Wednesday, October 11, 2006

It's National Coming Out Day

Please, for the love of Gay, get your Queer on, and tell everyone you know, or just one person, that you're a big Homo! and i will, too!

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Cee Vee

last night, i spent more than two hours trying to figure out what is important about me and what, frankly, is not worth mentioning.

and i dont want to even mention the formatting. because i've really never had much grace, never had too much aptitude for presentation - always been inside a kinda dirty jeans wearing, inside my head being, coffee stains on my shirt having, spewing ideas in sort of a Beef Stew format. give me too many choices, and my chest starts to wheeze, and my skull starts to hurt.

did i should mention that I am applying to PhD programs?

so last night, with half an ear listening to The Bachelor: Rome, I was trying to make all sorts of decisions about my worthiness for the CV (curriculum vitae, for all you Latin Lovas) that i have to turn in with my application. and this Glorious Gay ponderment kept whizzing around my typing fingers:

"...525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes - how can you measure the life of a woman or man?"
(thank you, Jonathan Larson).

Right. How do I know what will be important, what will Grab! The! Reviewers! much less what format to put it in: does my Teaching Experience look more snappy in this blue descending-time-order tie, or is it more impressive if listed stoically in this Humanists' chunked-together-by-Institution-name sweater vest? moreover, do i call it 'Teaching Experience,' 'Adjunct Positions,' or 'Come Watch Me Stand Up In From Of Both Eager And Cranky Learners?'

I am terribly excited, really. I just hate to formality. and, as much as it hurts ever to admit, I hate the impending rejection (see previous post), and the sneaking suspicion that everyone else at the Academic Soiree secretly knows what organizational/intellectual/conversational Fork to use, and i'm just the first one in my family to go to University and, well, eating Beef Stew with my hands.

and i hate the uncanny aloneness that creeps up on me whenever try to achieve this thing that makes me orgasmicly thrilled to the gills, that Thinking Life. Until the Feminist Film Night that changed everything, I worked my academically very much in isolation, and that was something i was used to: the odd nerdy duck in my family, i would hole up in my room, writing poetry by candlelight. no, really. by candlelight. i mean, isn't that how Shakespeare did it? Isn't that how you do it? all dramatic and straining your Poet-Eyes, and painful and muses and stuff?

my Mom read a lot of Danielle Steele, when she wasn't obsessively cleaning the apartment, then the house. And my Dad read a lot of Tom Clancy, when he wasn't obsessively Fire Fighting to save money for said house. always work first, and words, always, but a distant second. so Thinker-Poets must write in secret, and in aloneness, and, certainly in the dark, because to do otherwise would be to waste good work energy.

but i don't want to separate work and play so much. and i want to exist, ultimately and ecstatically, in conversation.

Monday, October 09, 2006

recently rejected for publication

a discretionary epistle

a recovering anxiety addict;
released with only a few new
found sense and a pen in my pocket,
sloughing off the desire to use my sword for stabbing.

to you, a massive missive, with a turn-cheek and squint-eye:

i don’t want to presume
you will attack me, darlin',
but sometimes without my trusty rusty
piercing-blade, and in the midst of my withdrawal,
i slip slide back,
try to employ my shield, and
snap
to a taut-muscle-sweaty-brow defensive stance -
in that, i see you as a noxious cloud
joined with the dense fog of foul strangers that betray,
with white-noisy betrayers bubbling in my head.

and, with them,
i could swear it, that
you will strike me,
and wound me,
and then disown me.
i hold up my flimsy shield,
try to ward off the thick mimetic,
lost in recovery,
and waiting, raw and addicted and with paper-thin protection , to stand your lash:
"Come On. Hit Me. I Deserve It."

quietly, to me from you, a mnemonic memo glides, across my guarded advance:

in smooth rhythm and soothing rhyme
you bassa danza with my newfound form,
whisper 'flagellation isn't all that sexy anymore,'

my breastplate clanking to the floor
drifting me, uncovered and breathless,
crosswise and upsidedown,
our gorgeous gangly arms akimbo in kind,
lapping the uncanny-sweet-lemon-drop dripping off your tongue.

then, despite and to honor
these under-armor-skin and bones,
tingly wakening from slumber,
tender and brittle
from lack of light and loving touch -
discovered, I present myself, tenderhearted, to you -

a sheepish wide-open knight,
a dis-devotee of defense and disrobed of pre-emptive chain-mail,
strong without all that metal,
I adore the passion of our vulnerable dance.

`````````````````

thus endeth the mope.