Following the Same Old Cow Trail?

Here I sit, on another Wednesday night, fingers drumming my desk, inches from the keyboard, taping out anothe idea for today's blog post, my mind already churning it's wheels, waiting for that familiar scroll of paper to be fed to it, where it can funnel it down towards my hands, which move as nimbly as the seperaet keys on a typewriter, each moving silently but for the occassional pause to crack the knuckles, or think of a transition point perhaps.

But sometimes that ream of paper gets jammed, or the mind demands it back, turning the wheels backward, instead of forward. The fingers lay there, idle, not knowing what to do with themselves like a hardy and trustworthy family car which has suddenly become untrustworthy and it put to pasture in the backyard, where grass will be the only thing acknowledging it's presence and decades of service to the same family.

In some form or another, whether it be unambiguous or as vague as nighttime's breath nearly burned away by the pale morning sun, only a few wisps remaining, to whisper of what had been, I always have an idea for a blog post every Wednesday. Tonight was no different. You see, I had intended to write about...writing! My writing and everything that comes with it, more specifically. Which I'm sure I didn't have to spell out for you, but there it is.

But just as that reem of paper was being fed I thought to myself, what did I write about last week? And the week before that, and that? Even if last week's blog post was about an alternate side of myself, Side B of Me, it all boils down to that dominant writer's side I have, and how just as I envision myself in elaborately vintage and antique dresses and high heels, the writer in me is kept as private as my flair for flamboyant dresses and a girl who's personality is the exact opposite of that which they see every day.

Another underpinning of all of my blog posts is old houses. No matter the subject, I can always find that thread - however thin or seemingly nonexistent until I was tripping over it - that connects what I'm talking about to old houses. Now, perhaps it's no secret, but many of my poems are metaphors relating to old houses. For example, in a poem I wrote quite a while ago entitled Nostalgia I wrote about a distressed woman relating her crumbled marriage to the dilapidated state of the old house they once owned together, every disrepair and piece of crumbling plaster was something they ignored or refusd to fix in their own marriage. One line that particularly resonates with me in that poem is the very last line "with all I have lost within this house, I haven't lost myself."

And that, just now, gets me to thinking about a quote I had read, or perhaps heard somewhere, in that vast, pulsating ocean of information, both useless and utterly captivating, that we wade through every day. The quote is this "to be a good writer, you need to write what you know." It would seem, in my case, that I have been following such a claim long before I stumbled upon this quote. Since middle school I have been writing about storms, old houses, small towns, the Great Plains area, tornadoes, troubled but closely knit families, dilapidated old houses...you get the idea. So why then, if it's so obvious that these are such topics I should continue writing about because they inexplicably - and sometimes inadvertently - work their way into every aspect of my life, pose the question that is the title for this week's blog post?

You see, when I logged onto my blogger.com account and clicked on the new post button I had, of course, intended to talk about writing, or something related to it, or something that would eventually work it's way towards being about writing. But then I thought about all the other posts I'd written about writing, and how it has virtually ran like all those low-hanging, musty filled tunnels of thousands of abandoned mines across Upper Michigan through the blog posts that have managed to roll away from that centuries old tree looming above them, only to realize they had come to rest on a gnarly root, not escaping at all, just a little further away.

This of course, led to me posing the question to myself, "why worry about if I talk about writing so much?" I mean, if someone's really into interior decorating - which I happen to love! - wouldn't all of their blog posts be about interior decorating? And if someone really loved music - like my fellow 'sister' and blogger, Melanie Light - wouldn't every one of her posts be about music? Or at least loosely related to it? So why then, am I worried about writing too much about...writing? After all, just like all those people posting blogs about the ever-interesting and progressive restoration of their old houses - a huge dream of mine someday! - or that person charting their across-the-globe travels from one small town to the next, each post, and the blog itself, has a common thread. That single thread that fell down to down three others, which started a braid, which as time went on grew thicker and thicker, until now it's a secure rope. A rope that unfurls itself maybe every day, or once a week, once a month, or even once a year. Whenever that person decides to write a blog post, is when they pull on the security of that rope, knowing that buried somewhere inside is that single original thread, strengthened now by all those ideas accumulating into a common subject, a common base upon which they visit again and again every time they begin typing in the same box I'm typing in now!

So I guess the question posed to you all, my faithful blog followers and readers, as the title of this week's blog post, is a rhetorical one. Obviously in the once again lengthy post above, I answered it for myself. But I pose a question to you, readers of my blog. What are your opinions about my weekly posts? I don't know how many of you are writer's yourselves, although I know all of you obviously. Can you relate to my posts? Do you find yourself skimming over paragraph after paragraph about the qualms and triumphs of being a writer? I realize I haven't talked about music in a while, but really, whatever comes to the forefront each Wednesday is what I write about. And whatever good intentions I start out with talking about music, old houses, the countryside, poetry, or photography, it always, always, comes back to writing, doesn't it?

And that, as the final answer to the question, is proof that I need not worry about going back again and again to writing. After all, if it can manage to relate itself to anything else I happen to think to write about, it must be a bigger part of me, and more influential than even I realized!

Side B of Me...Again

A while ago I wrote a blog post which discussed my dreams and a hidden personality I have of sorts that loves dressing up in high heels, donning layer upon layer of over sized vintage jewelry. That girl who isn't afraid to show the camera her emotions, to bring to life those crazy dress designs in her head, to drape herself across antique furniture, fixing the camera with a stare that speaks volumes and makes one wonder, could this be the same the same shy girl who drifts soundlessly through the halls of her campus, meeting peoples gazes with a tentative smile? Who's voice is quiet and a rare occasion? Who's deepest dreams and most inner thoughts escape only through her writing?

But this time, I'm not talking about one of my lesser known creative sides - which most often emulate themselves into the characters I create in stories - I'm talking about my clothing preferences! Now maybe it's totally cliche for me to talk about clothes, but frankly, I love to shop! And one thing I've noticed about myself is that I'm literally subconsciously - or inadvertently perhaps - drawn to the most expensive items in the store. Some would call it a gift, for what? Recognizing quality? Or merely a gift at emptying my wallet hypothetically before I even hit the cash register? Now I don't want to make myself out to be a spending freak, although frankly, when I spot an item I like, price is one of the last things I look at. Not an effective way for a college student living on campus to shop, I know. But there it is, folks.

Well anyway, enough about my flare for spending and even bigger flare for an attraction to particularly expensive clothes. What I really wanted to talk about tonight are my different personalities by way of how I dress. Let me explain. When I still lived at home and went to school, on Saturday morning, I would throw on my stretched-out, pilly sweater and even more stretched out sweatpants and start cleaning. Granted, these are clothes one usually wears when cleaning, but on Saturday I usually end up wearing clothes I save for the inside of the house.

Now I know there's people that wear such things out in public, and there's nothing wrong with that. Some people feel their best in comfy clothes like Uggs, sweatpants and over sized sweatshirts. And on some level, I envy them, being so low-maintenance and all. Not that I myself are high maintenance. At least...I don't think I am! The only thing I take meticulous care to do every day is straighten my hair. I hate it's natural waviness and tendency to stay put however I blow-dried it like a giant, curling wave frozen halfway above the surface of the water. On days when I know I'm not going anywhere, or again on the weekends, I won't straighten my hair, just to give it a break, but also because it feels good just to throw on what I call my comfies and not have to wake up two hours before I have to be somewhere just to do my hair and get ready.

That's the thing about me, if I have an event, or somewhere to go, I'll usually take more care to dress up. Granted, going to your classes and general walking around isn't much of an event, per se, but it's reason enough for me to think about what I'm going to wear. What's been killing me lately is that I'm forgetting to throw on earrings and necklaces. I am a sucker for jewelry, especially vintage, over sized pieces. So why do I keep forgetting to put it on? That's a question for later, folks.

But there's another side of me, Side B, you might say. That side of me wishes to dress up in waist-high pencil skirts, with a wide patent leather belt, high heels and a fancy dress shirt. That side of that wants to brave the winter cold in a plaid-printed dress, wool tights, knee-high boots, a thick sweater and a long petticoat on top. Yes, yes, you may be reading this and thinking, she does have a flare for expensive clothing! What can I say? It's something I can neither deny for myself, or of myself. It's just there. Albeit I hate long sleeves and how constrictive they are - not to mention the fact that they elbow-out, ugh! - I absolutely love scarves, sweaters and boots. Granted I have plenty of scarves, and enough sweaters to keep me happy - almost! - I don't have nearly as many pairs of boots as I'd like. Now I know we should be satisfied with what we have, and don't get me wrong, I am. I'm grateful for my comfortable and warm, fur-lined boots. But there's so many outfits my mind conjures up for every season as if it were deftly plucking certain ingredients from each and mixing them together until the taste was just right. Only problem is, my wallet scuffs at such outfits, wagging a finger in my face for being so foolish.

I think that's all part of being female, and a woman, though, isn't it? We always yearn for those outfits singing up at us from magazine ads, or backlit gloriously from a storefront window. We go to the store and pair together articles of clothing, imagine ourselves wearing those sky-high heels with the leopard print, or those knee-high boots or anything in between. I'll admit, even though I only own one pair of heels - and their wedge sandals that kill my feet, but whatever, they're the most fashionable shoes I have, so to hell with comfort! - I envision myself walking in that pencil skirt, and a dress shirt that actually fits, with my heels clicking on the floor. One question that comes to my mind when I think of myself wearing such outfits is, who would I be dressing for? And the answer is...myself! I know I'm not currently looking for a boyfriend, and certainly not in the near future, so that's not the answer. But because I'd be dressing for myself, what part of myself would I be satisfying?

Side B of me, of course! That side that I keep hidden in the secret passageway within an old house's walls, that passageway that I found early on in life, when I first began to write and explore a part of me so inexplicably huge but yet so easily concealed from those in my everyday life. It's like the ice-berg effect used in Psychology. On the surface you only see that small lump of ice but underneath that liquid barrier is the rest of that iceberg big enough to tear a gaping wound into the likes of the Titanic. Sometimes those brave enough to dive below the surface can catch a glimpse, or perhaps it's offered up to them, but blink, and you'll miss it.

As little girls, I'm sure many of us loved playing dress up, and I'm sure I was no exception. I can remember vaguely rummaging around in mildewed chests in my relatives and my parent's basements and attics, thinking how cavernous they were, and how the layer of clothes fell into the hole you were digging in, like dry sand spilling around you, or water lapping at the edges of your sand castle. Maybe such a tendency has carried on into my adult life, and taken a new form. Or perhaps it all ties into my passion for flamboyant Victorian-style homes, and the dresses and jewelry of that era. Someday I hope to wear a dress as elegant as the one's the women in that era wore so long ago, if only to catch a glimpse of their world, and how it feels to step back in time alongside the Victorian house I one day hope to own.

Once again I have tied in old houses. But just like my passion for writing, it is an indelible part of me, one I can't help but invite into all of my blog posts, and many other aspects of my life as well. To give you one more example of my dressing habits...this Friday I'll be leaving for Michigan where I'll enjoy the company of relatives I haven't seen since July. All week I've been saving my favorite articles of clothing - sweaters, shirts, and yes, even jeans! - for the trip. I've even sketched together an outfit for Friday in my mind. Yes, I know. It may sound strange, and overly enthusiastic because after all...they're just clothes right? Yes, that's true. But to me part of my detail-oriented self involves planning out outfits. Hell, in middle school I used to lay out what I was going to wear the night before. Which come to think of it, as I stand for a few minutes in front of my closet now...might be a time-saving option I should re-employ. But anyway, I'll leave my thinking-out-loud moments for after this blog post is complete. That is, if it ever reaches that point!

Whatever my obsession for planning ahead the outfits I'll wear for occasions whether it be another day of classes, a blessed trip to see relatives, or even a much-needed weekend trip home, I don't think of it as an obsession or side-effect of my detail-oriented mind at all but just another song in the soundtrack of Side B of me.

Mending fences...sometimes

I write this blog post a day late, but I'm beginning to realize that whether I post something on Wednesday or not really isn't the point. The point is if I post something at all or not. On the eve of finishing a paper for my Humanities class, I succumbed to the idea for a new poem and started working on that. The poem was my second attempt at an abstract style.

You see, a couple of months ago I wrote a poem about my hometown, Sheboygan, WI. Somehow, in the midst of trying to figure out how to sort out my frustrations with it and my passion for it, the poem ended up forming itself into a rigid, very abstract form that surprised me but ultimately turned out to exemplify my feelings for Sheboygan better than had I gone my traditional poem-writing route and wrote it free-verse. That poem, entitled Hometown, and the identically styled poem I just finished writing today entitled Trees Don Their Petticoats, has left me wavering on my once strong stance against formal poetry.

You see, I've always explained to others - well, okay, mostly to myself! - that my style of poetry writing is like a wild mustang roaming the vast, insipid plains of Nevada. If you were to bridle and saddle that mustang fresh off of the plains, you'd have a hell of a time trying to ride it wouldn't you? Such is the way I feel when I'm forced - or sometimes even when I'm not - to write within a poem within a form. Now it doesn't matter if that form is something like so many words or syllables per line, or a certain topic, or a certain length, or anything in between, any kind of form feels like that mustang running full-tilt across the plains when he slams into a rigid fence, stumbling back in shock, then realizes he's wearing a harness, and a saddle, and someone is trying to mount him.

It wouldn't feel natural would it? That's the same way I feel with poetry forms. Give me a specific topic to write on, I'll be fine with that, but give me specific guidelines I have to work in? And suddenly that lush, thickly-bedded field I'm standing in, listening to the fields sway with a thousand whispers, their thin bodies darkened by autumn's golden touch, a haphazard array of wildflowers bending with the breeze, their colors melding with one another, the pure essence of country life...is all hemmed in by hard, plastic fencing. Even though they're miles off, simply a thin white line in the distance broken up by undulating hills, I can feel them pressing in, breaking off the feel of the land rolling on forever, no longer joining hands with the horizon and skipping gaily on, perhaps plucking a few of the flowers from the field to twine in their hair.

Now I may strike you as overly dramatic on that part, but it's how I've mentally pictured such a scenario to be. When I write, I desire it to be as unfettered as possible. No fences, not even a dilapidated, rusty barbed wire fence trampled to the ground, an old form of poetry forgotten and abandoned. Granted, in the words of a professor at my former college, UW-Sheboygan, poetry forms can draw poems from us that perhaps couldn't have been coaxed out otherwise, and turn into something vivid and beautiful that we second guess if it was in fact, us, that wrote it. But even such a notion isn't enough to make me any less repulsed by the idea of forms.

But, you make wonder, didn't you just before say that you've given slightly on that front? And yes, you would be right. I did say that. But here's the difference. That was my own form I came up with. Somehow putting my own fences around the hypothetical field of the writer within me - albeit temporary fences - is acceptable. Now maybe you don't understand how that can be, and find it contradictory, but it's the truth for me nonetheless. Perhaps to explain it better I'll go back to the idea of the mustang again. Isn't there a difference between him being forced into capture, and him choosing it? When he chooses to be captured, he is willing to accept all the restrictions and the new definition of freedom that will come with it. Versus if he were forced into captivity, he wouldn't be nearly as willing to accept the new contexts handed to him.

Also, when I mentioned the slowly-emerging form with which I wrote my poem about Sheboygan and how it effortlessly captured and explained everything I was struggling under the weight of to effectively convey and mention, it brings me back to what my UW-Sheboygan professor had said about poetry forms drawing from that rare trickle of talent buried deep within us. The poetry form I used for my poem about Sheboygan as well as for the recent poem I finished consisted of simple stanza's of three, two-word lines and three, one-word lines. With this condensed form of poetry I found I had to condense my thoughts to abstract ideas. And in all truth, it was the first abstract poem I had attempted.

That's another thing. I truly hate reading those type of poems that make you feel like your eyes are simply sliding around on the surface of all those randomly tied and jumbled words like an inexperienced child left to flounder on the ice, its chipped surface slicing into him again and again, each time giving way less and less. Now granted, I could sit there and try to figure out such a poem's meaning, but seriously? I would like to read a poem and feel like I have at least even a small chance of figuring out what it means. I dislike being left with the notion that I'm too limited imagination - and patience - wise to pluck at the hardened guitar strings of a poem, bending over it with ear pressed tight, waiting for the slightest sound to escape, to give me the faintest notion at all of what lays trapped within its wooden body. Okay, maybe that was cynical, but I'm sure all of you know by now I have a certain cynical side, she's got to come out and play sometime doesn't she?

Anyway, back to the point. Albeit by writing two abstract poems in the ultra-condensed form I mentioned above, perhaps I'm contradicting my distaste for abstract poems of both the honored poets of yesteryear and also modern poets. Because after all, when poets wrote their abstract poems, I'm sure they knew perfectly well what they were talking about, and perhaps bounced in their chair will glee at what professional critics and the general public alike would take from it. Just as when I wrote Hometown and Trees Don Their Petticoats I knew perfectly well what I meant in every line and stanza as well. Whether people will get the same notion and ideas when they read them all depends on their perspective and a slew of other things. So perhaps I have inadvertently presented myself as a hypocrite throughout this entire blog post, and perhaps my once rigid stances against both poetry forms and abstract poetry no longer stand like a newly built threshold beckoning the way into a recently built home where every corner is plumb and the basement has set to sink into the earth, but instead that threshold may be more like the sagging wooden beam of an aged, dilapidated farmhouse. One that has swayed with the pressure of time upon it, the constant downward thrust of a boot, sandal, or even a bare foot. A threshold that feels itself being pulled with the house as it forms to the earth, embracing it perhaps, each board, window pane, plaster wall and wooden door becomes not a solid structure but a liquid form melding into each other, the centuries becoming feared less and less.

Whatever I have made myself out to be in this blog post, I know one thing for certain. If and only if I choose to write a poetry in a form, it must be one I have sketched myself. For if I am standing in the swaying, haphazard beauty of that field and fences are being built around me, I may write, and find something breathlessly beautiful and perplexing on the other side, but it won't be as satisfying as if I had built those fences myself, leaving the nails halfway out, the boards paint less and sagging. Because sometimes I mend those fences, other times, I don't.