On Turning 54

It is my 54th birthday.  I begin crossing the bridge to checking the '55 and over' bracket on most questionnaires.

I remain single, not lonely; the dogs are great company.  My days and nights are mostly quiet, filled with books and music and movies.  I've been awake since 1:30 now, Ricki Lee Jones is on the stereo.

Time was when the occasion of my birthday meant a week of celebrating.  I had my nipple pierced one year.  I was tattooed on my 42nd birthday, a Good Friday.  I drank a lot of Jack Daniels and altered my mind with a variety of chemical experiences.

Tonight I had one Jack Daniels and a dose of AlkaSeltzer Cold Plus.  I nodded off about 10pm.

It has been two years since I last received a birthday card from a grandparent, always with a few dollars tucked in with the wishes.  My parents turned 75 and 74 this month, and I am acutely aware of our finite time together and my 54-year-old heart often swells to bursting with the love I have for my family.

This week, one of my dearest friends came for a brief visit.  We've been friends for almost 30 years and it took only a few minutes for us to fall into old conversations and familiar laughter.  We lamented our physical limitations, remembered the times before our bodies betrayed us and understood how fortunate we were to have led the lives we have.

I once only carried an image of myself at 17, the whole world in front of me.  I still have that image, blurred.  I now have images of myself at 33, the brash poet with his long blonde hair.  More often, I see myself at 42, a wild horse all muscle and force on the dance floor.  I packed a lot of life into the better part of three decades. 

I have no regrets.  I have memories to entertain me forever.  Probably a few more poems.

I know there is still a great deal of living left for me.  I still have dreams.  I understand more keenly how time is no longer my friend, rather the shadow I must try to elude.

The Reading Life

I don't remember a time when I didn't read.  I know there were years before I learned to read.  Even then, I pretended to read.  I once 'read' a Dr. Seuss book to a little neighbor girl, simply repeating 'pee pee pee pee pee pee pee' over and over until she ran to tell our mothers I said a bad word.

Readers were asked recently the book that first ignited their passion to read.  I relished the 'Dick & Jane' readers because the teddy bear was named Tim and I thought it made me famous.  However, the first book I read, a real  story that demonstrated how words could transport you to someplace other than your bedroom was 'Black Beauty'.

I might have been in the 2nd grade and my Grandma Callies gave me a colorful, illustrated edition.  There were beautiful drawings throughout, and pages with lots of words, even paragraphs.  I lived every sentence, terrified of the fire in the stable,  feeling deep sadness over the cruelty Black Beauty endured and relief when she was old and found a nice home.

I was hooked, addicted.

I read 'Black Beauty' countless times.  More books and stories followed.  I discovered libraries and bookstores.  I spent hours in my bedroom reading.  As I got older, my allowance, when it wasn't spent on Hot Wheels or Matchbox cars, was spent on books.

No one is surprised by my personal library.  I have a lot of books.  The last time I moved there were more than 40 boxes of books.  While I believe you can never have too many books, I know that is 'hoarderspeak' and I've learned to cull my collection from time to time.  My 20-plus years as a bookseller taught me shelf space is a valuable commodity, especially when you continue to add to your collection.

I am rarely without a book.  If I go anywhere and there is the off-chance I will be waiting for someone, a doctor or dentist, a friend for lunch, I have a book.  I belong to a local book club.  I have a stack of books to read next to the bed and a list of books I'd like to read; both grow bigger every month.

There are pitfalls to this addiction beyond the dust created by so many books in the house.  Worse, is my inability to put a book down until it is finished, regardless.  This used to be a serious issue for me, but I've gotten better at putting a book aside if it is failing to captivate, chalking it up to 'wrong time, wrong mood' and hoping to try again later.

This doesn't mean I haven't exercised some discretion.  I recently read a dreadful piece of schlock for our book club.  Actually, I skimmed much of it; something I've never done.  Were it not a book club read, I would have tossed this book in the trash before the first 50 pages.  I remember another popular book, the follow-up to a hugely successful book by an author who does not like anyone to edit or proofread his work.  Typos and grammatical errors are like razors to my eyes and I found a half dozen within the first two chapters and closed the book.

I have suffered some insufferably boring books.  Just because it won the Pulitzer does not make it an exciting read.  Or a good read.  As an experienced reader, I know I have to give a novel the minimum of 100 pages to really start moving.  Sometimes this rule works, sometimes it doesn't, but by then I'm committed to the novel and will most likely finish.

I'm reading one of those books right now, nearly giving up after more than 100 pages of sniveling, depressed narrator.  Then the author switched narrators. 

I think I'm going to be glad I stayed with it.

The Women Who Taught (Part 1 in a series)

On January 9, 2015, my high school guidance counselor passed away quietly in her sleep.  She was 74. 

I have been out of high school for 35 years now, but the news of her death, brought about faded memories of her disheveled office: a flurry of papers and college pamphlets on her desk, a sliding stack of brochures atop the filing cabinet, posters taped to the cinder block walls, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

I don't know that Karlyn Armstrong provided me much guidance toward a career or college choice; I marched to a different drum.  What Mrs. Armstrong did offer in that tiny office was a place of safety and laughter.  I spent many hours in her company and I remember regaling her with stories of my summer in France when I was 17.  It was clear from comments on social media this week that many of my classmates sought refuge in Mrs. Armstrong's office.

Mrs. Armstrong was not the only woman at Denver High School who would influence my life.

I remain friends with Fran Johannson (the former Mrs. Gohlke) through the wonders of social media.  Fran was my 8th grade English teacher and encouraged my love of books.  She and I could sit for hours discussing literature.  I read books beyond my peers and she challenged me to read even more.  We continue our friendship today, both of us older, and I am the one recommending books to her these days.  She lives a full and exciting life of volunteerism and world travel that I hope to emulate.

I can type fast.  I earned the typing award when I was in high school (nothing gay about that).  I took two years of typing and a year of business machines, not because I had a particular interest in it(although mad typing skill are handy), but because Mrs. Clara Hudson taught these courses.  There were quite a few of us who wasted time in Mrs. Hudson's office, eating Doritos and being silly.  Mrs. Hudson had an impish sense of humor (matched by her short stature) and her students adored her.  I still do.  We met for coffee shortly after I moved back to Iowa and spent a few hours recounting our personal grief, sharing our writing life, and managing to laugh about it all.

I took as many English classes as my high school offered and one of those was taught by the bawdy and brassy, Mrs. Kemalyn Scott.  She had a wicked sense of humor and seemed to like rebellion as much as her teenage students.  Should she read this blog, I hope it is no surprise that her sex kitten figure was the subject of much discussion among the male student body, except for this gay boy, who liked her for her striking laugh and sense of style.

And finally, among the women who taught and influenced me, is my freshman-year English teacher, Miss Mary Jo Englehardt.  She was 25 that year, right out of college and she seemed more like one her students than a teacher.  She was sweet and sometimes reserved, and during our freshman year, she taught a segment on poetry.  She introduced poetry through music, Bob Dylan and John Prine and the Beatles (I can not hear 'She's Leaving Home' without remembering Miss Englehardt), printing out the lyrics for us to read along as the album played.

Miss Englehardt challenged her freshman class to write a poem, providing several topics.  I chose the subject of war, and wrote a poem called 'War Is Hell', very daring for a 15 year old kid in rural Iowa in the 1970's to use a swear word in class.  The poem was broad and overwrought; what experience did a kid have with war?  But I wrote it as if I'd seen battle and Miss Englehardt applauded my effort and asked to keep my poem and reading it to her other classes that day. 

That was the day I became a poet. 

I live about 40 minutes away from Mary Jo Englehardt now and another classmate and I have planned to seek her out and pay her a visit. 

I would love to tell her in person how she changed my life.

New Year, New Goals

Today is the Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, the day I take down the Christmas tree and officially end the holiday season and acknowledge the new year.

For 10 years, I've started each new year with a list of goals.  There are big  goals, like dropping weight or travelling, and smaller goals, like cleaning the closets or updating my resume.  Rather than resolve to change a behavior in the new year, a resolution usually forgotten within the first week, setting goals allows me the opportunity to work at several things throughout the year, those more easily achieved goals provide a sense of accomplishment each time one is completed.

Last year, I chose 15 goals and put each one on a post-it note stuck to my bathroom mirror.  I managed to complete 7 of those goals during the year, four others are still in progress, two were abandoned because of financial need and the last two were simply abandoned.

This year, there are 11 goals.

RESTART MY BLOG

There it is and here it is.  My last entry was March 5, 2014.  So I took a year off.  I'm not really sure why, other than writing is hard.  Being interesting is even harder.

READ A POEM A DAY

I read two or three poems every day through various emails I receive, not to mention the number of poetry books I read.  Last summer, I paid $1 for a copy of A Poem A Day and decided I would read these poems, one a day, to start my mornings.  I am six days in, today's poem was appropriately from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.

BUILD MY SAVINGS ACCOUNT

I'm a poet and writer and I'm terrible with money.  I always have been.  Money burns a hole in my pocket and I have no savings.  Last September, I followed a plan to put money away each week until Christmas, which gave me $171 to spend on presents.  It was an easy enough plan, so I've determined to follow the plan all year, which, if successful, will result in a piggy bank of $1,738.  I put the first $15 away last Friday.  And this leads me to my next goal.

NO MATERIAL PURCHASES FOR SIX MONTHS

One of the harder goals for the year.  I can buy food, pet food, toiletries and laundry needs.  Nothing else.  I nearly broke this goal on January 1 when I picked up some discounted holiday wrapping paper in the grocery store.  I did some preplanning by purchasing socks and new suspenders before the year ended.  My mom will be buying me new shoes for work.

LESS TV MORE READING

This goal was implemented a couple months prior to the new year.  As part of the goal, and an effort to not purchase material goods, I dropped Netflix.  I haven't had cable in nearly four years and I don't miss it.

DECLUTTER MY LIFE

I'm not a hoarder, but I do have a lot of stuff.  I've already started a box of things to send to the thrift store.  I'll be cleaning out closets and dresser drawers and kitchen cabinets throughout the year.

WRITE TWO POEMS A MONTH

I'm not a prolific writer and I have a tendency toward laziness.  Writing is hard, writing something well is even harder. 

MAKE TWO POETRY SUBMISSIONS A MONTH

This is the drudgery of writing, even though most submissions are now done electronically, it still seems like the most tedious task.  I fell off the wagon last year and it's time to put some words back out into the world.

SUBMIT A MANUSCRIPT TO FINISHING LINE PRESS

I've had a goal for several years now of seeing a poetry manuscript published.  I've tried the contest route and only ended up tossing money into the wind.  Last year, I was accepted into an MFA program, a great honor, but financially, it is not a prudent move for a man about to turn 54.  Self-publishing has always been the ugly stepchild of publishing, but those days have passed and many authors have turned to this idea to see their novel or poetry published.  It's my turn.

ATTEND AWP IN MINNEAPOLIS

I have wanted to attend this conference for several years and it will be held in Minneapolis, April 8 - 11, 2015.  It's a 4-hour drive to Minneapolis and I have a dear friend who lives there and I can bunk at their house and save on hotel costs.  I have about a month before the deadline for preregistration and will weigh this against my goal of not spending on material things.

PARTICIPATE IN NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH

The last goal for 2015 and one I've participated in for the past four years, writing a poem a day for 30 days.  It added 120 poems to my personal manuscript; a lot of bad poems, a few good poems, maybe one or two really good poems.  This last year was the most difficult.  I was uninspired and struggled to complete the poems.  I think I'm burned out on this effort.  I'm considering writing prose this coming November (I did this the very first year I participated).

The Pleasure Principle

William Carlos Williams said, 'If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.'

Last Sunday, during the Oscar broadcast, the talented Idina Menzel performed the Oscar-winning song, 'Let It Go'.  She appeared nervous and her voice screeched, making the performance almost unbearable.  The following night, she sang here with Jimmy Fallon accompanied by children's musical instruments and she soared; smiling and laughing through the song, clearly enjoying herself.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem. Or a song. Or a painting.

I don't believe in bleeding as an artist.  It's messy and makes the keyboard stick.  When I sit down to write a poem it is usually caused by a spark; a turn of phrase, a word, or the way the light hit the side of a building. I approach a poem like a crossword puzzle; a game to be bested by finding the right words, line breaks and images to bring the poem to life for the reader.

Mostly, I have a little fun with language.

I'm not particularly prolific as a poet. I try to write a poem weekly (right there, that sounds like a chore), though lately I haven't been inspired by much. It is easier to let go of the guilt of not writing when you write for pleasure.

Don't be fooled by that last statement. I consider myself a serious poet. I submit work regularly and I've had many poems published. I revise and edit. I put together manuscripts for competitions. Last week, I applied for an MFA program (there, I said it).  I just think you should experience joy when you write.

If it's so much labor, so much pain and head-banging to get a poem onto paper, then why not just dig ditches?

Winter, You Now Suck

There.  I've said it.  Despite all my poetic expressions of love for winter, for white snow, for clear night skies, and refreshingly cold air, I am begging for a divorce from winter.

Our 10-day forecast here in Iowa predicts continued cold through March 6, with daytime temperatures never getting above 20, and most nights going below zero.  One of those coming nights is expected to be -23!  That's the real temperature, none of that candyass windchill stuff.

I never thought I'd beg for mud season.

 It has been a hard winter, and now it's setting in to be a long and bitterly cold one.

Iowa got real cold sometime before Thanksgiving.  I know this because I wrote a poem about a frozen dead pig on the side of the road.  Around the same time, we received our first measurable snowfall and we haven't seen the ground since, or the dead pig.   Most areas have received more than 50 inches of snow so far.  It is piled in rugged white mountains along country roads and in parking lots in town.

I don't mind the snow so much, but this bone-rattling cold is taking a toll on everyone.  In town, the ground is frozen solid more than two feet down. Nearly 200 homes and businesses have frozen sewer lines and water pipes.  The diner is slower than a typical February.  The check-out girls at the local Fareway talk about how quiet the store is these days.  The cold is all we can talk about; it's our devil.

We try to convince ourselves that spring is 'just around the corner', something we say at the beginning of every February, because we know the end of February starts the Great Thaw, and the ground becomes a saturated sponge of mud and slush, unleashing our first dreams of spring blossoms.

We know spring is near, but no one is buying it.

It Could Have Been Verse

I've been on hiatus the past two weeks; the first week was a scheduling adjustment, waking up at 3am most mornings.  It was a busy week that included a catering job which led to the second week of down time.

I'd fended off a cold for most of January.  The catering job required a lot of loading and unloading from my vehicle to the venue and back again in near zero temperatures, and the morning after, I awoke with a minor ear infection, which blossomed into a severe sinus infection and both ears infected.  A wracking cough developed, and it felt as though my head were being held underwater.

I missed a couple days of work, too sick and too miserable to do much more than wish I were better.

And that is what this post is all about.

Rita Mae Brown once advised writers to live healthy, that it required stamina and physical well-being to sit at the keyboard or confront the blank sheet of paper.  She said a writer should never write when drunk or under the influence of any drug; it might seem to lead to creative thought, but your thoughts are not clear.

I can say the same for illness.  Despite the down time spent lying on the sofa or in bed, time I might have otherwise used to write, or even read, I felt so miserable that all creative thought was banished, replaced by an endless prayer for relief.

Even with prescribed antibiotics and the slow return to normal, my creative mind is sluggish, clogged with the virus.

Here I am though, writing away the cobwebs, the sludge of a cold and feeling better each day.  There are notes for a poem, more ideas for future blog posts and the other night, I was able to sit down and do some editing on the poems written in November.

I might have experienced some guilt for missing a couple weeks of writing, but I have let that go with the realization that when you are ill, or dealing with a new stress (like waking up at 3am every day), it's okay to put your creativity aside.  If you see poetry everywhere around you, if you imagine whole stories in the atomic split of a second, if you find wonder in words, you will return to your creative self when you're ready.