I read today that blogging is on the wane. Technorati thinks 2007 is the saturation year--the time when the blog will have lost, finally, its cachet. I think a lot about whether this blog has outlived its usefulness. I know that my friends still enjoy it, to an extent, but I have to admit that I've not been totally successful at reinventing it.

My blog was born out of a desire to keep a secret and yet at the same time bespoke my need to expose that secret. It made for drama, pathos, and extreme emotionally volatile posts. It was tame content, but the fact that it was crucial that the content be hidden from one person in the world infused it with the element of the forbidden.

The jig has been up for a while now. Between that and my newfound committment to discretion, I'm only putting the "blog version" of my days on display. I suppose I could make this photo element work for me a bit longer, but I still know the truth. The Baltimore Chronicles needs a second life.

Here's some news, appropos of nothing: Received an e-mail from key University Personnel about my thesis and publication grade (the one I'm contesting). He thinks he might have a solution in the works. I'm hoping that it'll be relatively painless. Whatever the outcome at least I'll be able to respect myself for not backing down and refusing to take that joke of a grade on the chin.

I think I have a little touch of something. I couldn't even make it through my netflix selection--i'm not one for napping in the evening--but I fell asleep on the couch against my will. Eventually I gave up on the film, for tonight anyway.

Had to make myself get up, though, because otherwise my sleep cycle would be thrown way off course. I called my sister and e-mailed her some photos from the reading. I wanted to get her feedback on them while I was talking to her, because I knew she would talk to me about the nuances of each shot--her take on the facial expressions, the vibes each picture gives her, all that kind of intuitive stuff I love talking about with her. That girl is my sage. She sees a lot. Always has.

Today was mottled. I couldn't seem to get started. I did stuff, arranged stuff, tried to organize projects, but didn't feel like I totally hit my stride. I really hope I'm not coming down with something. I took an Airborne tablet this morning, but I don't know that it was successful.

Looking forward to getting my taxes done. This may be one of the last years that I get a refund for a while.

Baltimore Montage: A Love Story

The reading was a complete success. The room was packed with friends and loved ones (including Catchka, who came in from Boston to surprise me!), and I felt so loved, so empowered to read the poems with my guard completely down--with candor and simplicity. I felt myself being fully in the moment, fully engaged with the audience. I was connected to everyone and that made the event for me.

I had done a couple of runthroughs of my thesis over the last few days, focusing on phrasing and timing of select pieces. Right before Sarah picked me up for the reading, I did a full rehearsal, all alone in my apartment, which put me in a great headspace.

I expected to feel nervous when it was time to start, but as soon as I began to speak I felt safe and very much in my element. It helped, too, that I worked out the transitions between the pieces, being careful to think about which poems would benefit from some introduction or accompanying anecdote and which ones to go into without preamble.

To infuse some freshness into the experience of reading my thesis (plus the two new pieces), I changed the order a bit and arranged them so that there were word associations or thematic resonances between the pieces (the thesis, when submitted to the university, was arranged as a cohesive narrative progression) and it worked.

After the reading portion of the evening concluded, there was tons of effortless mingling. And thanks to the generous contributions of friends, there was plenty of wine and delicious sweets and savories alike of which to partake.

Oh. And my mom survived the reading of the poem with the slightly controversial line.

It was tremendous.

Rejection #2

Odd timing, this notice. It's the night before the reading (and I'm already having a bit of writer's crisis--wondering, truly, if i'm not something of a hack) and I found in my mailbox, once I'd come home from a meal out with a pal, this self-addressed envelope. It could only mean one thing. I briefly scanned the slip of paper that had been added to the pack of my sad little poems. It seems that they were "not right" for the publication.

Why is rejection always codified? It's just like being dumped(or eliminated as a possibility before the guy even really knows you). "It's not you, it's me..." "this is a bad time for me right now..." are replaced with "interesting, but not quite what we're looking for," and "sadly, your poems aren't right..."

I don't mean to be a baby about it. I know a writer has to earn her stripes by collecting any number of these little ego-crushing, existentialist crisis-inducing notes, but gah!

How am I supposed to stand up and read my work with a straight face the day after this latest disappointment?

Talked to my mom tonight. Tried to prepare her for one of the poems I knew she'd find shocking. Good thing I laid the groundwork. She nearly screamed into the phone when I read her the one little controversial line.

"It's a metaphor, Mommy."
"I don't care what it is, I did not raise you to use that word..."
"Well, it's art..."
"Art?!"
"Yes...."
"Lord, Have mercy."

Yes, God, please do.

I've been working on two new poems--that is to say poems that had nothing to do with my thesis--and I am so pleased with my progress that I may share them at this weekend's reading. One of them is more ready than the other, so the jury is still out.

Something that has helped with the one poem, especially, is employing the discipline of haiku. With few exceptions, I've written a haiku each day of the new year, and I find that it forces an economy of language and makes my phrasing crisp and pointed in my "real" work. Eliminating qualifiers and exposition is goal number one for my writing at this stage. In haiku there is no room for these distractions.

I'm a little nervous. I want the reading to go well. I want the pieces to be understood and well received. But this is where my role as an artist ends. I put my work out into the world and people will feel about it the way they feel about it. It's not up to me.

The Books on CD Parade continues. Now I'm on to Playing With Boys, and it is such a pleasant listen. I have 2 more discs out of the 13 to go. Three very different Latinas are at the forefront of this charming contemporary novel. It's about empowerment without being uber political in tone (that is to say it is not didactic and polarizing). The politics of the piece is secondary, I should say, to the stories of the women's lives. It's funny, consistent, and is an excellent study in voice.

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 55% Conservative, 45% Liberal

Social Issues: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal

Ethics: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 100% Conservative, 0% Liberal

How Liberal Or Conservative Are You?

You Should Go to Grad School

Grad school definitely isn't for everyone, but it looks like it's for you. You have a pretty good idea of what you want to study - and how it will further your career. So go ahead and go for it! You're ready to be a PhD.

Should You Go To Grad School?

You Are More Yang

Masculine Creative Angry Spring Summer Morning Sun Space Active Wood Chocolate

Are You More Yin or Yang?

Because I'm truly confounded...

What is up with the rash of incidents of verbal insensitivity/stupidity a la celebrities lately? Have these people lost their sense of propriety? Their minds? Do they not have image consultants or publicists who can instruct them about when to speak and what to say?

I won't repeat any of the gaffes here because they were offensive the first time, so there's no need (and I'm sure you all know what I'm talking about), but come on!

Look, I'm not stupid. People say all kinds of things behind closed doors with likeminded friends. This is not a post about the beliefs that underlie what has been said. Too big a topic, so moving on.

But where is the filter that prevents stuff like that from coming out in a public forum? These people all have some degree of fame and have been groomed to always present well. So where's that Hollywood chip, that politically-aware mechanism that should be in place?

I just don't get it. How stupid do you have to be?

Saturday at The Filling Station

eating like a pauper

i've consumed more *peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches in the last week than i did in all of last year. it's some combination of trying to save money (i'm not destitute, but running a little low) and trying to create meals that have stricter parameters for myself. a sandwich has a very definite end. it's very contained. because i'm using low-cal bread, i usually have two as a meal, but sometimes i find that if i wait a bit between them, one will suffice.

recently, i've allowed myself to consider that i might be a food addict. i have a number of extreme tendencies (excess or abstinence) where consumption is concerned. for the last several months i've been informally gathering data about my food preferences, responses, and my emotions as regulated by food consumption.

several times in the last two months, i have experienced feelings of resentment about the fact that i even need to eat at all. i volley between that and feeling resigned to overeating, feeling helpless to the pull of heavy carbs and sweets that were abundant in my workplace and the whole wide world for all of December. i have to reorient myself because all of the detoxing i did a year and a half ago has been undermined by the last several months' reemerging habits.

there was this one day there were donuts or something like that in the office. all day. and i sidestepped the temptation (it took every ounce of my strength). Once i'd made it to the afternoon without a single slip, i thought i was home free. i left my area for a brief break, came back, and there were new goodies (savory this time) in the general area. and something literally snapped. i didn't feel there was any way i could withstand a second round. i didn't.

i had the thought that no one would expect a recovering crack addict to resist the drug on a table surrounded by all of its accoutrements, buffet-style, so why on earth was i being subjected to this torture? food is really the last addiction frontier. it's not entirely ignored as a problem, but is still relatively low on the radar. it's hard to manage, because everyone does need to eat--addicted or not. you can safely refrain (once detoxed) from all other substances and never need to touch them again. in fact, you mustn't, but food is the habit you can't completely break.

i don't want to externalize,though. i know that my patterns are the result of my internal landscape, so as much as possible, without beating myself up, i'm taking responsibility for myself and my habits. isn't that the first step? i have no specific goals (none that i will publicize this go round, anyway) except to create a new set of governing principles about food.

at its root, i know it's about feeling thwarted and powerless. there's some experience i want, there's some control i don't know how to take. food, for me, is about not being robbed. it's about a hunger so deep, it's bottomless.

it goes even deeper than i imagined. i spent so much time working this out, losing weight (some of which i have definitely regained), learning to reign myself in. and i did it all the right way. i thought it would stick this time.

the motivation for that overhaul was extreme devastation. when my grief, anger, and sadness lifted, the fuel that kept me going ran out. i felt the drive leaving me and i was terrified.

so now what? i can't avoid food. i can't make it my stand-in for unfulfilled longings. what's in between? i guess i'll find out.

*by the way, i'm not suggesting that an all pb&j diet is something to do long-term. it's just refreshingly uncomplicated for the time being. it also really hits the spot.

Breakfast in New York (cabs outside Madison Square Garden)

I only had my camera phone, so the quality is grainy, and the distance too great, but all those yellow checker cabs were quite a sight. That is so iconically New York to me.

Tomorrow, a nice long train trip...

I'll listen to Ella's "I thought about you" as the track wends northward. Who will I be thinking about? You, of course...

Chaste Kisses

I had a dream last night about a quick succession of platonic (but heartfelt) kisses. I was on the receiving end. They were kisses from a former friend. There were three of them. All in the left corner of my mouth. I understood his intentions through the gesture. I knew he was saying
I'm sorry I didn't understand...

Judas's kiss was a kiss of betrayal. He was Christ's friend. In the book of Proverbs we read that wounds from a friend can be trusted, but that an enemy multiplies kisses.

These kisses are the only vestige I have of the dream. I remember nothing of the dramatic arc (there was a plot line of some sort), but I recall the feeling of sweetness, of fraternal love. These little conveyors, soft ministrations of repaired damage.

It all means that I'm at peace, I suppose, with everything. I seem to have this realization a million different ways several times a month, and each time it's utterly surprising. How resilient the psyche, how it can snap back from pervasive damage, intact.

It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken...

Among the books on CD that I've listened to over the course of the last two weeks, this (the above linked title) was one. I have no actual need for the "smart girl's break-up guide" at this point in my life, but in the interest of diversifying my aural stimulii selections and diverting myself during long stretches of subdued work, I thought it would prove to be entertaining.

It's always a little interesting to read about heartache from an emotionally detached place. I guess it's nearly two years ago now that I was last truly decimated by anything or anyone, for "romantic" reasons (though there was nothing romantic about it. It was just so sad.), and according to these breakup gurus, I did everything right as I faced the dissolution of that friendship.

Essentially, once I realized the dye was truly cast, I did not telephone or try to establish contact unnecessarily. I got out of the house, got moving, and made myself my priority. I allowed myself to be as sad as I felt. Yay me. No overblown, pitiable gestures. I had my 20s and earlier heartbreaks for that.

In any case, I'm writing about this because it seems literally impossible to me that I could ever let myself be heartbroken again. I don't count the grief and sadness from losing a loved one in the category of "heartbreak." For the sake of this post, I am thinking only of these unrequited love jags I've gone off on in the past.

I'm so tragically pragmatic these days (with only minor dalliances with flights of fancy), and I have no expectations that another person could even remotely begin to make me happy (this is a very good thing). As much as I've wished for grand, passionate love affairs in the past, I think that never having had one has taught me something invaluable.

How to live without one.

The male half of the writing team, incidentally, wrote "He's Just Not That Into You." I wish someone had given me that book when I was 20. I might be a very different person now.

Purging

I pride myself on not being a hoarder, but like anyone, I have closets and drawers that need to be cleared. This past summer, I gave my sister quite a number of my CDs (after ripping them to iTunes), but I still have too many for my comfort. The upside is that I will not be purchasing anymore physical albums. In the interest of leaving behind dead technology, I am also selling/giving away my vcr and several vhs tapes. Eventually, I will replace some of the tapes with DVDs, but only if they pass the "must have" test.

After tidying the bathroom, I swiffered the kitchen floor, made pesto shrimp with wilted spinach tossed with shallots and garlic, then put in three loads of laundry. Once the clothes come out of the dryer, I'll pop in the latest from Netflix.

At some point, I'll have some cocoa and get ready for bed. I don't have tomorrow off, so I can't be a total night owl.

Today's Highlights...

I'm in a northern locale...

the city i've been to most often, other than my own city, Baltimore (my home, all of my bones remember), is where I am. I saw Catchka today... for dessert at Finale, and then back to my hotel room for talking and laughing and the making of phone calls to airlines who lost bags (hers not mine--weeks ago).

Then a dinner during which I drank two martinis. which made me think of someone I used to call lovemuffin...

I'll be on travel for the next couple of days, and sadly, find that I have nothing of import to write down to keep the blog warm until Wednesday night/Thursday morning. Nothing pithy. Nothing profound. By the time we meet again, I'll have taken off, landed, taken off, and landed again...

Just what this part of town needed

I've mentioned before that organically-minded grocers with a gourmet bent have forced the chains to go "whole grain" so to speak, in order to raise their game, and that ultimately this is a good thing. I may not have have mentioned this before, but there is a real dearth of any kind of credible market in the city (unless you happen to live in a trendy area), which often forces those of us who live here into the suburbs when it's time to shop. This is challenging if you don't have a car.

I worked near a Whole Foods for three years, so I had it good for a long time, but once that gig ended, I was back to relying on an okay, but not great neighborhood market. Don't get me wrong. This market has been there for me (and you can buy alcohol there), but it's dingy, cramped, and the produce, well... sucks.

Call me a snob if you want, but I believe I deserve fresh, crisp, unbruised fruits and vegetables. Here's the thing. Everyone deserves fresh, verdant, brightly coloured, unbruised produce. It's another example of the class divide in this country that only the sprawled suburbs and fashionable, gentrified areas of most cities and states have stores where the fresh food is actually fresh. That's not something I'm going to get on a soapbox about here. It's just a fact.

This is the point of this post. One of the chains (SuperFresh) opened up a store about 9 blocks from my place--far enough away from my neighborhood market that it still has a fair shot at staying competitive--but close enough that this new SuperFresh will provide another option for the residents of Mt. Vernon who want finer cuts of meat, organic options, good, fresh vegetables, and unwilted flowers for a fair price. This new store is a compromise between WF and The Neighborhood Store (not its name).

And what is more, it's a good enough walk away that I worked my glutes on the way there and back today. I couldn't be happier. This is a wonderful development and way over due. The joint was jumping! I think they're going to be around for a while.

Saturday Breakfast with V...

still life: black coffee in foreground, smoothie in recession

ready to dig in...

we were almost the only ones there...

China Black With Clover Honey
(learning to think in haiku...)

scalding water poured
over shiny black tea leaves

a red steam refrain

The Kone...

Arrived. About 5 weeks early! I guess the merchant went for the worst case delivery scenario. It has to charge for a full 24 hours before I can use it, though, so the great dust elimination operation I had planned for this evening will have to wait for tomorrow. No matter, I was able to take care of something else.

I guess I could start to put away my christmas ornaments. The tree comes down tomorrow, regardless, but it might be easier if I start the process tonight. The evening is still young, I suppose--it may be worth the effort.

Don't know if I've mentioned this (probably not),but I recently checked out a bunch of books on CD. Am currently listening to one about a woman who has been "possessed" by Franz Schubert. It's aptly titled Sleeping With Schubert. I'm at the part where she's about to give a big performance at Carnegie Hall.

Just finished watching "The Motorcycle Diaries," the story of the influential odyssey that made Ernesto Guevera into "Che" Guevera. I really did enjoy it. Sidebar: I've always found it interesting how many young, privileged people don Che's image (plastered on a variety of t-shirts, messenger bags, coffee travel mugs, etc.) and who clearly are in no way interested in adopting his Marxist, socialist beliefs. As though they would leave the suburbs or the coffeehouses in the cities they inhabit (not to mention the comforts of their parents' socioeconomic status) to live among lepers. It's so easy to be a bumper sticker revolutionary.

I'm not saying Marxism is the way to go. I'm a capitalist through and through, but if you're going to tout, via your fashion sense, someone's philosophies, well then shouldn't you also be doing something more than just wearing the t-shirt?

Sidebar two: The Revolution, it seems, will be televised...

My evening...

My Sister's Latest Gig...

An Open mic. Even with a cold she was tremendous. A lot of awesome jazz amateurs played, but for me, Caryl outshines them all...

Starting the New Year Off Right...

My first non-spam e-mail of the year? I received the first poetry submission rejection (acceptable because I submitted via e-mail to an online journal). Here it is, verbatim:

Interesting but not quite what we're looking for. Try us again sometime. Previously published is okay.

the editors

Well, no. Not with that kind of feedback, I won't. I have no idea what about the poems wasn't what they were looking for and so I am in in imminent danger of repeating the error. And "try us again sometime" is the equivalent of a telling someone you don't really want to see/hang out with/date that you'll call him "sometime." You so don't plan to call...