Or, how to get my head into the space necessary for editing is more the point. I’ve spent the morning circling the editing truck like a vulture around road-kill. I’m not waiting for anything in particular to move me–although inspiration of a heroic magnitude would be nice. I’m pondering, or so I think, a rethinking of my poetry head-space–100 pages is a lot to rethink, not that all 100 pages have to rethought, but in a way, yes, they do; the impact of one change may alter greatly a number of things (structurally anyway, but I haven’t even reached that point!). So now, I’m reading about Stanley Kunitz’s “A Living Poem”, then an essay by Mary Kinzie. This paragraph by Kinzie struck me as a way to get back into the editing mode:

Stevens thought that things, which were once human, had lost their former power to conceal themselves. But if we imagine things as having once been persons, wouldn’t they retain at least the shape of their once symbolic hulls, however little they could now hide within them? Isn’t the material world fundamentally a kind of vulnerable or inept concealment? A fly apparently buzzing in place within the web, but in a shell the spider has siphoned the strength out of, moved now only by the wind… the reflection of a stone granary in the mere… freckled leopard apricots…. Grace that has been frozen – a bicycle frame like an antelope; a submerged jar; a shoe made of willow. At the edge of a hot field, a cow shed and chicken coop; beyond these, in a forest of hard blue, the “pierced iron shadow of the cedars” (Marianne Moore). Close around them, against the male sun and the cool female forest, the stretch of ground somebody has mowed despite the desolation of these frames with their sagging silvery boards. The coop. The shed. Who abandoned them and yet comes back to mow? Don’t ask realistic questions. Patience, soon you too will sleep.

I’m going back to clip an exposed manuscript, its human-like lawn a frozen hair-do (probably already a brush-cut), but its poems still green and growing.

I’m broke, I no longer feel
like an empowered shopper.
Because somewhere out there lurks–probably
more like lounges–a rockstar with an affection
for the term “paradox”.
Because choice shouldn’t be hard. Because
comparison’s are meaningless.
Because people I know read too much.
Because somewhere out there gleans a man
reading the rainbow or a runcible spoon, or a woman
reading this blog. Because life is.
Because we are. Because anything is everything
by believing it is something.

Happy Holidays–until next week…
because we choose it so.

…was in the book store rearranging my own and some friend’s books so that their covers were facing out, and, while doing that, I was oggling french flaps–or at least that’s what I think they’re called. (According to the latest rumours, this is a must for any book). Oh, and here is another quiz.

…listener. I know this. I understand this. I’ve tried to change this. It’s not that I don’t hear what people are saying. I do, but most of the time I’m processing conversations fast. I process them, file them, and then later, when I’m alone, I replay conversations, often questioning things I might’ve made comments on or understood better if I could’ve responded differently. (This is, afterall, an after-the-fact sort of world; I live for post-communication (and, for the record, I replay everything in my head, no matter what it is)). What kind of a listener does this make me? I think I’ve tried to overcompensate lately, but instead of being a better listener I’ve become a condescending listener. So, even though I’ve tried simply to listen and not make hasty comments, this doesn’t necessarily make me a better listener. What is it then that makes a good listener?

…time for a quiz! At first I scored 1/10, then the next time I pretty much closed my eyes and picked and was awarded with 6/10. Who says you have to know anything! When in doubt, close your eyes and pick (that sounds, well…like some cheesy line almost).

…I’m in Saskatoon having a lovely time talking poetry and other writing things with Jeanette Lynes, having supper with the ex-poet laurete of Saskatchewan, Glen Sorestad, and generally (hopefully, with any luck and time) feeling like an empowered shopper. I feel as a blogger and as a writer I must have some shot at making a cultural impact? Or, maybe not.

I spent over 2 hours yesterday searching for the perfect tree. Perfect is an understatement these days as real trees appear to be a dying tradition (the fake artificial kind seems to be infiltrating the homes of those sworn to nothing but realism). My dilemma isn’t the straightest, the most full, or the lushest looking tree, but perhaps, is the quest for the tallest; I look for a tree that is at least 9 to 12 feet. My living room ceiling is a cathedral ceiling and the kids love a tree that stretches itself up to the ceiling. Usually, if luck has it, and I find one reasonably priced enough, we will find a tall one, and put it in a corner, as we only have enough decorations for half of a 10 foot tree. This doesn’t bother anyone. The bigger the better. In the past we’ve struggled to find one tall enough and this year wasn’t any different; 9-12 foot trees are slim pickings. This year, two hours after starting (which in a city renowned for its 20 minutes from one place to the next driving time, is extreme) a 10 foot tree was finally found. Now it’s up, decorated, and stands in front of the picture window and the street, letting the people that pass by gape with envy, (or at least we pretend it’s so) and honestly, no matter what people think about dead needles, the extra hassle, or even the dried out state of the trees, 10 feet of real Scotch Pine, standing slightly off-kilter, is perfect.

is the title of Jane Hirshfield’s essay in Nov/Dec issue of The American Poetry Review. It is, like most of Hirshfield’s essays, a compelling read. As I begin the dark crawl into the mindset of editing my second manuscript, I’ve found many parts of this essay useful/interesting/thought provoking. In particular, I was most drawn to an amazing quote from Dr. Michael Dickson about flies:

As for insects, they may not think but they certainly make lots of decisions. What we perceive as behavior is really just a seamless string of decisions: should I mate with you?, should I vomit here?, should I fly off this overcrowded rotting peach on the chance I’ll find a lovely uninhabited rotting peach? Flies make decisions forcefully, uninhibited by memory and nostalgia. Little six-legged Fortinbras. We like Hamlet better, because his uncertainty cuts so close to the source of our humanity. We cannot tabulate costs and benefits without being helplessly swayed by our memories and emotions. We get all bollixed up with uncertainty because we really don’t see things clearly. Our minds drift and we can’t quite manage to pull the trigger.

As for editing, I’m a blue-bottle fly–of course, this is also like awakening on the first warm day after a long, cold winter. I’m bumping into everything, and flying away with nothing.

…words are attractive on more than one level. Sometimes they express the familiar, the whiff of something, someone, somewhere that you know, or they captivate you in an unusual manner, hold you by the seat of your polyester pants, grab you by your thin belt loops and yank your pink underwear up the crack of your butt. Or, sometimes they just do this.