Loss
of something precious
of words

Lost
the compass
in a changed world

He is the lion and the lamb
the hawk and the dove
the dog and the wolf
mercurial little love

"Please always be sweet,
precious and kind"
but too sweet becomes cloying
No child of mine

could be without fire
A barely tamed heart
at once gentle and wild
his nature from the start

Rain is cold
and stinging
and wet.
I hate being wet
hair stuck to face
clothes soggy
heavy.

But rain makes
rainbows
in the sky and on the ground.
Vibrant
Shimmering
until it rains again.

Ready to start running
but don't know the course
or even
the distance.

Legs are strong
pulsing
eager
to carry me

so I take off
on the path I think.
Then it disappears.
I am lost.

I slow down
ambling
searching so long
and become sidetracked.

Attention diverted
I stop running.
Where was I going?
My legs are tired.

"Know your enemy," they say
and we do.
We denizens of the suburbs
keep home improvement stores in business
with our busy-ness.
We are constantly battling the enemy.

Throw nets on the garden,
defend the tomatoes.
Stake spikes in the eaves,
impale would-be invaders.
Poison the ground,
deny the creeps from scaling the walls.

We are barraged year-round,
under siege
but fighting back.
Battle on, yard warriors.
Cordless weed-whackers - charge!

The angular sunlight of late evening
cuts through the sky
like a bridge
transporting shards of light from beyond
to join the warm earthly breeze
shaking flowered trees

I am committed to writing for at least 30 minutes per day for 30 days. Many of those days, I think I will write a short poem and post it here.

Drab mommy outfit, body, mind
but not Spirit
the Spirit is flying
soaring and diving
every day.
Let the clothes reflect
that Spirit
bright and billowing
... a parachute?

Black Swan: A Thing of Beauty

Quickly, a creative update: I have finally built up the courage to start editing my book again. I'm also learning to crochet.

Okay now that that's out of the way, let me talk about Black Swan, the movie. Holy shit was it good. A pretty and perfect girl pushed toward chaos and release in order to land the role of White Swan/Black Swan in Swan Lake tumbles toward madness. Many of the greatest artists have been viewed as a little - or a lot - crazy, and this movie examines the reason: artistic beauty cannot be produced from great discipline. Artistic beauty is born when raw emotion couples with impulsive expression. Natalie Portman's character learns that strict and rigorous practice has it's rewards, but only by letting herself go can she give a transcendent performance. Art requires the sacrifice of the controlling mind.

So the movie explored a fascinating topic, but it also made sure to stay focused. The editing was tight and I didn't feel distracted by subplots or meandering story lines. In a mere 1 hour and 45 minutes, this movie managed to make a cerebral and visual impact greater than any other movie I have seen in some time (maybe ever? requires further thought). Because yes, the costumes and effects were mesmerizing without stealing the show. Natalie's black feathers and red eyes will stick with me for a long time, without a doubt.

Anyway, I'm still thinking about this movie, several weeks later. I wonder, am I too controlled to create something remarkable? Does art require that I open the great wooden doors in my mind and let the wild and scary and terrible and frightened things out? I don't know. Sounds like it could get ugly.  Why is the crazy so beautiful? 

Books of the Year

The most influential book of the year for me was Super Sad True Love Story (below). I was really struck by the innovative and effective way the book was written, and the social commentary. The material isn't entirely new, but the style was. And it's hard to find something new these days.

However, I have to say that the books I tore through the fastest were the Hunger Games Trilogy, by Suzanne Collins. The story reminded me of Ender's Game meets 1984, so of course I enjoyed it, even if the writing was pretty basic. I almost couldn't believe that young people (the books were written for teens) would be so interested in such depressing material, but the insanely quick-moving plot would keep anyone turning pages I think. And she wasn't afraid to kill off characters, ohhhh no. I was impressed by her storytelling and the fact that she could keep kids engaged in a post-apocalyptic world devoid of ANY of the modern teenager's beloved technology. It made me want to try it.

What the two have in common is that they speculate on where American society may end up in the future, though Shteyngart's guess seems a lot more probable. Neither vision is very comforting. Anyway, I guess the future is kind of my thing, and presumably a lot of other people's thing considering that both were bestsellers this year. 

Next year I think I would really like to see some flowery, beautiful, romantic, whimsical literature in the style of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Haven't seen much of that in awhile.

A Super Sad Realization

I've been in crazy wedding mode for the past month or two, but I have also been speeding through some books, what with a new schedule allowing for time to read for an hour before bed and an hour in the morning while drinking my coffee. Last night I finished Super Sad True Love Story, by Gary Shteyngart (on my iPad no less! This is ironic and pertinent as the book makes a point of highlighting the downfall of print media).

Anyway, wow. This guy did "social commentary projected as future society" RIGHT. He took this simple story (weak man falls in love with confused girl) and placed it in such a richly textured world and relayed it all in beautiful, sometimes complex and sometimes satirically horrible writing. The occasional passage was long-winded and a little boring, and once or twice I felt beaten over the head with one the points he was trying to make, but overall, I was immensely impressed.

I was also immensely depressed. Not only due to the hopeless track he placed America on, but because my book sucks in comparison, and we aren't writing on such dissimilar subject matter. Seriously, what I wrote looks like a book for babies next to his, an infantile finger painting next to Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel.

Damnit.