I first encountered this poem as a sophomore in high school. Mark Strand was named Poet Laureate (of the U.S.) at that time and the following piece of his was printed in The Washington Post.

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
Always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

And the hits just keep right on coming...

In most, if not all, of Shakespeare's plays there is an operative known affectionately as the clown, or the fool. The job of this drunkard/ignoramus is to provide crucial insight (unintentionally so) into the motivations of the main character(s) and to introduce upcoming plot twists.

In my life, with anything that pertains to my relationship with Gordon, I have my own personal post-modern clown. The dramatis persona is a close friend of G's. He works at a bookstore in Sarah's neighborhood. It was yesterday that I felt compelled to go in there to purchase a book that I'd been hemming and hawing about getting as well as a hard to find cd.

I am never able to take it for granted that G's pal will be there on the few and far between occasions that I enter this bookstore, but he was there yesterday, and in light of recent developments, I knew he would end up advancing the plot of my story.

Unable to fight my own destiny, I turned to Sarah and said "I knew I would find him here today; I know he has some information for me." Indeed, I saw him in the window before I opened the door of the store. And though it was unlikely that the news would be good, I was anxious to get on with it. I am in no way likening myself to Christ, but I understand why he said to Judas just an hour before the man would betray him, "What you are about to do, do quickly."

In any case, I said hello to the friend and he immediately informed me that I'd come up recently in a conversation he had with Gordon, and he wanted to tell me about it, so not to wander too far away. Eventually he found me in the music area. The cd was a no-go, but then he helped me find the book. It was in the Christian authors section. Sarah happened to pick out a book called "Save your Marriage before it starts." This was not really odd in the context of the moment. See, he could not remember for the life of him why I had come up in this conversation with Gordon, only that somehow I had been mentioned in the vein of helping him (the friend) with something. He thought perhaps that it pertained to a dream I told him I had about him weeks ago--that he was married to a disheveled red head. It was in this context that Sarah pulled out that book to tease him--saying maybe he'd need something like this if there was any truth to my dream.

Without missing a beat he said said "Actually we should buy Gordon this.... he told me wants to take premarriage counseling with...what's her name..."

"_____" I interjected, trying to sound offhanded.
"That's right, ____."
"Hasn't he only been seeing her for a month?" I asked, still trying to sound offhanded.

He went on to say that he'd tried to caution Gordon that maybe one might wait for the 3-month mark to pursue something of this magnitude.

In that moment I didn't feel much of anything. Not numb. Not sad. Nothing good or bad. The conversation ended as he went back to his post and Sarah went to the ladies room after giving me an "I'm sorry" look. I stood there trying to process it all.

Shortly after he returned to where I was standing and asked if I was looking for something else. I told him I wasn't, but then asked if he'd met Gordon's girlfriend, he indicated that he had, that she is "nice enough, I guess," and further said that from what he could tell they seemed compatible in their dispositions...but that it was a bit too much to take right now since they are in the initial, very affectionate phase of their relationship.

Before I tell you what I said next, I must say here that I had no temporary lapse in judgement. My words were very deliberate. I said it because it was the only thing I could say. I said it because I didn't have the strength to pretend that this is all purely academic for me.

"You have no idea how hard that is for me to hear."

He looked completely unphased. He just hugged me.

That's right. I went into a bookstore where Gordon's friend that I never see (or hardly ever see) was the source of more complete information about Gordon's intentions regarding his new love, his long-term intentions. after a month of knowing her. when you know you know, I guess.

Before this second conversation I had given him my number at his request. He suggested that we might go out for drinks soon. I like going out for drinks, so I'll accept most invitations to that end...

So to sum up further, if he does indeed call me, at some point soon we will go out drinking. He, who is often the bearer of bad news regarding Gordon, hugged me as I candidly told him that this was all a very bitter pill to swallow. He looked as if he fully expected me to say that. This is the same man I once told I was too fat to be in the movie he and Gordon were making. I know for a fact that he told the other people we were with what I said, because it got back to me.

I have no reason to think that what I said won't make it back to Gordon.

When I am not busy crying, the writer in me can't help but be somewhat impressed with the irony and apparent craftsmanship that has to have gone into this unfolding action. The moving finger writes and having writ... the handwriting is on the wall...

Etc.

Unrelated. I asked one of my instructors to consider being my thesis advisor when the time comes. Not only did he not write me back, but he sent out two other class-wide e-mails, so my request is unacknowledged at this point. I hope this wasn't some sort of gaffe on my part.

In the language of the sports motif, I believe one would say that I am batting a 1,000.

At the risk of obsessive blogging...

I just wanted to mention that I was a sobby weepy mess all morning. The kind of sobby weepy mess that collapses into tears (again!) when her boss asks the simple question, "how are you?"

Because Michael is a Knight in Shining Armor, he very lovingly took me out to lunch at the James Joyce Irish Pub where I enjoyed an opulent lunch of Guinness Beef Stew and had a Guinness on tap to go with it. The beer shrouded me with a kind of warmth. The conversation and Michael's compassion for me helped get me through the balance of my afternoon. The mildly flirtatious ministrations of our Irish waiter also helped.

The fog of my temporary shock did lift at about midnight last night. I slept little, badly. Pang after pang of the implications of the new developments in my life occurred to me every 5 minutes. I tossed and I turned with every new consideration.
I thought about wanting to lose myself in something or someone or some idea. I wished for that kind of consumption.

And I thought about poor Emily Dickinson and her unrequited love for Wadsworth, her mostly unpublished body of work. Emily, Girl. I feel you. I feel you.

I feel like I'm breaking up with Poetry
I feel like Poetry is breaking up with me

This past Tuesday in Poetics class one of my pieces was discussed. It was found to have abstractions, and the criticism from my instructor was constructive for the most part, but when another student tried to make a case for these abstractions, a telling dialogue ensued (right in the middle of the critique of my piece).

The student said that any number of MFA programs and English departments at other institutes of higher learning might belong to a different school of thought than my professor or those at our specific university, and wasn't this really just a matter of preference? The instructor assured him that my poem, while the beginning of what might be a wonderful poem, does not fall in line with the way that poetry is being written in this century at this time. He added that if one simply wanted to put one's poetry on a private Web site for people to read, then one may do as one wished, but that in order to be venerated, published, etc., one would do well to adhere to the principles of poetry that are currently in vogue.

In the same breath, I must add that many of my fellow students returned their copies of the poem with very encouraging comments, several of them appreciated what I was trying to do.

But to be told that you have the beginnings of a good poem when you have slaved, tightened, and hacked the original to death just to make something streamlined and effective... Well let's just say that it left me feeling impotent.

After every poetry workshop meeting last semester I left feeling supremely out of step, feeling that I have no idea how to write a poem. Now I understand that my philosophy of poetry is largely opposed to that of my program. And I have more than a year left. I'm going to tough it out because the thought of quitting is reprehensible to me, but I wonder how this will turn out now. It seems that it cannot really go well from this point.

Thinking back to the 3-ring circus of a reading in Hampden this past December, thinking ahead to the feeling of disaster I have regarding my continued education, it seems to me the bitter end of a once passionate affair. But then I suppose that it's poetry's illusions I recall. I really don't know poetry at all.

The Open Door was not the one I expected, but that is always the case. I had been praying that God would make a way for us to talk about what happened--the tension I felt with him back in late November--that somehow this discussion would begin with him. In the interim of that snafu and our resuming communication, I had several dreams, and in these dreams he was almost always seeing someone. This is the case in real life as well, and it was that door of revelation that gave me the cue to say what I said.

"I never expected us to hang out again, so I'm relieved that we are."

What followed was a very brief discussion (led by me) about expectations and needing to sync up with him where that is concerned. As he said, with most of his best friends (a group he includes me in) sometimes there are months of no contact, but there is always this ability to pick it back up with no problem. I told him again that it was not about him forgetting, it was about what I felt. He apologized--somewhat. But at this point an apology is not really necessary. It's the least of all the considerations to be made.

Much like my dreams, the knowledge that he is dating someone smarted, but was not devastating--not the way it would have been a year ago--even three months ago, but of course I may simply be in shock. I forced myself (and it wasn't very hard afterall) to ask how he met her, where she lives, etc. To recognize what he told me. I am seeing someone. There.

It's funny. I even acurately conjectured months ago the way he was most likely to meet this someone. Through his former roommate at a party in late December. One must wonder what good such on-target prediction pertaining to the dashing of one's hopes, is. Perhaps it is a kindness--to be prepared for hard news. I felt that this would be revealed to me tonight, but I was not crippled with fear. I didn't feel the urge to avoid it.

Aside from this, I caught him up on all the latest, shared my disillusionment with the politics of poetry at my university. I acted just like a friend and even picked up the bill at the end. 4 beverages is not so expensive, and no messy splitting the check with different credit cards business to belabor the process. Because he walked to my place and we ended up just going to the One World, we parted ways just outside the cafe. He is sick, he fears, and is looking forward to imbibing some Nyquil as soon as possible, so there was no attempt to linger.

Before I left him, he did an odd thing. An intimate thing. he wrapped my scarf around my neck. He told me to keep in touch. I turned around only once to watch him set off in the opposite direction.

I don't know if I will keep in touch. I want to, but I don't know if I will.

A crisp, snap-new white shirt, top two buttons undone, as per usual. One of my favourite things to wear or to see someone else wear is a new white button-down with slightly faded jeans and black shoes. My professor's take on this classic casual look did not disappoint. His shoulders and the lines of his back moved powerfully beneath the fabric. His hair was freshly cut and had all the appeal of fresh, young grass. His hands gesturing calmly throughout his lecture were a pleasant distraction. We were discussing the “verbal contraptions” of poetry; I became two people. One who heard the comments of my classmates, and who chimed in periodically; I dispatched the other iteration of myself to the realm just beyond the actual world. She imagined what it would be like to be the girlfriend of white-shirt-Levis-black shoes-man.

His self-effacing humour does not bespeak low self-esteem, but a lack of pretension that I admire in very smart men. He is also unattached. He worked that in at one point during the class discussion. We were discussing an Elizabeth Bishop poem on the art of losing—we talked about the nature of loss. One woman joked that she and her three daughters are always losing things—you know the things that just get up and “walk away.” He said “Well, I only have myself—no daughters to accuse of misplacing anything, and I can never find anything either…”

The Artiste and I have a pre-arranged coffee engagement on the calendar for this evening, but Old Man Winter may prevent us from enjoying the communal java pot.

A trip to Target has yielded me the following:

Mod, Jewel tone Martini glasses
A Mop
Mr. Clean Magic Eraser
Blue baking dishes
Two new java-themed dish towels
Hair products
2 DVDs
1 CD
A Mortgage Broker's info which I will use to get my ducks in a row re: buying a house by this time next year
Trash bags
Deoderant
Lotion
Disinfectant wipes
Various
and
Sundries

I returned home armed with a great sense of purpose and the desire to reorganize my cabinets. I mopped, baked, read, and finally got around to watching Chicago (a work friend lent me the DVD). I absolutely loved it!

Pulling A Rabbit out of a Hat

After a non-productive day yesterday (well if you count laundry, it was quasi-productive), I did manage to write the short paper that is due on Wednesday, today. I chose to write on one of Alice Munro's short stories that is called "Differently."
This makes me feel especially accomplished since I only finished reading the story this morning.

I nearly didn't go to a social gathering with friends last night because I had made zero progress with said paper, but Sarah's convincing argument that I should come won out. I went with her and Michael to the apartment of one of my coworkers. We drank Sangria, ate appetizers, and played Taboo. Of course there was a liberal dish of work-related gossip and intrigue. Specifics not being proffered, I can tell you this: A few key people want to quit. Last summer I joked that so many people were leaving with no advance warning that it was like the Underground Railroad at that place. Welcome to the second wave of the mass exodus. Because I made the decision to take tomorrow off work, I am going to miss another crucial meeting. Who knows what on earth the scene will be when I re-enter on Tuesday morning.

Doing something I never do, I called up Devika yesterday afternoon to chat about various and sundry things, but mostly I just wanted to hear her voice. Curiously, last night I dreamt that I was on the phone with her again, this time discussing real estate options (this was a major topic of conversation at last night's gathering), and I detected that she was supremely annoyed with me. In any case, our actual conversation in the waking world was very pleasant, and I found myself wondering why I don't call her more often. I think because I am under the impression that she is always very very busy. It was a welcome treat and put a salve on a day that up to that point had been a real irritation to me (I was awakened by an errant bill collector!).

My fresh haircut makes me feel streamlined. I'm in the mood to go out to eat something delicious.

The Place Everyone Is Talking About...

It has been written up in this month's Baltimore Magazine as a very important lever in the machine of Baltimore's Renaissance. Our office is having a happy hour there next Thursday, and I am excited to go. I've heard that the space is a wonder, and reason enough to enter the doors. The architect of this event that is Pazo is also featured in this month's "Baltimore," and when asked what he saw as the number one problem facing the city today, he said "Low self-esteem." Apparently patrons of his retail store keep telling him that he belongs in SoHo or Georgetown. To quote him, "What? Baltimore doesn't deserve nice things?" Exactly.

If you want your finger on the pulse of what's cool before it becomes cliche, then I beg of you, consider the city you've probably been scoffing at. Baltimore. If you're hip, happening, and "Now," New York doesn't need you. You'd never stand out there. Come to Charm City, be on the front row of the debut of the Eastern Seaboard's Pearl that is being born again after years of gritty irritation.

He was trapped in the stairwell. Just as I was on my way out to the waiting area outside the elevators on my office floor, I got a call on my cell.

"The elevator wouldn't go to the 6th floor, so I had to get out at the 4th and take the stairs, but now I can't get in. Can you come to get me?" Being the sometimes slow-on-the-uptake girl that I am, I had to think where the stairwell was (I ended walking right past it the first time), but eventually I found it. I opened the door and there he was just like I remembered, but changed somehow too.

Having had a series of e-mail exchanges and a couple of brief phone conversations, I already knew that the air between us is clear and that he's not nursing a grudge, but I did worry that the exchange would be awkward--more so because there would be another person involved the very first time I saw him in 3 months. An acquaintance of mine was also coming down to my office to pick up the painting he brought to sell to her as well as the one he brought to me. By God's grace, he arrived first and that allowed us several minutes to establish the tone with just the two of us.

I had only a brief time before an office meeting was due to start, but it was a very full feeling 20 minutes, at the end of which he suggested we go out for coffee at some point. Just as I was walking him out to his car, he got a call that he needed to take, and I walked ahead of him to give him some privacy, but he tapped me on the back of my neck to get my attention, so that he could suggest hanging out. I encouraged him to have me over to his new apartment (not far from my place) soon.

Mulling over the particular rift that occurred between us this winter, I have decided that at some point we must talk about what happened. I am praying for this to happen,and for it to begin with him. But for now, I'm just happy I have my friend back. Happy he was happy to see me. He really was.

Tulips

I scored a multi-coloured bouquet of tulips when I was out on my lunch break and they were a welcome contrast to the dreary, rainy weather. The valentines I littered all over the office and the little gifts I got for my teammates went over well. I felt good being the bearer of gifts. It's so easy to bring a smile to another person's face. It's so easy to disarm and charm someone. You just have to pay attention. Make the small gesture.

I just put some ribs in the oven, and am preparing to hunker down for the Monday night UPN line up which remains an indulgence of mine. All new shows tonight!

Tomorrow will be a day of small hurdles. Seeing g for the first time in 3 months, having my rambling, undisciplined sonnet discussed in class. I hope I do okay.

I realized, several hours before it was due to start, that it was a theme party. Tropical Winter. Wear a Hawaiian shirt. I am not the kind of person who owns a Hawaiian shirt, and I am not interested in going to parties where the contingency thinks this is a good idea. Am I a party snob? Kind of. Essentially, and I am making a generalization here, parties of the tropical shirt variety cater to a younger crowd of people. I read the invitation more carefully. Potluck (this I already knew, and it was something of a sticking point, but I was willing to make something anyway), wear a Hawaiian shirt, at 9:00 p.m. go dancing. There were now three elements of supreme disinterest related to this event in place. I started planning to not go.

So I asked myself 'Am I sabotaging my plan to get out there and meet new people by blowing off this event?' So I thought about the importance of being strategic, wanting to do age-appropriate things like attend a lecture series, go to poetry readings, do cocktail parties, meet for coffee, etc. if I am going to meet people for viable, useful connections. My goal is to meet people outside my present circle, yes, but to meet people roughly my age, interested in the things I'm interested in. I don't want to be the conspicuously non-festive older lady at a party filled with early 20 somethings who do have Hawaiian shirts in their closets if for no other reason than because of previous parties like this one.

Talking with Catherine (who is back!) she said "I didn't even like going to parties like that when I was that age." I couldn't agree more. I once went to an 80s themed New Year's Party in 1999-soon-to-be-2000 and I felt like a fraud the whole night. I felt ridiculous, because that's not me. Anyway, I stayed in and got a bit of reading done. I watched tv till about 1 a.m. then went to bed.

My professor did e-mail me, though. Just reading his discussion of the salient points of my paper excited me. Intellectual discourse makes my heart sing.

Am listening to Madeleine Peyroux while I wait for Sarah to call up with her ETA. We will tool around today. Basically I am helping her to run errands, and I feel better about going out since I finally got that poem assignment down, I think. 15-25 lines of narrative, with intentional prosody. I made enough headway that my whole Saturday doesn't have to be taken up with it. I'll fine tune tomorrow and Monday if that is needed.

My professor sent a very comprehensive e-mail to me yesterday. The subject of this e-mail was my paper on Kafka from last semester. Just reading his thoughts about my thoughts caused me to feel excited and alive. Clearly, I simply flourish at the first sign of attention from a man whose intellect I respect. I have not yet written back, but I do want to thank him for commenting on something from a different class, last year, and at such a granular level, when he was in no way obligated to do that.

I am supposed to go to a party tonight, and though I'm not particularly interested in it, I am daring myself to socialize outside my very limited box. I have got to meet people. And by people I mean men.

It's so easy to dial the numbers on a keypad to reach someone. 7 punches and there she is. I didn't call anyone; someone called me. He called me as he said he would in his last virtual communique. I arranged a sale for him, which has created a practical reason for the recent rash of e-mails between us. There is nothing romantic and sudden about it. Having moved just last week, and not yet having internet access at his new place, he has had to resort to the phone to accomplish what would normally be nailed down by way of a different kind of wireless communication.

On Tuesday He will come by my job and money will change hands. Art bought outside an office building where people will be loitering on their smoke breaks. And then we will go back to never speaking, except for the occasional e-mail.

I am like Tchaikovsky's Widow Patron. Except they never saw each other in person, but I feel in my heart that she must have longed to meet him. No woman has ever bankrolled a man's career out of the goodness of her heart.

How Appropos


You are VALENTINE'S DAY, one of the sappiest days
of the year. *looks down* Eww, stop hugging
me...


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Now then, let me regale you with a tale of man who reeked of cheap spirits and his own urine. This person sat next to me on the bus yesterday afternoon. Of course he sat next to me. The men of Baltimore city (who frequent public transporation) all seem to have gotten the same memo. "If you reek of cheap spirits and your own urine (or someone else's) sit next to Kate Krupnik." It was bad enough that he smelled so awful my eyes started to burn, but then he began to proposition me for "friendship," and to let me know in slurred speech about his career path (he's in school to become a dietician, you know). I got up about two stops before I needed to get off the number 11, bound for G.B.M.C., and at this he took offense. He wanted to know if I was afraid of him or something, and that hey, he had a hell of a lot to offer. Yes, indeed, he could be my friend, and he certainly wanted to talk to me again.

There was a time in my life, not very long ago, when I would have internalized the drunken ramblings of this man without bladder control or access to a shower. I would have decided that something about me must have "called out to him," making him believe that I was well within the realm of his league. It used to depress me when plainly undesirable men would go full-court press to lobby me for a date and those guys in my peer group, with whom I had much in common, went full-court press in their avoidance of me as a date or potential love interest. But yesterday I got off the bus, and though the stench of my suitor remained in my nostrils longer than I would have liked, I made a decision that I would not let this be about me, because it wasn't and it isn't.

After class last night my professor and I were supposed to talk a bit about my paper from last semester, but in his words, he had "failed" me by being unprepared for that discussion. He forgot my paper and the talking points he came up with. So he will, at some point, e-mail me those talking points, and if I have more questions that those points of discussion don't cover, then I am free to talk to him about it further. Between you and me, I know this discussion will never happen. I have no doubt that he will e-mail me, but I also know myself. I won't lobby for more of his attention; I'll just keep enjoying him in a distant sense. I know his comments will suffice, and I am done canvasing and campaigning. This is the year of letting what happens happen. And what doesn't, doesn't.

Oh, and if you need help planning....

The quote on the bar beneath the blog title comes from the love theme of the James Bond movie "License to Kill," and is sung by Gladys Knight. I've had just that phrase in my head for the last few days now. No, it is not the mad cry of sick, obsessed person. It's a person in love saying, metaphorically, "I'm not holding back. I'm putting myself out there, going for the jugular. I'm not going to punk out on loving you." Anyway, I just wanted to clear that up, lest you think I've lost my mind...or that I'm advocating violence.

I just mailed a Valentine's Day card to each of my sisters to ensure delivery by Monday. I was going to mail Sarah's today too, but it will arrive too early if I do that. Since she's right in the city I think I can mail hers on Friday and it will still get there on time.

There is literally nothing to discuss today. I was too sleepy to even properly converse with Michael on our drive into the office. Have been having a recurring dream lately in which I am seeing G for the first time in a long time, and though being face to face with him is not stressful or acrimonious for either of us, he does not speak to me. I understand (in the logic of the dream)that this is not a slight. He always looks me full in the face, acknowledging something...but then he leaves, or more and more lately, in comes the woman he is seeing in the dream (not a real person), and I know that he is worried about my reaction to the knowledge that he is in a relationship. Sometimes I am unphased; sometimes I feel a tinge of disappointment, but mostly just acceptance.

Postcard from Down Under

Catherine has been away for nearly three weeks. She is visiting one of her closest friends from college days (and beyond, clearly) in Australia. Today she is 30 years old, except, I believe that she turned 30 yesterday...given the time shift. Before she departed I told her that for the duration of her trip I would think of her perpetually being mid-cartwheel. On the other side of the world and upside down.

In any case, the card(s) and present I got her are in New England waiting for her, and come next Monday, she and I will e-mail again for the first time in nearly a month. Our habit is to e-mail religiously, upwards of 20 to 30 times in a given day--and while I've missed the pas de deux of electronic communication, I know how much she's needed and wanted this adventure, and I coveted this freedom from constraint for her benefit.

She is having the time of her life, and I imagine that the looming date of her return must be a bittersweet thing...perhaps more bitter than sweet. How could one come back to the confines of routine after holding a baby koala?

Yesterday, late morning, I discovered the simple joy of doing some reading at the One World Cafe with a classmate. Though I did not intend to eat (but was drinking coffee in abundance to earn my seat), I ended up ordering the oatmeal raisin pancakes with raspberry syrup and butter. Reading Alice Munro's Selected Stories to a backdrop of trip hop and acid rock, the bzz bzz of the patrons' conversations, and the macadamia nut steam blowing off my cuppa was an experience for all of my senses. I didn't know how well I would do going out to read with another person. During my undergrad days such a mission would have been overrun with the self-distracting need to talk, but Cheryl and I were both very disciplined, stopping only here and there to comment on something or to chat briefly.

The bout of productivity continued into the late afternoon. I came home and printed out several pictures of items from Target.com that will be part of my bedroom redecorating schematic. I also confirmed the acceptance of my tax statements online. I wrote lists for both short- and long-term goals, specifically as it pertains to said redecoration.

I took some extra time this morning to make a full pot of Belgian Chocolate coffee, a thermosful of which I brought into the office for Michael and myself. Of course it would not be complete without the caramel vanilla creamer, so I have that in tow as well.

Wanted to send a fax to the university re financial aid forms, but alas both our machines are having a meltdown at the moment. One of them needs toner, the other is just weird. I guess I'll just munch on the cowboy cookies Sarah sent to me via Michael. Ah! Life is so sweet!

You're Brigitte Bardot!


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Kicking Ass and Taking Names...

Last Night I had a scrumptuous meal here with the Sarah-one, then we did some discount mart shopping at a place called BigLots. I bought some Vitamin C and a woman's daily vitamin and mineral supplement. My mother advised me to start taking these.

Because Sarah made quick work (as quick as possible) of doing my taxes for me last night, I was able to apply for Financial aid for the Summer, Fall, and Spring semesters (2005-2006)this afternoon while doing laundry and tidying up my bedroom. If i'm not working on more than one thing at at time, I'm convinced I would go insane.

This morning, before the mad dash of activity began, Sarah and I breakfasted at the Paper Moon Diner; that place will always scream 1998 to me. That was one of our regular haunts then, and though Sarah swears we went there shortly after we returned to Charm City in 2002, I have no memory of this event.

Got a letter from the Lovely Devika this afternoon, which made an already fantastic day go off the richter (off the richter!). I am so proud of myself--I have mailed letters, cards, and presents to friends for Valentine's day/birthdays this week. Things from me are going to show up on time this month! Oh, except my cable bill. But I called them and told them when to expect a check. I can't be having my cable get shut off.

Okay, gotta do some major reading for classes next week!

Connecting with the male soul...

Any regular reader of "The Baltimore Chronicles" knows about my tortured feelings for the artiste also known by his actual name, Gordon. You know that I am doing a long-running imitation of teflon when it comes to men in general; they just do not stick to me in any way on any level.

I have female companionship in spades, sometimes I have had more than I wanted, and I thought to myself... "I swear, if I meet another woman..." I like my girlfriends, but bonding with the female spirit is not a challenge for me. I have sisters. I have a mother. I have my women's poetry group. I have a handful of ex-roommates with whom I still keep in touch. Almost every member of my team at work is a woman. Women outnumber men in my grad school program by at least 5 to 1.

To say that there is a dearth of maleness in my landscape would be an understatement. As a woman, I'll be the first to say that I need and want the male perspective, the male heart, the male rationale, and the male spirit represented in my life in myriad ways.

No, this is not another post about how my father and stepfather are shiftless losers. I have written that post before, and as much as possible, I am moving on from the stigma, nay, the legacy of being another woman whose father wasn't there for her. But now, coming out on the other side of the pain of that particular abandonment, I don't find much to redeem it in my current relationships with male peers.

I know I need to examine my role in this. I do believe that I have arm's lengthed some men because they were not the ideal of what I wanted, even as friends. Certainly I have a standard for a potential lover, and the men who have expressed romantic or at least sexual interest in me in the past have not fit the construct that I have in place. It's not that the men I've coveted have been perfect. I just wanted them. I was attracted to them. And the long-standing pattern is this: What I am attracted to is not attracted to me. What is attracted to me, I am not attracted to.

The disconnect is disheartening. The maleness that I require to make my experiences and my perspective less lopsided is not a covert way of saying that I want a boyfriend. I do. But this is not about that. I really also want close male friends with whom there is no sexual tension, attraction, or innuendo. I need that even more than I need a lover. I still hold to the belief that if I had more men in my life in general, when I am "interested" in a particular man, it wouldn't be so high stakes for me. There wouldn't be such a great burden on this guy to be the friend, brother, lover, and father I've always wanted.

Basically, I miss men. So, I am going to try to avail myself to more opportunities to meet them, talk to them, be near them, and establish intellectual and personal kinships with them. I need to connect with the male soul not so much to complete my self-perception as much as to inform it more deeply. Sometimes you become the best version of yourself when your "other" is in place to show you your own intrigue.

I just want to publicly congratulate my sister Caryl on her upcoming (tonight!) coffeehouse at SMCM. She has a 40-minute set all to herself, and will be accompanied by a keyboardist and a guitarist. She will be covering many smooth, neo-soul hits, some more jazzy blues, and a few alternative rock numbers, including Oasis's "Wonderwall." She is so ecclectic and artistic!

Speaking of sisters. Crystal called me last night (for the 2nd time in about a month, which is a lot for her) and we chatted for about an hour or so. She regaled me with "the Sebastian tales." Sebastian is this 3 year-old kid for whom she occasionally baby sits,and he adores her. We also cackled over various scenes from "Napoleon Dynamite." She and her boyfriend were unlikely candidates, I thought, for ND appreciation, but they both love it! It is one of my attainable wishes to watch that movie with both of my sisters at the same time.

Have felt for the last two days that I am on the verge of getting a cold. The Vitamin C that Michael gave me is staving off the beast, which is a good thing. This would be a bad time to be sick.

So it seems that I owe Walt Whitman a debt of gratitude. I did not understand, fully, his contribution to Free Verse--the fact that he manipulated syntax in lieu of rhyme and meter and predictable line length. He did say that he was "large" and that he "contained multitudes," so it makes sense that he was the king of the long poetic line.

Ms. Dickinson, microcosmic and clipped, hinted at the teeming world within her by saying, "see how the whole universe is captured in a rain drop." She didn't actually say that, but that is the effect of her work. The most small element of anything reflects the larger context. Her poem "After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes," is especially meaningful to me.

After Jarmusch, I decided to give myself a break from obscure, esoteric filmology and have been watching the popular and acclaimed "Sex and the City," beginning with season 1,on dvd. Well, I watched all of season 6 first, because I was familiar enough with the characters and their storylines that the unfolding final year had a context for me. Prior to this, the last time I had seen the show was when I lived in Montgomery County. Season 3 or 4, perhaps. In any case, now I finally know how things with Mr. Big began, and innumerable other gaps have been filled in. Besides, for reasons that have nothing to do with sex, it was a terrific show.

Am a bit bummed. I took the "Which Beatle Are You?" quiz this morning, but the results photo would not display properly on my blog. As it turns out, I am George Harrison.