard drive very early on in its life. About then it stopped being nice. Indeed, I am the person whose technologies run fairly half-assed, who carried a debit card that would not access the account that had the money in it, who drove a car with no header pipe/ brakes/ oil/ fully locking doors.

But that's ok.

I am a flip-flopper. I'll admit it. I make one decision only to change my mind. Again and again. But this time, I am wiping my computer for sure.

I changed my mind last time because A) I got lazy (I'll admit that too, I am a lazy lazy person) and B) I worried about the security of my computer.

The security of my computer is no longer an issue. Actually, that's only because it is now the issue. My computer has been compromised. How do I know? Because my World of Warcraft account was compromised. That's right, an MMORPG did something good for once, it raised a red flag for me.

I haven't been playing WoW much, but the BF has, and he turned to me the other night and said "look, you just logged on." Err, but I hadn't... but someone had; someone was using my account. Someone who also locked me out of Account Management and Password Recovery. I was able to change my Registered Email, though, and thus get the process rolling to get my characters back. No harm there, all my items will be returned, and in fact the 'hacker' maxed out my mining skill for me, explored almost all of Borean Tundra, and got me two Wintergraps achievements. So, that's dandy.

But the 'how' is not so dandy. After two days I managed to isolate a keylogger. Did I manage to fully delete it? I don't know. Are there more? I don't know.

Way to suck, Norton.

In my adventures I downloaded AVG, and it opened my eyes to what I find lacking in Norton. Information. While Norton always managed to find 'tracking cookies', AVG found multiple ones, and gave me all their names, and that's nice info to have, and while online, AVG notifies me immediately when it encounters such tracking cookies, rather then waiting for a weekly scan to find it. But it didn't find the keylogger. And while Norton did, it never notified me that it had. "Norton> Options> Internet Security> Transaction Protection> Oh hey, we blocked this keylogger for you, no sweat, don't worry about." Um, don't just block it dummy, delete it! Or at least let me know it's there so I can. And it obviously didn't do a very good job blocking it. Something didn't work as it should have, somewhere.

So the computer is going to be wiped clean. I don't care now, obviously, if I lose Norton. I am willing to invest in something better. Suggestions? And don't suggest an Apple! A new computer won't happen until I go back to school, right now is travel time ;)

I also played a bit these last few days with processlibrary.com, very interesting. And I'll definetly be looking into a registry cleanup program after this little bit of 'spring cleaning'. This computer needs more loving. Obviously.

Another process.

2009-03-05T14:04:00.000-08:00

My latest poem went out with the last batch of submissions, and had only been finished the day before. I don't usually send out poems quite so fresh, but I feel pretty good about this one.

It began as a very very rough draft of simple language arranged simply on the page in a simple separation of simple ideas. My idea was to explore the unfortunate feeling of preferring to stay indoors, even on a beautiful sunny day, and that sometimes it is just easier to stay inside. The first draft included the notion that this preference may have been ingrained into us from an early stage of evolution. The only spot of brilliance in this early work was the voice of the poem damning "that woman/ and her cave,/ her womb" after having questioned "what ancestor live longer, had more/ children never/ leaving her cave?"

The poem lacked concrete imagery. I decided to work with the image of the cave, and tried to think of what could be in this cave, a metaphor representing an early ancestor. I thought perhaps a flower, out of it's element within the cave, delicate yet sheltered. A google search brought up Gypsum Flowers, and I was fascinated. Not actually a living plant, Gypsum Flowers are rock formations found in caves, with highly organic looking forms, not unlike flowers. Beautiful. Delicate. Somehow wrong, but just right for this poem. And so the image of some form of impossible seed entering the cave and blossoming until "gypsum flowers flow/ across the walls of a cave" was created and begins this poem.

At this point the direction of the diction was set down. Words pertaining to rocks, caves, etc would keep the piece in key, and great language was definitely what this poem needed to get going. Druse, rock, vein, ore, fossils, dendrites, crags, hollows, bore, crusts, slag, core, roots, pebbles. The diction connects the idea of inorganic cave materials, to the organic materials that make up the speaker, yet at the end of the poem the speaker herself is reduced to "the minerals of [her] mass."

The choice of diction both determines and is determined by the sounds within the poem, and the rhythms and movements emerges: "druse/ this brood of rock/ arouses"; "vein of ore that must course"; "fossils/ even. And fingers fumble"; "the crags of hollows, a grotto"; "what woman ached to escape"; "gypsum spirals and satin spars".

Line breaks and enjambment were carefully considered to help control the movement of the language, to help layer meaning, and provide a few kicks and punches when needed: "as if some seed crawled into depths/ dark to brood and be alone", in this example, the enjambment provides "dark" with a double meaning; both the seed and the depths can be thought of as dark, and challenges the reader.

The poem itself is split into roughly three parts. The first introduces the imagery of the cave and rocks, and connects that imagery and the reader with the speaker. The second introduces the idea of the woman as ancestor, seeking refuge in the cave, bearing children in its safety. The final part connects the speaker and her feelings towards this woman, and what that woman's actions have left within the speaker herself: "Damn that woman/ and her cave,/ her womb."

The poem finishes with a concrete image that the reader can take with them. It's perfect. It was a "fuck ya!" moment. Take that Oprah and your "ah-ha" moments :P

At the end, the poem got its title. Agoraphobe. Not even a real word! But as a poet I can ultimately do whatever I want, and besides, you all know what I mean, right?

Bye poems, have a safe trip!

2009-03-05T08:31:00.000-08:00

I got all my files cleaned up and organized, ready to back up for the big computer wipe, which now won't be happening for another 320-some-odd days. I don't know what to do with my Norton subscription. I haven't any discs for it and I don't recall if it was one of the programs that came with the computer, and thus one that would remain installed after restoring my computer to the factory settings. And I only just renewed the subscription. I don't want to lose the program, or another 70$ in re-subscribing or re-downloading, so I'll put up with this machine's idiosyncrasies for another year... but at least all those files got organized!

Despite the lack of reformatting, the new printer is installed! And works wonderfully! And so, today's project is a big 39 poem print-off and send-out. I've already arranged all my flashcards, so I know what poems to send where. I need to write cover letters for each batch, save a final submission version of each poem with all kinds of contact info in a special file, update my flashcards, and address lots of envelopes... fun times.

I hate licking envelopes. I buy the kind with the peel off sticker.

Two and a half hours later...
This is how it all began. Poem cards arranged, and organized with Magazine cards. I have to make sure not to send a magazine a poem they've already seen. I also like to send each magazine poems that I feel work well together, a cohesive mix of the good and the gooder, in an order that hooks them with a really great poem and ends with a stronger piece too.

Poems are printed! Each and every page has all my contact info. You never know how organized these magazines are. These papers are so nice and crisp. I love to ruffle my poems.

The cover letters! Each one should mention the magazine's name, so they know you care. A brief bio, oodles of contact info (contact me!), and a list of the poems sent. I also note that they may feel free to recycle all unused portions of my submissions. I love you planet. Double and triple check all the info.

Address the envelopes. Quadruple check the envelopes and their contents. Include self-addressed stamped envelopes; magazines won't spend their own pennies to reply.

Time to go buy stamps!! And then it's 2-12 months of waiting and thumb-twiddling. And I guess writing more poems.

Two, for tea.

2009-02-20T14:29:00.000-08:00

I've cleaned the condo now, and can sit for another cup of tea. I even jotted down two super quick and awful drafts for poems, really very very bad, but that's how some of the best start out. So how about another entry while the kettle boils?

I'll soon be sipping on a cup of delightful Vanilla Plantation "Tea of Inspiration" from Silk Road, one of the two teas I picked up from victoria after the festival. This one has ceylon black tea, vanilla bean and essence. The other tea I bought is Velvet Potion "Tea of the Heavens" with black tea, raw cacao and nibs, vanilla beans, exotic spices, and essences. Neither of these tea are cheap or easily bought, so when I steep a cup, I am sure to use the recommended 1 teaspoon per 2 cups of water. I'm a bad tea steeper and usually try to stuff as much tea into the teaball as I can, spilling much of it on the counter, since the teaball is round... and not easily stuffed. I do this even though I know teas need room to unfurl to steep to their full potential... but I want my tea fast, and wouldn't more tea steep stronger faster? Apparently not.

My tea set has been shipped. The bf says it looks like a child's tea set. Which is funny because they do in fact sell a miniature child's size version of this same set. This one is called Tea's Me by Rosanna. Each cup is a slightly different style, and of course different colours. I love how whimsical it is, and yet still quite elegant. It might not be traditional china, but it's dishwasher safe, and something that could maybe become an heirloom... the regular stuff is just too plain for me!

Now to find the perfect tea cozy. And cake stand. And serving tray. And desert plates. And tea towels. And napkins. And napkin rings. And table cloth. And trivet. And tea tins. And tea spoons. And everything else.

At this point, I think my main reason for a wedding would be to register for gifts! Matching sets of everything... everything!

Everything must go with everything else. This is my neurosis. Well, one of them.

I owe you a blog! One lump or two?

2009-02-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

I admit it. I play World of Warcraft. I am a total nerd. But this isn't totally anti-social though, cuz the bf plays too. And our computers are side by side, so... it's like we spend time together. I do it in kicks though. Right now I don't feel much like playing, so I don't feel terribly dorky. But those times when we spend all evening exploring Azeroth and defending the might of the Horde? Geek alert!

I like things to match. I like 'sets' of things. Even playing computer games, my characters' armour and weapons have to 'go', and it's even better when there are actual sets to collect, like in WoW and Diablo 1 and 2 (and when will 3 come out!?). I'll go out of my way to do this. At least in a virtual world it only costs time, but in real life (I go there sometimes too, honest!) it just costs money. Whoops.

In Ghent I found the perfect espresso set, not authentic to Belgium or Europe in anyway. It's made by a popular kitchen/dish company, apparently found everywhere. But every time I bring it out, I am reminded of my time there. It serves this purpose well. Since returning home though, I managed to find the matching creamers, stovetop espresso maker, and turkish coffee pot, which I actually use all the time to boil the perfect amount of water for a single cup of tea. It's pretty slow at this though, and the lid I tried to stick onto it to help it heat up faster exploded into a million little pieces one morning. I also stumbled upon matching coffee cups with handy stand, a coffee jar, travelmugs, big mugs with tea strainers... but I refrained from those! They didn't fit my personal theme, even if they matched in design. One must set limits!

I found the the perfect teapot. But they don't make it anymore. But then I found the second best one. And the matching teacups and saucers. And the matching creamer and sugar bowl...

For valentines day the bf went with me to the Victoria Tea Festival. It was a lot of fun! It was also incredibly crowded. I heard later that they ended up turning people away as they had reached capacity. It was awesome though. Especially since as soon as we walked in we were directed to a tea and chocolate tasting, yummy! That definitely set the tone for the rest of the day. Samples of green teas, white teas, black teas, oolong teas, roiboos, yerba mate, pastries of every kind; I was very nearly tea-ed out!

Once we had done a few circuits of the place, seen all there was to see, we headed out into town to see if we could find a few of the local stores whose booths we had enjoyed. I ended up buying a couple of very yummy smelling teas from The Silk Road, and plan on someday returning to Murchies if I ever decide whether or not I'd use the 'Libre', a cup/thermos for loose leaf teas 'on the go', often enough.

The best part of the festival: one small coupon. From the Empress. Omg, 2 for 1 afternoon tea! At 50 dollars a head, it's a steal. The bf has already called dibs; I think he's intrigued by the bubblegum tea we smelled!

I am very excited about teas.

I am very excited about having afternoon tea.

I am very excited about having a tea set.

I'd like to have a tea party someday.

There's a poem in this.

Yes, I've just been cat-vacuuming (definition: the writing done to avoid writing) but it's better then wasting time on WoW!

How does a chicken run, anyways?!

2009-02-11T09:30:00.000-08:00

I run funny. Apparently. Watching me run seems to make people laugh, and while I've never seen a chicken run, others have, and well, they seem eager to make a comparison.

I'm not very well coordinated, especially in anything sports related. I can catch more balls with my face than with my hands.

I've never been in a pool warm enough for me to enjoy. And If I did, I think I'd be nervous. Especially if small children were present.

I'm incredibly self-conscious. There's nothing I hate more than to feel embarrassed.

I was going to go for a nice long walk yesterday after work to enjoy some sunshine, some fresh air, and a bit of exercise. Because, obviously I don't exercise much. And I'm feeling inspired to at least think about it more. But then it got really cold. And then it snowed. And then it rained. And then it got really windy. And then I think it got even colder. It took all I had in me just to make a short trip to the postoffice.

It's nonsense to feel that I need to wait until a poem is published in order to share it with more people. There's no poems on this blog though. Too many publishers feel that anything posted online anywhere can be considered 'previously published'. Most, if not all, literary magazines are only interested in purchasing first serial rights. But I like my poems, and I think others might too, so I've find another way to share them. On the sly! So hence the trip to the postoffice. No mass mail of submissions yet, though.

I'm off work tomorrow. Might start organizing submissions, so I'm all ready to go when my printer gets here. Or I might read a bit. A little part of me wants to give short fiction a go, and I've borrowed a big book of science fiction short stories from a friend. Time maybe to dive into it, since the best way to learn to write is to read. Or maybe if it's nice out I'll go for a walk. If no one is looking, maybe I'll even jog a wee bit.

Buffalos and 'No's.

2009-02-05T14:32:00.001-08:00

Grating cheese makes my arms very tired. Kraft does the job for me, and for that I feel a little ashamed.

A couple of nights ago the boyfriend cashed in one of his lasagna coupons, my gift to him for christmas. I made something extra special. Lasagna with bison, sun-dried tomato sauce, red peppers and red onions, all topped with Tex-mex cheese with jalapenos. And of course noodles, spinach and ricotta; no lasagna is complete without key ingredients. It was soooo good. I like bison. Maybe we can find a way to fit more buffalo into the budget.

I'll write a buffalo poem, I think. Or maybe a lasagna poem.

No writing for the rest of the week though. Three opening 8+ hour shifts to wrap this week up with. But I got a lot of writerliness done earlier in the week, so of course it's ok if I lay on the couch for the rest of the day watching taped episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras, my sick guilty pleasure. I also harbour a secret love of shows showcasing "half-ton people". They boggle my mind!

I have a project. Save all my pictures, writing, and music from my computer. Wipe my computer, and start all over again with it. Probably going to suck to do, updating drivers, downloading patches, etc. But maybe at the end of it all my computer will be happier and run better. It has... issues.

I'd like to get this done, hopefully before my special package arrives, and then installing it will just be the next step. My biggest fan has sent me a new printing set-up!

And then it'll be time to do another big submission. Lots of new stuff needs to be sent out, plus a few came back to me in the mail yesterday. Actually lots came back! All from one magazine, whose turnover time is half that of any other, and who lets you send in oodles of work at a time, so I appreciate them, even if they've yet to send a "yes, please! We can't get enough! Send us everything you have! Take this blank check, and... " well.. we all have our fantasies!

Ekphrastic Fantastic!

2009-02-03T10:37:00.001-08:00

I live in a one-bedroom condo with white carpets. We figured out, using math of all things(!), that excluding the downpayment and the year end lump sum someone throws onto the principle, I contribute to roughly 20% of the mortgage. (Is that how grammar should work in that last sentence? Oy, I can't even talk well english about this kind of stuff!) I haven't decided yet which part of this place I call dibs on. Probably not the carpets. Or any of the interior design for that matter. And especially not the stencilled flowers on the fireplace.

When I have a day off during the week, I tell the bf to make me get up with him, since he's got one of the 9-5 deals. If I sleep in I feel as if too much of the day was wasted. But I don't always get up, I tell him that I am getting up, just slowly, that I'll leap out of bed once he's out the door, honest! But that doesn't always happen. Even with the lights left on... I can still sneak in a couple extra hours. I got up this morning. Yesterday I didn't.

Sometimes I forget to turn the stove on. Sometimes a cup of tea takes longer to make than it should.

Ekphrastic poetry. I stumbled onto this one at some point this morning, but it was early so I haven't a clue how I came upon it. It is poetry inspired by art, whether it be a painting, music, architecture, etc. It gives the poet an opportunity to explore the visual language of the art, or simply play with the inherent narrative. I'm actually pretty sure it was brought up at some point in one of my classes, so maybe this was just a bit of a refresher for me, but it struck me as something I should give a go. I minored in visual art, and while I can't paint much in my present situation and haven't got access to a printmaking studio and never cared much for drawing anyways, this could be a good way to keep my fingers in the fingerpaint.

I'm always looking for things to write about. I'm young still, so maybe that's why I don't have much to write about, like in a personal experience kind of way. A lot of the poets I admire have kids,travel, family drama, or just a really long life to draw from. I have the animal poems for whenever I get stuck, and now I'll make use of ekphrastic poetry, and put this monstrous art history text to some use. And get out more to see some galleries. I never do. I'm shy like that.

So I wrote this morning a poem, The Twittering Machine, inspired by, of all things, Paul Klee's Die Zwitscher-Maschine. It turned out very well, and very quickly, and actually revealed more of Klee's work in the process. In putting to words his imagery, a painting (or is it considered a drawing?) that at first glance has a lot of whimsy to it, a dark side appeared. In the poem is born a sense of cruelty that lays roughly concealed in the visual piece. It's neat how one of my favourite art works can continue to change and grow, just by looking at from a different perspective. It happened before too when I used his piece to inspire a painting of my own for an Arts and Culture class, but that was more of an exploration of his use of naive, primitive, and children's art.

Connect the dots now. Children can be so cruel...

Out of ink, money, and earshot.

2009-02-02T11:04:00.000-08:00

Our condo came with a complete set of furniture. So did I.

My printer is out of ink. Again. My printer uses cartridges which, according to something I read somewhere online, so it has to be true, contain only a teaspoon of ink, a very expensive teaspoon of ink. My printer spends a vast amount of time sucked dry. In fact, my entire last year of university, being too poor to afford this solid gold ink for my own printer, was spent constantly converting files written on a pc using WordPerfect to be read by a mac, emailing them to myself, running upstairs to my mother's computer, waiting to receive the email, running back downstairs and emailing again having sent the unconverted file, running upstairs to my mother's computer, waiting to receive the email, running back downstairs and emailing again having forgotten to attach any file, running upstairs to my mother's computer, and printing them off her mac using a wireless and finicky contraption of a printer. But it always had ink. And the fact that it worked without wires now appeals to me, seeing as how, in order to attach my printer to my computer, wires end up strung across the kitchen door, and over top of my bf's computer. It's just the way all this furniture fits. So in order to print anything I use a USB powered cup warmer, which happens to have a very long wire and multiple USB plugging in-able holes, as a handy extension cord to string across the room, as the printer's own cord, of course, isn't long enough.

I managed to print off a few finished poems the other day, leaving the iffy one to be further worked on. One of those printed though has fairly faded ink, and the perfectionist in me cringes and wants to reprint it once I've gotten some more ink, while the poverty stricken poet in me cringes at the idea of replacing something that isn't completely broken.

No, I won't let us cave in to peer pressure and purchase a new, big, flat-screen tv. The small boxy one we have still works. And if it stopped working, we have the older, smaller (and thus slightly less boxy?) tv from the bedroom we could bring out.

I really need a teapot. Making tea one cup at a time, it's just not efficient.

I printed those few poems, and on arranging them onto the clipboard, reread an older poem, Godspeak, which had been inspired by a poem that originated as an in-class exercise. I immediately jumped onto the computer, brought up the old file and went wild. It was just one of those moments. Perhaps the longer a poem sits, the more chance the weaker images and words have to stagnate, and the easier it is to then sniff them out. Some pruning allowed an opportunity to show within the piece, and following up on this really clarified the work. I'm very happy with it now, and after bringing out the index card with its name on it, I can see that I wasn't before; it has never been sent out anywhere.

Perhaps most striking about this was that it was a moment when I was able to write in the evening, with the bf at home. It was still a struggle of course, but not completely impossible. Most important I think was that there wasn't a lot of time where I had to let my mind wander, the writing involved was very goal oriented. The biggest challenge of writing when he's home is how to politely, and without hurting his feelings, tell him to shut up. And then of course, since he's male, he needs to be reminded, constantly, that you've asked him to not talk. Their memory... it's not fantastic, coupled with the serious hearing disabilities inherent with the y chromosome...

A nice beefy slab of poem!

2009-01-30T14:35:00.000-08:00

I have a system. It involves flashcards, a nifty box, and a clipboard.

I think I'm the only person left in the whole world that still uses WordPerfect.

For days now I've left my computer running, WordPerfect open, and 5 poems displayed on the screen. There's a crucial moment in a poem's life when it reaches 'done' and is ready for the next step. Though a poem can be resonating for me, I'm not impulsive enough to throw it out into the world without first giving it some time to rest. A poem is like a roast, I guess. It looks amazing, all steamy and yummy, and makes your mouth water when it comes out of the oven! But you can't cut into it right away, can't sink your teeth into it yet, until it's sat on the counter being starred at for a really really long time. It smells really good during this time, too.

When a poem has rested enough, and I've read it a million times over and am done-done tweaking it, it is ready to be sliced (er, printed) and eaten (sent away). So I print a copy, and add it to the clipboard. This is a hard copy, in case my computer explodes. This provides me with a record of the state the poem was in when it was sent out, but... I guess if my computer exploded, these would all burn up too anyways, cuz they kinda live, er, very nearby. The clipboard is currently divided into 2 sections: animal poems, and, um, not animal poems, all alphabetical. When a poem has been printed, I make a flashcard for it, with its title at the top. Animal poems go on green cards, other poems go on white cards. I accidentally bought white flashcards that don't have lines on them. This kind of gets to me. On these flashcards I write where and when the poem has been sent, and whether or not it has been rejected. I should think of a nicer word for that. Rejected, boo. Every journal I send to also has a flashcard with their name on it. On this card, I note what and when poems were sent to it, and whether and when I've heard back. All these cards live in a nifty box. The box is divided into two sections. One for poems, and one for journals. All of these are also alphabetical, and the poems section has those little letter-tab-sticky-up bits so I can quickly find what I'm looking for. My partner (in crime) thinks Excel would be a lot easier, and I'm all like "gum?" but then again, he's a scientist, not an artist, and this organizationing has become an art form unto itself.

Three of these poems I'll print right now, and I guess I'll print the other one too, but that fifth one, I just don't know yet....

I think maybe I should spruce up my nifty box with stickers.

Organizationing! That's right! Ha!

A quick one to get back on track.

2009-01-28T13:05:00.001-08:00

Let's throw in a quick mention of poetry. I've gotten side-tracked, in blogging, not writing. Er, writing-writing.

In the past two days I've written two poems. I quite like them. Some more tweaking, I'll rest them a bit, and tweak some more maybe, and they'll be done. They are excellent examples of a few of the ways poems come to me.

Goats Don't Want To Be Just Goats was inspired by a photo I saw in a National Geographic magazine. I saw it and said to my partner (in crime) "I'm inspired to write a poem about this." A couple of days later I did. It was the result, I suppose, of trying to figure out what these goats were doing in a tree. By the way, the photograph was of goats in a tree. While the words themselves began by describing the goats, the tree, the goats in the tree, they eventually led me to the story behind them. The poems doesn't tell the story. It touches on the background, motivation, and future plans of the goats. Of course, I kind of had a plan when I started the poem, but the poem had plans of its own, and I didn't try to hold it back or force it into a mold. Language and the dramatic molded this poem.

Hush The Trees Their Wintry Dreams began a bit differently. I try to keep notebooks handy, and as lines, ideas, idle words pop into my head, I jot them down. They are in themselves complete nonsense, and stringing them together would just be bad poetry. So I put them away. When I need inspiration, I'll flip through the pages until, well, I feel inspired. A few lines and words here and there... I type them up, and see what I can make of them. Sometimes nothing, and they remain a bad draft for a long long time. Other times they blossom, with a lot of work, love, and coaxing, into something more. It begins with just words, and I work them until a music forms, and play with that until the idea becomes planted. At that point there's a lot of weeding and transplanting, rearranging and adding, some long division, and viola! A poem has slowly sprung into being, and reaches that point where I just want to read it again and again. And again.

Are titles for poems hard? Sometimes. Because my poetry tends to be quite dense, I run the risk always of being too obscure for my readers. For my poetry, it's important that the title provide a definite signpost to guide readers in the right direction. I write short poems that need long titles.

This ranting entry stinks, but I tried to brighten it up at the end. And then it turned out really cheesy. Like a pizza.

2009-01-28T09:41:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend is the only one who reads my blog, and he wonders why this is. I tried to explain to him that this is my 'writerly' blog, not some chatfest where friends and family can swing by and leave comments along the lines of "Oh hey, gurl! I'm in town next week, we should hang!!" or the obligatory proud mama comments. Always appreciated, but not terribly... er, professional? And this is what this is. A reach out to fellow writers: I don't know where you guys are, but I am here, and I'm talking about writing and stuff! Join me!

I miss school. I miss the community. I miss workshopping, critiques, and poetry readings, and the wise words of peers and professors. I don't know any serious writers around here with whom to talk writing. And for that matter, I don't have a lot of people around me with which to talk any kind of serious business. The world, the arts, discoveries in science and humanities, current theories and philosophies. I tried explaining to the BF that that was a part of what my last entry was about.

Yes, I am a bitch, a snob, and an elitist, but without spending time in my situation, you can't fully appreciate where I'm coming from. I spend up to 8 hours a day with people who lack drive and ambition, who would rather whine about life then actually do something about it. And while my last entry focused on university as a higher path in life, I am fully aware of other paths that exist, and support these as wise decisions for anyone and everyone. Any kind of post-secondary education, whether it is a trade or diploma or whatever, even taking the time and energy to be self-taught in something, anything, is better then relying on the sub par education you received in the public education system. Anyone who, relying on their experiences in that system postpones, insults, or otherwise resists the idea of further educating themselves, is being stupid. This is my belief. If that system were better organized and executed, I would change my mind, but as it stands, no one can expect to build a full life on those experiences and the limited knowledge gained in elementary and secondary school. A tertiary level is required. Required! if one is to learn any form of critical thinking.

No one leaves high school fully matured and ready to understand the world in a fully cognitive sense. In the past, when circumstances differed, and men left school to fight in the war, and lack of birth control chained people down with families that needed feeding, tertiary education was primarily achieved through hard-learned life lessons. But it's not like that anymore, mainly because it doesn't have to be like that anymore, but I think maybe that's an entirely different discussion.

So I guess here's the gist of this all, my message to the masses: Don't stop in the quest to grow and better yourself just because no one is asking you to or making you do so. Don't settle.

And if, like me, you currently spend you money-earning hours in a entry-level menial labour job, be sure to devote time to bettering the world in some other way. Enter a debate, paint a picture, write something, sing out loud, read a book and share it with someone, create a recipe, spread an idea. Serving coffee or handing out a burger doesn't have to be the end of your contribution to the world.

I write poems.

I need to hand out more resumes, I think.

2009-01-27T12:43:00.000-08:00

My degree lives in a box, in a closet. I suppose it should be hanging on a wall somewhere, but frames are expensive. And if I hung it up for all to see, what would I be trying to tell them? I'm proud of what I achieved. I've accomplished more than others. I place more worth on myself than I do on others who've done less. It is a badge of my dedication and perseverance, a declaration of my world view, a sign proclaiming my ability to think critically, globally, beyond the limited horizons of the others, the uneducated. I'm a part of the club.

It was important to me to get my degree. In arts. In creative writing and the visual arts, of all things. Two things that so many people believe can be self taught. An easy degree. A good number of people, those with degrees of their own, feel that theirs is somehow worth more, that sciences, maths, humanities, etc take more out of you, require a greater level of intelligence/passion. This is far from the truth, and I don't need to argue it. No accredited university would hand out degrees in a field where the expectations didn't match or exceed the levels of work expected for other degrees. And I think that's a part of the reason for choosing my university's new name for my parchment. It went from being a university-college, to being just a university. And while my program was always a university program, and not some college night class where middle-aged mothers with empty-nest syndrome go to express themselves amongst angsty teens and veterans, it was important to me that there be no mistake of this.

I worked hard for my degree. I should hang it on the wall. But for all the reasons I know that my degree is equal to any other, I understand that those that didn't pursue higher education see themselves in a similar light. Especially when I work side by side with them. How can my education make me a better person, when we're in the same boat, living the same life? Hanging my degree, my piece of paper, for all to see, to admire, to ooh and ahh over, seems... boastful.
I guess I am just too humble. I am Canadian, after all.

A well dressed businessman came in for a coffee, chatted with my manager about whatever, and left commenting that all the baristas in Vancouver aren't nearly as friendly. "They're all sitting on their Fine Arts degrees, and are left bitter!"

"I am bitter," I tell my manager. Every. Single. Day.

My head hates me.

2009-01-26T15:45:00.001-08:00

I had the whole day off and it would have been a great day to write, but my head hurts. This is all too common an affliction, and definitely impedes. I wouldn't call it an entirely wasted day though.

I applied online for a job at a gallery. They are "currently accepting resumes for a future vacancy" so I guess we'll wait and see, it may mean I won't hear anything for some time.

I then walked in the cold cold cold to the post office to pick up my degree. I'd sent in the one awarded to me last spring and exchanged it for one with my university's new name. They'd been in the process of changing the name in my final year, and I was thus later given my choice of names to have on my degree. I chose the one that sounds ever so slightly more prestigious. Maybe I'll get into that another time though...

Afterwords, I stopped into a cafe for a muffin and latte to work some more on a journal. This is a journal detailing my trip through Europe last summer. It was an amazing journey, and one that didn't leave a lot of time to record everything. Upon arriving home I was left with about a third of the trip undocumented, but was thrown into such a funk that I couldn't bear to relive any of it. I've only just now managed to go through a scant few of the thousand photos I took, to jog my memory and make sense of the quickly scrawled notes I managed between adventures. It's hard to relive a time of your life that ended up being so short, and yet so so so everything you want everyday to be, but can't have... and everytime I want so much to turn back time, that line from "All Dogs Go To Heaven" runs through my mind "You can never go back...!" That movie had a monumental impact on my life as a child. But then again, so did the Fraggles.

I love radishes.

I am a fan of short poems.

2009-01-22T10:01:00.000-08:00

I like short poems. I read short poems. I write short poems. I will of course plod through a long poem, but I warn you, I will flip ahead to see exactly how long I have to read it for. Do I have a short attention span? Yes. But I think that most writers of longer poems do too. I don't speak so much for the book length poem, more the longer than one or two pages poem. Most of these... tend to wander around a lot, and then wander around too much. It is not a terribly bad thing, just my own personal observation fueling my own personal preference. These longer poems will touch on too many things, their metaphors will break down, their language falls out of key, the power of the piece is dispersed throughout it, watered down, thinned out. A well crafted short poem packs a punch. I guess I like it hard. Punch me, please.

I often ask the mister for inspiration. I tell him to pick an animal. Then I write a poem about the animal. It started as a self-imposed forced-inspiration exercise I used in university for a form poetry class, inspired by a couple brilliant pieces written in an earlier class (Tiger, Okapi), but this technique became the basis for my advanced poetry class's final project (A+ material), and I've stuck with it ever since. These are all shorter poems, usually just a page long, that use intense diction, extended metaphors, and often constrained meter and form to find, explore, and define the animal's created myth or niche. I love them. I've got a ton of them now, and while a few found homes in my university's literary magazine, a million of them are still wandering the postal system. And more keep coming.

I love to craft language. I don't need to write a moving poem that is personal to me or someone else. I don't need to feel touched by emotion or memory within my own poetry. For beginning writers, that's often their biggest mistake. When I've worked on a poem whose language I've molded every step of the way, but whose content I don't necessarily feel attached too in any way, I can still tell when it's done because it resonates for me, without having to illicit anything. I can read it again and again, and the mental tone it produces is right on key, and it vibrates my being. It sounds really cheesy, but, it's why I love my work, it brings an almost physical pleasure to have created a good, sometimes a damn good, poem. When I sit down to write, I always open the last poem written that I felt was finished, to read it again and know the power I can create. Maybe it's a reminder that I have it in me. Maybe I'm just my own biggest fan.

There are two ways a reader can enjoy a poem. It can be a carefully and superbly crafted poem about anything, where the language, form, metaphor, etc remains right on key, producing a resonance within the reader. Or it can be a well crafted piece on a subject, location, event, etc that illicits within the reader a profound connection to an emotion or memory, and I think maybe these are the poems that grow in length, trying through more, rather than more concise, language to reach their reader... I need to write an essay on this stuff, I'm very deep.

I just finished a poem. Fox. And I just read it over again. I am my own biggest fan; it's like I punch myself in the face.

Chapstick, and my dream job.

2009-01-21T13:22:00.000-08:00

I am a chapstick addict. I only have at any one time a single tube (Burt's Bees, baby!) and carry this with me everywhere, but never in my pocket. It would melt. It sits next to my keyboard, or beside my cup of tea on the coffeetable, or on top of my alarm clock, or tucked into my purse or wallet or boyfriend's wallet. But sometimes when I leave for work at 5:15 am, it gets left behind. And then my day is ruined. I hate that moment when I reach into my bag, my bag that I bring with me to work everyday and that has a very special little pocket just for my chapstick, and realize that my Burt's isn't there. My heart sinks, then shudders in a moment of panic. I survived this today, but... maybe not the next time. When my lips hurt, how can I possibly survive a day at work? I can't smile, or talk without my dry lips pulling tight and cracking, and those little bits of skin peel and I have to pull them off with teeth or fingers... I need my chapstick. Why don't I just buy another tube, and keep it forever and ever in that bag? Why?!

My bag is heavy. It carries my wallet, lunch, mug, and on a good day, my chapstick. It also has within it a book, of course. Right now I am reading Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, which is very heavy. It's my read-at-work-on-my-breaks book, and since it is from the library I don't dare leave it at work. So I cart this big big book back and forth with me. At the most, I can only ever read an hour's worth each day, so I'll be lugging it around for some time. My read-at-home-for-leisure book is currently Frank Herbert's Chapterhouse: Dune, because I am a scifi geek at heart, though I'll honestly read anything that comes along, and I am trying to read more classics, hence the Tolstoy. I always keep a book of poetry on the go too. Right now it's John Pass's The Hour's Acropolis, with Ovid's Metamorphoses lined up for next, which I'm very excited about. The latest issue of Writer's Digest is on my kitchen table, and this I flip through on those rare mornings I sit down for breakfast, or am eating lunch alone. Please pay me to read. This would make my life perfect.

In university I spent a year working on a literary magazine. It was for a class in which we took on every aspect of its publication, from design, to ad sales, to editing. Not all of it floated my boat, but I loved loved loved wading through the slush pile. Reading a million and one pages of other people's work, sweat and tears. It felt great to find a little jewel tucked in there, but even better to riffle through the stinkers. And most of it stunk. I'm not afraid to say it. Not everyone's got it; fact. And I hope this doesn't make me an awful person, but reading so much bad writing made me feel so much better about my own. There's nothing wrong with learning from other people's mistakes. At least that's how I justify the weird sense of satisfaction other people's bad poetry gives me. Reading submissions for a literary magazine is something I'd definitely love to do again, and for more reasons than just that one, honest!

If I had a job that paid better, or that I at least loved enough to want to work at it more, and not beg to go home early every shift, I think then I'd splurge on a second tube of the 'Bees. And that would be divine!

Writing about writing about writing.

2009-01-20T12:53:00.000-08:00

Don't think this is some kind of new year's resolution. I don't really go for that sort of thing. Rather, it was just sort of... time. The stresses of graduating, travelling, moving, establishing, and of course the recent holidays have lessened. And since my schedule this week doesn't have me working past noon at all, what else would I do? Write! And clean... but my kitchen is still having 'issues' so I can't really get in there... honest! I'd love to dive into that mess, but I'm stuck doing writerly things!

Right now, this poet is waiting for her tea to steep and her toast to... toast. But other than that, my duties as a writer should include writing poems, revising poems, thinking up poems, sending out poems, reading poems, reading about poems, reading about poets, reading about writing poems, writing about poems, and writing about writing poems. That last one is what all this is about. So there you have it. That's what I should be spending my time doing when not at work or keeping house. It's my real job. And I actually enjoy all of it. Not like my real-real job where I get paid to be bored and hopeless...

So while I don't do the whole 'resolution' thing, I have made a conscious decision to focus more on being a writer. But that could have happened at any point in the year. Why do I feel the need to stress this?

I don't want to feel that little bit of embarrassment anymore when I tell people I'm a writer. I wonder if other writers, the established ones especially, ever felt this, and if so, when did it go away? The main character of "Californication", a writer of course, mentioned once that he doesn't throw around the title "writer" lightly; everyone calls themselves that, even if their writing could be easily considered subpar. I don't want people to assume I drift aimlessly among the masses of scribblers who lack passion and knowledge.

One of my main self-imposed tasks as a writer, of course, is to listen for the mailman to come... I love a rejection letter, but a letter from a journal that actually wants to publish some of my work? That could be the cure for this insecurity.

Wet kitchen floors, and a walk to the libary.

2009-01-19T14:06:00.000-08:00

Our's and the neighbour's kitchen flooded yesterday. Tip: disconnect outdoor hoses for winter; if you live in a condo doublecheck that someone in the building has done so. Even if you, like us, never wash your car, that hose business will still become your problem... which kinda really sucked.

I live near a library. I love it. I also never pronounce that 'r'. I consciously do this. Every. Single. Time. There's effort involved. What does this say about me?

I write poetry. I like to tell my partner/boyfriend/whatever I feel like calling him when I've written these poems. I don't like to work at my job much, though I do end up doing so, and I tell him that this is so I can write more. And it is. So I stress the writing of a poem to him. So maybe he'll get it. He doesn't always get the poem. But he tries and that makes him awesome.

I told him I had thought up a poem on my walk to the library after a short shift at work. And that I had then written it down when I came home, and was working on it until he came by for lunch. I was being very productive, even if I was being very poor (where's the paycheck in poetry?) He asked if it was about the kitchen flooding. I told him no, it was about my walk to the library. He told me some people call that a "diary". Ugh, scientists!