April … come she will.

Come she must is more like it. April is fast approaching, and I am entirely unprepared for her. April means National Poetry Month, and I will be attempting to write and post a poem a day. As I’ve done for a bunch of years, I will be writing in one form for the month … only, I haven’t chosen my form yet. I haven’t spent any time this month combing through poetic forms to find one that seems like the right choice. Ugh.

so tonight I fired up The Google and started trying to figure out my form. Part of me is tempted to look to the past and pick a form I struggled with and give it another go. The Nove Otto came immediately to mind, as did last year’s choice, the Erasure Poem. I really don’t see myself diving into either of those for a month’s torment, however. (Good lord but the Nove Otto gave me grief!) No. Also there are so many forms I’ve never tried, it seems wrong to go back to a form I’ve already used — well, with the exception of the Arun, of course. Perhaps, in fact, the Arun is the form I should go back to every couple of years just to keep the form alive! (Hmm … that’s actually something to think about, but I also don’t know that I feel like doing a month of Aruns, so maybe that’s for next year!*)

I’m looking at four contenders right now. And, adding another level to my annual challenge (because heaven knows I don’t struggle mightily trying to write a poem a day in the same form for 30 days in row!), I have an idea for a theme for the month, and I need to be sure whatever form I choose will also give me the room to work with that theme. Thank goodness I have a whole week to figure it all out!

What are you doing for National Poetry Month? Care to join me for the crazy-making pleasure of this 30/30 challenge?

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* For folks who are new/new-ish around here, the Arun is a form I seem to have invented in 2013. It’s a 15-line poem with the syllable count 1/2/3/4/5 — 3x.  Extraordinarily basic and not a rhyme in sight. I’ve had some fun with it.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Lost Weekend …

I’ve never actually seen Lost Weekend, but I think of it often, think of myself as having had a lost weekend. In my version of the plot, this never has anything to do with alcoholism, but with my life catching up with me and forcing me to shut down for a while. And, of course, I say all of that because this weekend has definitely been a Lost Weekend weekend.

My knee was super swollen, really stiff and hard to move. I canceled my Saturday plans so I could relax and stay off my feet. I slept. I slept. And then I slept some more. I slept so much, I lost the entire day. I forgot to write and post a slice, I forgot everything. When I tried to do anything, all I succeeded in doing was falling asleep. Yes, that random words post I put up on Friday made it clear that I needed sleep … but a whole day’s worth? I haven’t slept like that in a LONG time.

Still overly swollen when I woke up this morning. So I decided to postpone my Sunday plans and keep right on resting. I haven’t spent the whole of today sleeping, but I have rested, have stayed off my feet, have been icing regularly.

And now, as I get ready to sign off for the night and prep for my work week, I see that some of the swelling has gone down, that it’s a little less painful to move my leg. Result!

Going to work last week — even just for half days — suck every bit of energy from me. I’m going to try at least one full day this week, and I’m hoping to start physical therapy as well. All that is surely going to add up to another lost weekend on the horizon. We’ll see how it goes.

Sleep, sleep, and more sleep. I forget that sleep is the primary thing my body wants after surgery. Weekends like this one are my body’s way of forcing me to remember.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Random

Because I am beyond exhausted, I’ve decided to let a random work generator get me through tonight’s slice.

  • china — I have begun buying china — a plate here, a saucer there — all of it mismatched. There’s no reason for this. Nor is there a need. And yet I’ve found acquiring these pieces ridiculously satisfying. I’ve had four pieces (plate, rimmed soup bowl, saucer, bread and butter plate) for years. Now I have some sauce bowls, a couple of bread and butter plates, a few salad/luncheon plates … and the discovery a) of some patterns I love (Castleton’s “Mayfair,” for example) and b) that the Royal Doulton dinner plate I bought for $0.75 at a stoop sale is worth $55.
  • belt — I need a belt. I have a terrible one (too clunky, too stiff), and I need to spend some time hunting for a better one. I want something sturdy but supple, something feminine but not girlie.
  • seat — All I can think of is that this random word inspiration is me getting through today’s slice by the seat of my pants … though, in truth, I think what I actually mean is “by the skin of my teeth.”
  • orange — Back in the bad old days when I thought I could and should only wear black, I would never have imagined all of the color that lives in my current closet. If you had told me that I would own not one, not two, but six orange tops and two orange dresses, I would have laughed and laughed. Even if I could have been convinced back then that color was okay, I would never have seen myself in orange. Thank goodness those days are gone!
  • curry — I’m just going to say: Mali Thai Kitchen, pumpkin curry. Really. #thatisall
  • station — A couple of months ago, a video of a woman becoming violent on the subway went viral. As I watched the video, stunned by this woman’s horribleness, I realized that the scene of the escalation to violence had something distressingly familiar about it: it began as the train pulled out of my subway station. I could have been on that train!
  • porridge — One of my happy discoveries on my first trip to Jamaica was that Jamaicans make wonderful Cream of Wheat-style breakfast cereals, and they call them “porridge.” The magical revelation of plantain porridge changed my understanding of what the world could be. I’d only ever heard this word used in that old nursery rhyme (Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old…). What on earth is Pease Porridge, though? Yes, of course I went to The Google, where I found that it is likely that the term comes from Pease Pottage, which was also called Pease Pudding, which actually sounds like something I’d like to have some of right now, please.
  • file — Now that I have finished making sentences for each of my random words, I want to file this post away in the “Desperation Is the True Mother of Invention” box.

Um, yeah. That’s all I’ve got. Thank you for your patience. I now returned you to your regularly scheduled slicing.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Twenty-four Short Hours

I’ve been thinking about the 2019 edition of the 24 Hour Project — about whether I’ll feel healed enough and pain-free enough to participate … and then I realized that I never got around to posting my slide show from the 2018 project! Must fix that post haste!

For the unfamiliar, the 24 Hour Project is a street photography extravaganza. For a 24-hour period each spring, people go out and document the city they’re in. From midnight Saturday morning to 11:59 Saturday night, participants are charged with taking photos and sharing on Instagram, at least one photo an hour. When the project started in 2012, there were 65 participants. When I joined the madness in 2015, there were 2,030 participants! Last year, there were 4,280 people in 850 cities across 104 countries! All of us out and about, capturing the world for a day.

Went over to the website to copy the URL for the link above, and discovered that this year’s project will be at the end of May, rather than early April. That makes it much more likely that I’ll be healed and strong enough for the challenge. It also (I hope!) means I won’t half freeze as I walk the city in the middle of the night! My dear friend, Raivenne, has been my 24-hour companion twice, and I hope she’ll join me again this year! Raivenne is the perfect partner for a project like this. She’s brave, she’s silly, she loves the city with all its curiosities and messiness, she has a great sense of humor, and she doesn’t suffer fools.

I modify the project to suit my interests. I post at least one photo an hour, but I also up the ante by adding a writing element, a tiny story created for each photo. As much as I enjoy capturing interesting images and random city moments, it’s the story-making I love — imagining the right bit of narrative to give a photo a different kind of life.

Can’t wait to get out and start snapping. But for now, without further rambling, here are the photos I posted for last year’s challenge. I hope you like them!

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It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Balance

Nine days out from surgery. Ridiculously, I have returned to work. I am only working half days, but the fact that I’m in the office at all, pretending to be clear-headed and capable is pretty crazy.

And what makes it crazy is the drugs. The painkillers, specifically. With each of my previous surgeries, I have been prescribed the same heavy-duty pain medication. With each of my last surgeries, this medication has gotten the job done — dulled my pain enough to allow me to be functional and comfortable.

Well, sometime between the last knee surgery and this one, my body has decided that it doesn’t like the pain meds. I can take enough to tamp down the pain … but now I also get the undesired side effect of feeling entirely high. Other pain meds either have no impact on the pain while still making me high, or have no impact on the pain and leave me sober. So this medication is the only one that manages my pain, but it leaves me loopy and droopy (the two dwarves Snow White never talks about).

Being loopy and droopy in my house would be fine. I could set myself up with my ice packs and drowse away. But instead, I am at work! I am in meetings. I am expected to follow discussions and have coherent things to say. This, as I said, is ridiculous.

There is surely some magical balance point between full-on intoxication and full-on pain, but I haven’t found it yet. I’ve tried not taking a full dose of the medication. That way, I don’t feel stoned … but that lowered dosage does nothing for my pain, so I’m still not able to focus on work because I’m miserable.

I know this will only go on for a short while — I’ll be more healed, I’ll be in physical therapy and will start to feel more myself — but this drugged period is really not working for me, and I need to find that happy medium. So far, no one has called me out for being druggy and silly in meetings, and folks would surely be understanding if I did have to explain my druggy silliness, but I’m really just wanting to fast forward to when this moment has passed.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

If at first you don’t succeed …

I am a writing mentor with Girls Write Now, and I get the pleasure of working with Sophia, who is an entirely fabulous young woman. She’s a senior, and we’re in our third year together. I adore her, and still can’t guess how GWN was able to make such a perfect pairing.

We had our pair session today. We meet in a coffee shop near my office. I arrived a little ahead of Sophia and snagged a booth, our favorite spaces in this cafe. I fished in my bag for notebook and pen and looked up and there was Sophia, not looking her usual self. She gave me a half smile and slid in across from me.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said.

“Mmmhmm. Why don’t I believe you?”

She smiled a more real smile. “I hate saying ‘I’m in a funk,’ but I think that’s the only thing to say. I’m in a funk.”

“Why do you hate to say it?”

“It’s so dramatic. Sounds like I’m talking in a book.”

Ha. I like that. “Talking in a book.”

After some conversation, Sophia put the source of her funk on the table, announcing a bit flippantly that she is suffering through a mid-life crisis. She is feeling that she should have accomplished more by this time in her life. She is seventeen.

But I totally understand how she’s feeling. I told her she was a little early, that I hadn’t had my first midlife crisis until I was 18. We talked about where these feelings come from and how to deal with them. Sophia said she figured she’d have her next crisis at 25 (as I did), and that each time she had one, she’d move the goal posts down a few years, maybe to 30, maybe to 35.

As our conversations pretty much always do, we moved on to talk about a thousand other things. We talk all over the place, as if we have a shared stream of consciousness. At one point, we were talking about the ocean, about snorkeling, about how alien we feel about being in the ocean, about swimming, about rainbow fish and stingrays and manta rays and jelly fish …

And I suddenly thought of Diana Nyad and watching footage of one of her attempts to swim from Cuba to Florida and her being stung by box jellyfish. Both of us reached for our phones and looked her up. And we marveled at her decades-long push toward the goal of being the first person to complete that swim, and the fact that she accomplished it at 64.

Sophia put her phone down and looked at me. “She’s like us,” she said. I will admit, that took me totally by surprise because, as much as I might like it to be true, I don’t see a lot of similarities between me and Diana Nyad.

“No, she is,” Sophia insisted. “She tried to do this thing in her 20s and she didn’t make it. So she pushed the goal ahead a few years and a few years and a few years. And then she did it!”

I love that she drew this connection, and that it seemed to make her feel less of that funk she’d been carrying when she walked into the cafe. We said our goodbyes with Sophia looking more upbeat, more herself, than when she’d arrived. We’d only written for about 15 minutes, but we covered some good ground today.

I also love thinking about Nyad’s accomplishment. Thirty-six years working toward a single, precious goal. And, to my mind, being all the more impressive for achieving that goal at 64 than she would have been had she succeeded at 28. I think I’ve left mid-life crises behind me at this point, but I am holding onto this idea of Diana Nyad, this idea of staying true to my dreams and continuing to push for them even if I have tried and failed again and again.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Do you hear what I hear?

There was a little piece about misophonia on NPR today. I’m glad that there has been an uptick in folks writing and talking about this condition. It means more people who deal with it will have the huge relief of knowing they aren’t nuts and aren’t alone. That was certainly what I felt when I learned that this awful thing that happens to me has a name. While I’m sorry to know that many other people suffer with misophonia, it was such an enormous comfort to know I wasn’t alone.

Misophonia is the hatred of sound — the hatred, to be clear, of specific sounds. Although there are a large number of sounds that can trigger a response, the most common are mouth noises such as yawning, chewing, and breathing. These sounds can trigger panic or rage, and sufferers describe their responses to sounds as being driven mad.

That has definitely been my experience, feeling as if I’m going insane when I hear certain sounds. My response has always been instant rage. And yes, that seems both funny and fitting since I am so often foaming at the mouth about something (case in point: yesterday’s post). But in reality, it’s not so funny. As a kid, I thought I was the most horrible person in the world because I would feel a driving, aggressive hatred for people I loved if I had to listen to them eating. I would be almost blinded by my fury in those moments. I couldn’t understand what kind of monster I must be to begrudge people the right to eat.

I was once prepared to quit a job because of misophonia. Back in the dark times, when I worked as a temp word processor, I had a long term assignment in the corporate office of a bank. My cubicle was across from a man who was the noisiest, sloppiest eater I’ve ever encountered. He was a disgusting eater, but his habits multiplied by my misophonia made him a public menace. I did whatever I had to in order to be away from him when he ate. And I was mostly successful … until a big project required us to work closely and work long hours and work through lunch. It was all I could do not to strike him. I called my temp agency and demanded a new placement. 

I was young and dopey then, didn’t realize that I couldn’t always just say what was true. When asked why I wanted a new placement, I was honest: “This man is a disgusting eater, and I can’t be around him.” I was told that wasn’t a good enough reason to leave a good job, and that if I chose to give up the placement, they probably wouldn’t be able to find me anything for a while. I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, it was leave or put my letter opener through his neck. (And, too, I was getting called for jobs from two other agencies, so I wasn’t worried about work.) If only I’d known about misophonia back then, known that I could have asked to be accommodated and that quitting didn’t have to be my only non-violent option.

The agency said that I’d need to tell my onsite supervisor why I was leaving, that they wanted the client to understand the problem was with me and my foolishness. No problem. I went to my supervisor at the bank and told her I’d be leaving immediately. Before I had a chance to say why, she looked at me with sympathy and said, “It’s Ken, isn’t it? Please don’t go. We’ll find you another place to sit, and you can work on a different project.”

Done and done. My paycheck — and Ken’s poor neck — saved.

That was a long digression, but I hope it makes clear the hideousness of misophonia. It’s little things. My cats clean themselves, and I want to put my head through a wall. People on conference calls breath heavily into the phone, and I have to bite my tongue on streams of profanity. It’s me putting on headphones whenever my coworker eats lunch at his desk. Little things. All. day. long.

Music helps. White noise helps. Sometimes meditation helps. And learning that misophonia is a thing helped. Not enough is known about misophonia (yet?) for there to be sure-fire tips, but an article I read that said getting more sleep and reducing stress could improve responses to sound triggers, and I’m certainly willing to give that a go — and more sleep and less stress is just bound to make my life better even if I’m still driven into a rage when I hear certain sounds.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!