BOOK REVIEW

We are used to sorting everything quickly into simple categories, such as good and bad. We do it, I’m sure, partly as some instinct we’re born with. I imagine it was designed initially to tell our bodies how to handle situations. Hungry crocodile stalking us at the watering hole? Bad. Discovery of fruit growing wild and with abundance within walking distance of the homestead? Good.

For many of us living in these comparatively safe and comfortable times, the assignation of “good” and “bad” to objects and experiences is intellectual, not physical. It’s a luxury, but it’s also a shame. We complicate things unnecessarily. When we feel pain, for example, we do an incredible amount of analyzing and diagnosing before we ever get to alleviating it. Pain is pain, and maybe if we knew that our first response would be gentleness instead of judgment.

As intricate as the language and images can be in A Walk Through the Memory Palace by Pamela Johnson Parker, her poetry reminds us an ache is an ache is an ache. If we are fully in our bodies, the sensation of desire (sexual longing) is the same as sadness or heartache. Although we may say sexual attraction feels “good” and sadness feels “bad,” the weight and throb is nearly identical in our cores once we pull off the specifics of the stimuli. That is my primary experience of Parker’s chapbook (a qarrtsiluni publication and winner of the 2009 qarrtsiluni chapbook contest, 28 pp., perfect bound paperback, $5.95, ISBN #0978174968), and it was extremely powerful.

I had sneaked away with the book to my favorite sports bar two weeks before Christmas. I needed to unwind. (I find the combination of beer and poetry an especially relaxing indulgence.) I made notes in my journal as I read (for those unfamiliar with my quirks, this means I read the book cover to cover and encountered the poems in the exact order they were presented). When I finished reading the final poem, which is dominated by the fear and reality of cancer, I believed I’d been kicked in the gut.

I told myself, “Somebody should have warned me.” My mother died in April after a wrenching battle with cancer, and I was really doing my best to avoid thinking about it. (Suppression, you know. It’s not just a quirk. It’s a way of life.) Then, suddenly, there is “Breasts,” an emotional poem written in six sections skillfully disguised with impersonal, scientific labels: “Figure A,” “Figure B,” “Figure C” and so on. The poem was wet and heavy and made a thud when it landed in my lap.

Somehow, however, it also created an open space. And maybe through the magic of 2-for-1 Blue Moon on tap or maybe serendipity of experience, I recognized the feeling immediately (no, silly, I didn’t recognize it from my own experience — refer to the self-deprecating note above about suppression). I recognized it as the same feeling left with me by “78 RPM,” the opening poem in the collection.

The connection seems odd. There is a sweetness in “78 RPM.” We are young and in love and on a porch in summer listening to music. The finger of a boy is like the needle of the Victrola:

As the heavy arm angles

From left to right, as
The stylus traces
Its sapphire finger

Down the record’s groove,
As he skates a single
Finger along the sun-

bleached down of your
Arm.

The manifestations of heat and love are plentiful, and when the young couple is thwarted (an aunt returns with iced tea: “Here’s something/ For this heat”), we ache. We are enmeshed enough in the scene that, like our narrator, “You’ll have to keep your/ knees pressed tight together.” The tension of that longing, its weighty presence and the space it somehow creates is the same as the ache in “Breasts.” In the final section, “Figure F,” a woman receives a 2 a.m. call from her sister. It’s about stage IV cancer:

… Between
Our phones, there’s the roar

Like the oceans, as
If we were holding shells up/
To our ears.

It is enough when poetry is strong and beautiful (both adjectives I would use to describe Parker’s work and this collection). When it also leads us to understanding of our basic fears and joys, it’s a terrific gift. With A Walk Through the Memory Palace I am able to leap from summer love to grief and back again and realize it’s not that far to travel — even in my own suppressed experience.

And once I noticed this dynamic, I could see it in the other poems, as well, not just the opening and closing pieces. It intensified my enjoyment of the collection as a whole, layered meaning into so many of the other lines, like these from “Tattoos:”

… the tattoo

of skin against skin, that

most ephemeral

of canvases, which

right now seems worth any

multiplicity of stings.

* ** *

I focused my review on this arch because it was profound for me, but it’s certainly not all there is to the collection. Parker is extremely skilled at her craft. For example, the poem “78 RPM” (referenced above) begins with the record player, then a reference to light and a progression to tension. To end the piece, our narrator backs out of the poem, reversing those images, now in the order of tension, light, record player:

Knees pressed tight together
As the light dims.
As the record changes.

This piece, bulging with youth, balances nicely with “Taking A Walk With You,” which shows us an older couple. A poem about an unkempt yard (“Unreal Gardens Without Toads in Them Or, Last Year’s Journal, This Year’s Yard”) is contrasted by a poem about the obsessions of a meticulous gardener (“Some Yellow Tulips”). And since a trusted method of improving one’s own writing is to study the writing of others, this chapbook is one not only for the poetry lover to scoop up but also the poet: Parker makes rich language, delightful images and clever line breaks look easy.

* ** *

I have to confess that I jumped at the chance to review qarrtsiluni’s first chapbook as much for curiosity about the process and product as for the content. I had already enjoyed parts of the collection online, but I hadn’t made it all the way through on-screen. I find it easier to absorb — or climb into — print documents. I honestly believe (especially since the online version of this chapbook is gorgeous and user-friendly) that I fail the technology, not the other way around. Case in point: every time I read the title online (A Walk Through the Memory Palace) I read it as memory “place,” not “palace.” There’s a huge difference! And I didn’t correct myself until I held it in my hands.

I have always believed that Dave and Beth at qarrtsiluni are onto something with their publishing models and philosophies about sharing work, and, as I explore publishing options of my own which lean closer and closer to their approach, I wanted to see for myself the quality of the print publication. (I had previously purchased two editions of qarrstiluni in print and was pleased with their feel and appearance.)

A Walk Through the Memory Palace is a beautiful book. It feels like more than 10 poems. That’s intended as a compliment. It feels substantial and important, which are big jobs for chapbooks, the smaller and sometimes assumed to be “lesser” cousins of full-length poetry collections. Parker’s assemblage of poems and the qarrtsiluni contest challenge that stereotype. If you ever believed chapbooks were somehow inferior to collections, I’m willing to bet this one will change your mind. It has a huge impact. It is big in every way.

* ** *

Here are some links for reading, purchasing and getting more information:

• the online version of A Walk Through the Memory Palace (It has its own URL and includes a link to the podcast!),
• the qarrtsiluni “in print” page where you can order the print version of this chapbook and past editions of the magazine and
• the qarrtsiluni announcement about the chapbook’s release

The book’s contents (copyright Pamela Johnson Parker 2009) are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial 3.0 United States License, and its cover art is “Cupid Complaining to Venus” by Carrie Ann Baade.

UPDATE: There are other online reviews of the chapbook, as well. There’s Jessie Carty’s review at 58 inches and Elizabeth Switaj’s review at Gender Across Borders. There is Sherry Chandler’s here and Robbi Nester’s here. And a terrific and related read is the RWP interview of Dave and Beth about their publishing ventures.

I tend toward intensity and drama. I tend toward the highs and the lows. I spend most of my time agitated — sometimes by deep depression, sometimes by too much energy — and although it can be uncomfortable, I know who I am in it.

This is what I don’t know: who I am in the space in between.

It is, strangely enough, the place I get lost. Hence, the delay in understanding that the relative calm that surrounds me right now is contributing as much as anything to my lack of creativity. It’s hard to be happy about a thing like that. I never wish for drama (it has a way of finding me on its own), but I do need to jump start my writing before I completely lose my mind.

I have been making the mistake of waiting for Divine Inspiration (which I don’t even believe in), and yet there’s no other way to explain my behavior. The conversation in my head is undeniable: I don’t have any ideas. I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have anything to contribute. Blah. Blah. And blech.

And so, though it pains me greatly, every bone, every muscle, I think I have to write through the hum-drum material and get it out of the way. The short version is this: 2009 was the worst year of my life AND 2009 was the best year of my life. The prosecutors in the Courts of Good Daughters and Wives and Mothers have cases against me that I could use as evidence to prove I’m a wretched human being. Instead, somehow, I’m gaining ground on being more sure of myself and more content with who I am than ever before. These are strange, strange times. I am in-between, I am on the verge and I have no idea what 2010 will bring. I am not even sure what to hope for.*

Don’t worry. I’m not going to subject you to the long version of the hum and the drum.

Just know that if posts continue to be sparse, I’m still here. Doing some listening.

*However, Dear Universe, it would be ever so delightful if my manuscript found a Home Sweet Home in 2010.

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The mixed media piece shown in this post is a work in progress. It represents only one session of work so far. I have lots more I’d like to do with it. It seems to go with this post, especially my opening about sadness and energy. Its working title is “Blue woman goes to Oregon for the first time,” but I don’t know if that will stick. (The name is inspired by the time I spent in Portland in July. I found it a place of restoration.)

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UPDATE: I might leave this post up until the new year. I’m not sure. Just in case, I’m starting a list here of New Year’s-type posts that have done a much better job than I have at bridging the space between 2009 and 2010 (I’ll update it as I stumble across The Good Stuff):

• 9 to 5 Poet’s Monster Year-End Wrap  Up
• RWP’s Members’ 201o Poetry Resolutions Part 1

I’ve been a bad, bad blogger for at least a month. Maybe longer.

Part of the problem is that I haven’t been writing as much as I usually write. For some people, blogging may be a sign of procrastination. For me, being productive goes hand-in-hand with blogging. When my muse is lighting up the boards with poems, I say more here. Though I admit now, writing this, that I’m not sure which comes first: the poeming or the blogging (it’s the ol’ chicken and egg dilemma).

In addition to having an elusive (neglected?) muse of late, I have been spending too much time locked inside my head. It is the sensation of following myself around. This girl I’m trailing is busy (writing reviews, reading submissions, organizing an open mic, family stuff, household stuff, holiday stuff, teaching Zumba, running, editing poems, sending them out, fielding rejection after rejection, etc.), but me? I am doing nothing. Nothing but watching. So despite all the activity, I feel slow and lazy.

I am the queen — The Queen — of detaching; Suppression is my kingdom. I don’t always go there willingly. Sometimes, I am a prisoner. My muse is probably a prisoner, too.

As I follow myself around, I observe only the dullest, most basic facts: It is cold. My arms ache from working out. I ate too much. But today, there was this: Hey, that’s my back. I recognized it by the tattoo peeking above the shirt while the red head was combing (and I use that term loosely) her hair this morning. If that’s my back, then the red head I’m following is me. (Yes, I know. Queen of Detaching meet Captain Obvious.) I’m hoping the brief noticing is a sign I’m connecting to her again.

I have this same relationship with my body. I am one and the same with her only occasionally. Feeling united with her is one reason Zumba is so powerful for me. Typically, I am 100 percent in my body when I’m doing it. Dancing is one of the only times I am present with my body. I taught two nearly identical classes on Tuesday, and the two different sets of students enjoyed them both. However, I had a lot more fun in one of them than I did in the other. The one that made me happiest was the one in which I got lost in the dance, in my body. And the difference was obvious to me. I knew instinctively why one felt better than the other. I’m hoping this brief noticing is a sign I’m getting closer to being with her.

Movement. Tattoo. These are both physical manifestations. They are of the body, and they have prompted presence. Not uninteresting.

Here are pictures of the pond across the street from our house. It’s freezing in really cool patterns. Any science nuts out there who can explain how it happens?

Wow. It’s been so long since I posted a poem that I just experienced anxiety over sharing a draft. (It’s at “i am maureen.“)

I never worry about the condition of my drafts. Maybe it’s the day (two batches of poems rejected by two journals). Maybe it’s the cold making me nervous. (it’s freezing here right now, and when the house won’t hold the heat, it dredges up stuff for me. I’m not sure why.) Maybe it’s the time of year. (Christmas in a week? Are you kidding me? ) (AND, though, thank heavens it’s almost over!)

Maybe I’m just out of practice. I haven’t been doing much poeming.

I guess I’ve still been doing writerly things, though. I have been planning a holiday reading with Jill. (And, of course, used it as an excuse to buy a new green sweater. What kind of redhead would I be if I failed to grab up a pretty green $10 sweater?) (And winter white puffy vest to go over it.) I have been reading and writing reviews. I have been editing my manuscript and getting it back out into the world. I have been reading submissions for Ouroboros Review. I have been plotting publishing endeavors with my partner-in-crime and congratulating poetry pals (January’s book is out! Dana was on The Joe Milford Poetry Show!)

And I have been submitting poems to journals like a crazy fool. In fact (if you follow me on Facebook you already know this), I sent the two batches of rejected poems right back out the door to other journals. I believe in the poems, and I am determined to find them a place to live.

The genetic sensitivities to negative experience that the vulnerability hypothesis has identified, it follows, are just the downside of a bigger phenomenon: a heightened genetic sensitivity to all experience.

Thanks to Ingrid Steblea, who posted the link to this article from The Atlantic on her Facebook page, and Dale Favier who told me about it.

We’ve all talked before about the stereotypes of the creative mind — its perks and its liabilities. I don’t mind telling you I’ve beaten down my doctor’s door several times asking for a prescription that would calm down my mind only to despise the feeling of the calmed-down mind and abandon the medication. My personal history, my medical history and my creative history are filled with the spoils and the casualties of this sort of pendulum-thinking.

I would like to think as I get older (more mature?), I have a more unified and stable understanding of my path: how I got here and where else I can go. My extreme sensitivity has been the source of difficulty. It’s been destructive more than I’d like to admit. It’s also crystal clear to me that it’s going to be what guides me to creative success, to my own brand of parenting, to forgiveness (and, I dare hope, appreciation) of myself.

The article isn’t a discussion of the creative mind specifically. It’s a much broader discussion of the sensitive mind, with the science of genetics and brain chemistry backing it up. There are many aspects of the article to explore — and many applications of the information it provides. Here are the not-so-big leaps I made while reading it (not surprisingly, they are based in my own experience):

• Once and for all, let’s get over this notion that we have to treat every child the same in order to be fair.
• If a child is acting out or exhibiting other signs of emotional distress, let’s not ascribe to that child the following: she is just being difficult or she is just being dramatic. (There may be something more at play, like genetics or environment — trauma — or, quite likely, the combination.)
• When we recognize sensitivities in children, let’s help them find the positive attributes of that without demonizing the part of them that struggles. This, of course, requires an effort on our part. It’s inconvenient. It’s time-consuming. But it’s also life-altering for the child. The absence of such careful attention can kill a person. Literally and figuratively. Not everyone makes it. That’s the bottom line.
• We joke, now, in a pop-psychology way, about blaming the mother for everything. It would be a shame if that caused us to look away from the fundamental importance of a lifelong bond between mother and child. The article (and the video embedded within it) discuss its significance physiologically. That’s right — physiologically — the psycho-analysis is several steps removed.

I’m in my thirties — deep, deep into my thirties (sigh) — and I’m finally figuring out what I’ve been up to all these years, what I’ve been looking for. (And maybe it’s what we’re all looking for.) I’ve been trying to build an environment in which I can thrive. Here’s a quote from the article:

The Swedes, Ellis and Boyce noted in an essay titled “Biological Sensitivity to Context,” have long spoken of “dandelion” children. These dandelion children—equivalent to our “normal” or “healthy” children, with “resilient” genes—do pretty well almost anywhere, whether raised in the equivalent of a sidewalk crack or a well-tended garden. Ellis and Boyce offer that there are also “orchid” children, who will wilt if ignored or maltreated but bloom spectacularly with greenhouse care.

Although I don’t like the language (“orchid” could be interpreted as “special” and “unique,” preferable to “dandelion” as “ordinary” and “plentiful”), I appreciate the part of the metaphor the researchers use to differentiate between their two definitive groups. I have spent (wasted?) a lot of time willing myself to be a dandelion child. I recount most failures in my life as a failure of my own will, but according to the article, it may not be a matter of will. It may be genetics. Take away the possibility of becoming something you’re not and you’re left with being who you are — and figuring out how to make that work.

When we’re kids, there are lots of things we don’t choose. Hell, when we’re adults there are lots of things we don’t choose, but I think fewer things are thrust upon us. But these hobbies I obsess about (poetry, Zumba, running, visual art, even eating, drinking, organizing) and these people I attach to and hang onto for dear life (sorry if you’re one of them and I’m squeezing too hard) — these form the climate and the landscape and the air and the water of that place in which I can thrive.

It’s the reason we have to be gentler to ourselves and each other. As complex as it all can seem, it’s a lot of smoke and mirrors. It’s pretty basic to our survival: we need a helpful environment and it’s devastating — life-threatening — when that doesn’t exist. We all ought to pay it a little closer attention.

[Go read the article. It's fascinating. It's brilliant. There's no way to do it justice in my pedestrian application of it to my own life. It represents transformative thinking. What are you still doing here? Go! Read it!]

Deb and I hatched a plan this summer: get the tattoos we’ve always wanted on the same day — one of us in Oregon and one of us in New York — and, as a bonus, use it as a writing prompt.

We spent some time emailing each other links to symbols and designs we liked. Deb lucked out and found exactly what she wanted pretty quickly. She took the bull by the horns and started meeting with artists, and she managed to find an opening right away. I told her not to wait for me: to go for it. I had decided on a dragon but planned to design my own, and I knew it would take me a while. And bless her, she held off on making the big blog reveal until managed to get mine done — which I just did!

The photos are (L to R): the tattoo’s position on my back, a close-up and my original sketch.

I worked on the sketch late August and early September, and then I did nothing. I kept intending to get myself to the tattoo shop on Lark Street in Albany, but I always had an excuse to put it off or something always came up. Then on Monday night, Jill wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t able to join me for dinner and an open mic. So instead of going out with Jill to dinner, I took my sketch to the tattoo shop — which is a block from the tavern that hosts the open mic. (So if I ever need someone to blame for this tattoo, besides Deb, of course, I can blame Jill.)

On Tuesday afternoon, I worked with the artist, who, because we were using different art terms, ended up translating my sketch into many different styles (Asian, cartoon, gargoyle, etc.). His drawings were beautiful but not quite right. Even though we kept going off in the wrong direction, it was great to see how skilled an artist he is. The transformations were incredible.

Eventually, we figured out that I wanted exactly what I had drawn — that he only had to tidy it up. When I went in Wednesday (yesterday) for the big gig, he showed me the perfect rendition. He says it’s (sort of) in the style of tribal tattoos — black ink only, solid color blocks instead of shading. He was so great to work with (shout out to Pete at Lark Tattoo!), and I am soooooo happy with the result. It was a wonderful experience.

It means something to me to have my own artwork on my skin, and it was a great collaboration with Pete to smooth it out and make it appropriate for a tattoo design. Even better, there’s something terrific that happened: the sketch I’d done had eight flowers between the wings, which meant nothing and I’d given no thought to it, but in Pete’s design (and the final tattoo) there are seven flowers, which has huge significance for me.

And I’m pleased that there was a full moon on the big day, which was also unplanned, but which makes me happy.

I’m hoping to do some creative writing (poems) about the tattoo shop and getting the tattoo. I’m hoping to write about the tattoo itself and imagine I’ll give her a name at some point. I’ll also write about the symbolism that solidified “dragon” as the subject for the artwork. It’s along these lines: free, fearless, protective, intelligent, benevolent, occasionally ill-tempered, timeless, etc.

I’m so glad to finally have my tattoo. Did you know I’d be at parties, and people would talk about who they bet had tattoos, and they’d always say, “Carolee”? And they’d always be wrong. And they couldn’t believe it and they’d want me to prove it. (I promise I never stripped, though.) (Not for this reason.) Well, now, when bets are placed that I’m the sort of girl with a tattoo, they’ll be winners. Thanks to Deb for egging me on.

P.S. Everyone’s question: Did it hurt? Yes. It hurt. But it was very tolerable. Pete worked steadily for something like an hour and 20 minutes, I think. None of the tattooing itself hurt as much as the first application of lotion after I cleaned it. (Well, after Dave cleaned it. I can’t quite reach it well enough to do a good job. You know, for a doctor, he’s kind of squeamish.) But wow! Lotion = stiiiiinnnnnng!

P.P.S. Sophie’s (Jill’s daughter’s) question: Did you cry? No. I didn’t cry. I breathed and I focused on the reggae music that was playing. Steel drums on the upbeats. Sometimes, I would count the beats and tap my toe within my shoe to distract myself.

P.P.P.S. As of this writing, I still haven’t told my dad. Eeeek!

I’m a Scrooge, and I never thought I’d be one.

It’s been many Christmases coming, but last Christmas sealed it for me: I’m done with the merriment. Everyone — my kids included — is so greedy. Everyone — my husband included — spends too much money on gifts that don’t matter. The holiday has seemed to warp our sense of what makes people happy.

And I’m done with it.

I whined to Jill lat night about feeling defeated by everyone else’s idea of what Christmas should be like in my house. I told her I’ve just given up. I’ve done this before, and I get angry with myself every time: why don’t I muster the effort to show them a different way? Nope, I just let them do what they do with minimal moaning and groaning from me. (I related to her stories about how my mother would sometimes put a real damper on Christmas by moaning and groaning, and I didn’t want to be like that.)

So Christmas is one of my big failures — a missed opportunity to express my own sensibility and set my own example.

And I was ready to accept that again. Or so I thought. But three things have come together in the last 24 hours:

1) In a coffee shop yesterday, I overheard a young woman talking about how she’d made gifts out of poems by finding or making cute little boxes and folding up poems and placing them inside.

2) I watched this video on Dave Bonta’s Moving Poems site; I’m going to share it with my kids, and I’m going to let the spirit of it stick with me this season.

And 3) after complaining to Jill about my mother last night, I also remembered that she was the Queen of Meaningful Homemade Gifts. That’s how I need to hold her — not via the moaning and groaning she did.

So there you have it. The video poem was the perfect antidote to holiday bull shit. Something to frame my own intentions and wishes. And I say “intentions” instead of plans or expectations because God knows I don’t have time to go crazy and make something fabulous for everyone. Besides, making that sort of a goal would lead to pressure and that’s more of the same thing everyone else does this time of year.

I’m not the reformed Grinch who brings back all the crap he stole from Whoville, but I feel a little bit better about making it through the next three weeks. A little.

Many of you know that one of my hobbies is following what could be the last of our planet’s mountain gorillas. I do it by reading (almost daily) accounts of rangers and veterinarians on the front lines in places like Virunga National Park (Congo). Blogs and news services help me do this, and from time to time, I send a few dollars to the agencies doing the work.

I mourn the deaths and celebrate the births in the gorilla families, and I have to tell you that it’s an amazing — albeit virtual — connection. Watching these creatures and learning about their lives makes me more human. I’m sure you’ve heard people say that before. But in addition, my affection for them makes me more me, more Carolee.

Today, an update I received about confirmation of a recent birth made me more Mother. It contained the photo I’ve put into this post (photo credit: Ranger Kazerezi Barigomwa, who works at the foot of the Nyiragongo Volcano). It tells many stories: one about this first-time mom, one about this family, another about this species and another about this region, still another about what resources are disappearing from our planet right before our eyes.

In addition, this is the story it tells me: our intellects and egos complicate the role of motherhood unnecessarily. I think about how I’ve punished myself with expectations and failures and other wonderings. Look at this mother and her baby. Attention. Affection. In this moment. That’s it. All there is to it.