Nope. Nothing. Not one thing to say.

On Saturday I was at Trader Joe's. Saturday morning. So I was standing there. I was standing there holding a red basket looking at the crackers: "Sesame Melba." So I was standing there looking at the Sesame Melba crackers and this lady. This old lady was also standing there with me. Standing there with me looking at the Sesame Melba crackers. She spoke. She was standing next to me when she spoke. "They look like pieces of toast." She said they looked like little pieces of toast. Standing next to me in Trader Joe's on Saturday morning the little old lady said the Sesame Melba crackers looked like little pieces of toast. She had a thick accent. She spoke in her thick accent "They look like little pieces of toast." She spoke in her thick eastern European accent "They look like little pieces of toast." I smiled. I smiled and looked at her. I smiled and looked at her and looked back at the crackers. I smiled and looked at her and looked back at the crackers and said "Yes." I smiled and looked at her and looked back at the crackers and said "Yes they do." I smiled and looked at her and then looked back at the Sesame Melba crackers and said, "Yes they do. They look exactly like little pieces of toast."

This morning my sister had her second child. On the kitchen floor. She wasn't aware of the contractions until it was too late, but the dula was there, as well as a grandma, who is an experienced mid-wife. 11:15 AM East Coast Time. On the west coast I was meditating. No trans-continental psychic premonition to report. I haven't actually spoken to my sister about this, as they went to the hospital soon after, but my mom called to tell me the news. She also reported that they didn't have a name for the baby yet, but it's boy, and now I have a nephew. How exciting! I'm totally going to reenforce stereotypical gender roles every chance I get. Somewhere in this conversation my mom also reported that when I was a little child, I was called the baby until one day, one and a half years old, I overheard them talking about me and said my name wasn't baby, but Tyler.

In 1987 Tyler was reported as the number one male baby name. Therefore there are a a lot of 23 year old Tylers running around, and quite a few also have my last name, which I discovered after having to click 'next' six or seven times to find my profile on Facebook via a name search. The anonymity of having a common name is kind of nice, as I can almost pass off some of these embarrassing blog posts as written by somebody else. And it helps that I'm a little bit older than most of the Tylers out there, which explains my first name last name gmail address, and the fact that I get all kinds of email from other people's parents, Honda dealerships, and contact lens suppliers. For a while I was on a mailing list for a church group in the Philippines. It sounded like they were having a lot of fun over there.

Since I don't have any children, and my two cats were pre-named when I got them, I don't really have much experience naming anything asides from poems and songs, and usually, unless the name is self evident, it's really difficult to think through to a good name, though I tend to favor keeping it simple and unsymbolic. For example, instead of naming a poem "Violent Rainbow" I would tend towards "Puke Bucket." The mineral fact of calling it what it is. Anyway. I need to get ready for class. Here is today's birthday horoscope for April 13th, which may or may not apply to a newborn:

You'll make a difference in the lives of others. Over the next six weeks, your glowing smile attracts good fortune. In May, work provides the opportunity to recognize your own power and assert yourself. You'll begin a new regimen in June, and loved ones will follow your lead. You'll give your domestic scene a makeover in July. Aquarius and Virgo people adore you. Your lucky numbers are: 4, 25, 40, 19 and 16.

In second grade we watched a film strip about Europe. In the middle of the strip, while the lights were off, I raised my hand and announced to everyone that I had been to Europe on a family vacation. Mrs. Rocco said "How wonderful!" and asked if I would bring in some pictures, but I told her that my family had forgotten the camera. A couple weeks later, when my friend Aaron's dad came by to pick him up after a sleepover, he asked my mother and I, standing in the doorway about our European vacation. I muttered something and wandered away. I was never asked about it again.

Seven years old, at the Platteville Invitational Swim Meet huddled under blankets with a bunch of other kids, mostly older, I announced that I was gay and had AIDS. 1985. I did not know what either word meant. Encouraged by the attention, later I announced that when a dog pissed, I would stick my hand in the hot stream of urine, and when a dog shit, I would smear the shit with my fingers. Because I went to school in Madison, they had no way of knowing if any of it was true, no context. But in retrospect, maybe they were just amazed somebody would claim such things.

Later that summer, in love with the game Discs of Tron, one afternoon I walked up to the little arcade on main street and quickly lost two or three games. The adults there asked me where my dad was, and when I got back he asked me where I got the quarters. I found them under the couch looking for a lost library book, I said, though I actually got them from the bathroom, quarters falling out of my dad's pants as they always were. I don't know how he knew, but he didn't believe me. I wasn't allowed to ride with him on his motorcycle until I told the truth.

To continue on this dream thing, because I've been dreaming a lot lately or at least have been remembering my dreams a lot lately, two nights ago I had a dream where I met Jesus. I was in an old cabin, that used to belong to Susan, and had found a box of crackers that were pretty old but I thought were still good. I carried it around and looked at the dusty books on a book shelf in the middle of the room like you might find in a book store. When I went outside Jesus was standing there. I was a surprised that I was taller than him, but then thought about it a little bit, how people are generally much taller now due to diets high in protein than we were back in the day, and it made sense. I don't remember what we talked about. He was serious and a little intimidating. During the conversation it seemed to make a lot of sense to become a Christian, but I was a little worried how my friends and family might take the news.

Recently in an issue of the New Yorker there was a long article about a guy who got deep into Scientology and got out, eventually. Apparently one of the tenants is that when you advance to a certain level you are expected to cut off ties with anyone who is not also a Scientologist, including your parents and your children. The logic being that since this is the first generation of Scientolgists, some painful sacrifices will have to be made. During a latter part of the Vipassana Meditation course that I've taken the last two summers, Goenka (the teacher) talks about when you "plant the seed of Dharma" you have to build a fence around it, so the cows milling around don't munch on the growth. A lovely metaphor that practically applied, for me at least, means make time for meditation even if I have to say no to friends. Which is the hard part. Like MF Doom says, "Is he still a fly guy clappin' if nobody can hear it / And can they testify from inner spirit."


Like that crazy dude in the park doing kung-fu moves with headphones on. Last night I dreamt of taking a walk through the woods with an ex-girlfriend, and just like in my waking life, felt insecure. I was not actually in the woords but I did actually feel insecure. Jesus (the one my dream) was just a culturally convenient vehicle. Last night Bill and Erika came over for dinner. At some point, talking about Oakland because they also live in Oakland, talking about the move and all the bad juju that I moved to Oakland with; I said my attitude wasn't about Oakland but about how settled I was in San Francisco, and the fear of leaving that behind. And now settling into Oakland, I'm feeling just as content at I did in SF, and I'm thinking maybe it has nothing to do with the place at all. A cliche I've heard many times, but has taken awhile to prove true in my actual life. It's really easy to get confused about reality. Anyway, Wednesday. Time to get ready for class.

Jinx is laying on his back in the sun. Legs spread. His foot just twitched. It's supposed to get into the seventies today and tomorrow get a little warmer, possibly the low eighties. Back to work this week which has felt good, recharged and properly settled into Oakland, and ready to resume. Though I have been having strange dreams recently. In one a student killed one of my colleagues. In another an old roommate broke all of my dishes. Old news but oddly anxious. To me that's a sign that I should probably get back to writing. Something trying to push forward from the back of my brain so as, I should be ready to catch it when it comes out. Like a bloody tooth laying on the pavement after a street fight. Street Fighter II. Street Fighter II Turbo Edition.

Or maybe it's simpler than that. Since I'm thinking about class on Thursday during my waking hours maybe it's only natural to be dreaming about the (mildly) trouble making student. Since I ran into a colleague of my old roommate at work yesterday and the conversation we had lead me to old thoughts about my old apartment maybe it makes sense to have dreams about all that. Ever since the first meditation course, almost two years ago, the meaning of dreams has been not as interesting. Have not been nearly as mysterious. Sitting all day long, working hard to focus the mind and bring it back and notice its wandering and bring it back and really work that sixth sense, seriously occupying the brain all day the opposite of letting the mind wander; at night I had the craziest dreams. Removing the eyeball of a Saint Bernard and sucking on it for a while, putting it back quickly when the leather jacket wearing owner came back. Eventually the eyeball broke, like an egg, and I stuffed it into the wall mounted garbage shoot. Asides from the familiar feeling of guilt over something I wasn't supposed to do, I do not believe that the specifics of this dream (Saint Bernards, eyeballs, leather jackets) have any more meaning than the items laying on my desk right now (a stack of blank CDs, a stapler, a notepad, a pencil case).

For example about six months ago I had a dream about wires sticking out of an electrical socket in my old apartment. I was worried that I or my roommate might walk by and get shocked. So as I tried to fix the wire that was sticking out from it, with a vauge sense that I was the only one paying attention to this danger. Not in a righteous, nobody else cares kind of way, but in a no-blame, gosh I should fix so I don't get shocked kind of way. Regardless, the dream was a vehicle to communicate this worry that I must of gone to bed with. The outlet was not a symbol for anything. It was completely and totally banal as most of my dreams are, just replays of the day's anxieties. Ted used to have a Saint Bernard when I was kid. And the dream leads me to my vague memories of that, but only because I willingly go there. "It's not like it's a mystery." We know, or at least have a pretty good guess, where our dreams come from, if we first consider our sensations in the dream rather than the semi-random objects and people our dreams are populated with. All that said, I still would like to get back to writing.

Is it just me, or did the United States declare war on Libya over the weekend? Just for the record, and I don't know if this is a left or right idea, but for fuck's sake, can't the U.S. just stay out of it for second? I realize that it's an "international coalition" but it's not exactly clear how much support for the revolution there is within Libya, and besides, if there's five or six countries who are willing to take the initiative to intervene, maybe we should just let them go ahead and do that without us. Nobody likes Ghaddafi. Yes. We get it. But if Libya didn't have major oil resources would we really care all that much? Maybe Al-Qaeda is putting hallucinogenic drugs in our water. (Post Script: Good news. NATO is taking over. Yay.)

Anyway, I'm going to keep this post short because it's Spring Break. It's raining and I have papers to grade. Papers to grade before I can truly relax. Yesterday friend Steven and I went for a hike up Mt. Diablo. I got us a bit lost at the Devil's Elbow but we found our way back to the safety of the parking lot. IN POETRY NEWS, new-er work of mine has just come out in Volt #16, a beautiful print journal that publishes really high quality work. It's printed on extra large paper (9x12) but not awkwardly; emphasizing forms and visual orientation as well as the writing. When I started writing, Volt was one of the magazines I always dreamed of getting published in, so as, dreams come true? I am a goal oriented person? Now what? Celebrate? Grade papers? Put on pants. Do dishes. Relax. Continue.

Somehow the sun has made it through the thick layer of clouds covering the sky for the last five days. A man with a shaved head and a black t-shirt walks by. Spent the morning reading Japan stories and watching videos and interactive NYTimes features, trying to figure out what exactly is happening with the nuclear reactors. This is a pretty helpful graphic explaining what is going on. The good news is that my two remaining friends in Japan with who I'm in contact with are both just fine. Toshiko reported that the earthquake knocked her off her feet but her family is fine and she, in Tokyo, is also fine. Jude reported that his office "shook like fuck" but asides from the inconveniences, nothing much has changed in the big city.

Which is in stark contrast to how it's been reported here, where NPR and the BBC are constantly talking about the possibilities of a nuclear meltdown. Maybe in Japan people are trying to just stay calm in case they actually have to deal with a disaster. Whereas, here, maybe there's no harm in letting a little reckless anxiety guide our interests. I have no idea. Though I have to say the one thing that has made me a little mad has been the story of investors pulling out of the Japanese market. What a bunch of assholes. I realize that the job of investors is to make money but it sort of feels like kicking somebody when they're down, or when Britney Spears shaves her head everybody walks away. Maybe it's not a fair comparison, but isn't it in everybody's best interests, including investors, that Japan be well? That taking one for the (global financial) team is preferable to a shortsighted pursuit of profit?

The photography teacher I support on Tuesdays began the class by acknowledging that Japan's problems make the problems of teachers and students, deadlines and assignments, pale in comparison. A keen observation, that oddly, makes me work just a little bit harder as I feel a little bit of gratitude to sit with a student and talk about the next conceptual photography assignment as opposed to digging through rubble, or hashing out an evacuation plan. To be honest, I'm not often prone to personally identifying with global causes. I don't know if this is due to selfishness, ignorance, or respect for privacy. Regardless, having lived in Japan and still having friends there ups my steak in the whole thing. Same goes for the protests in Wisconsin. However, democracy in Egypt, as much as I like that idea, is more of a reach. Which is a complicated way to say that I identify with Japan more clearly than Egypt. How one sees themselves and what's important. When I see a crazy old man wandering in the middle of the street I feel sad. Same with a happy expression on the face of the developmentally disabled person. We are strange. Now I need to get ready for class. Spring break is next week.

Now I live in Oakland. It's been a couple weeks since we last spoke for a couple reasons. One of which is that my internet has been M.I.A. and finally got it back up and running yesterday, though it took about four hours due to old wiring in the basement ("It'll be another week and a half before you can come back? I'll give you fifty bucks cash if you come by now."), and then the wireless wasn't getting recognized by the computer which lead me to IM-ing with Jaya (India) for a good hour and then another half hour talking to Mario (Texas) on the phone. Yet, it works and is kind of fast and I'm a little afraid of how much the monthly bill will be once taxes and all that stuff is added on but there it sits (looking at my router and imagining the blinking green lights that I can't actually see because I'm not wearing my glasses). My cat threw up four times this morning.

Which was kind of a protest against the Wisconsin union crisis but was also because I wasn't getting up to feed her. It's important to keep the ball rolling and when it stops, one has to take action. If she didn't make a fuss it's possible that she would starve to death. So after I threw her out the apartment, cleaned up the puke and went back to bed, I had the idea that next time maybe I'll run her under some water. I know it sounds cruel and maybe it is, but four pukes is two pukes too many. Not that the transition has not been difficult but "It's been difficult for all of us, Kitty Girl." Yes, I live alone now. Jinx's health has been failing but that's a story for another day.

It's been a big transition. Moving weekend was great. Four great friends helped me move out of the Valencia apartment and into this one. I took Friday off of work, spent the day packing. Spent Saturday moving and then spent Sunday and the next week unpacking. Weekend. A few days and then today, and the shock of leaving SF has largely dissapated and I'm happily settling into my new neighborhood. Which is amazing in it's own ways, for example, empty wide streets filled with beautiful old buildings. Like they built a city and nobody came. Or it turned into Detroit. Or some combination of the two, at least in my immediate vicinity. Then there's China town a block to the south, the lake three blocks to the East, downtown and the BART four blocks to the West, and then there's the North. Home of the mysteriously named "Snow Park." This is my new neighborhood. All for about four hundred dollars less what I would be paying in SF for a similar space.

A couple weeks ago I was talking to a collegue who, along with her boyfriend, were looking for a place. I told her I had just found a good one in Oakland and she said that because she was a life long San Franciscian, she would never consider living here. Which made me wonder, why is that? Beyond the obvious of one person's preference, there's a huge difference between San Francisco and the East Bay. I loved living in San Francisco because it's an amazing city. So much everywhere, full of interesting creative people. There were three books stores within a block of my old apartment, whereas now I have to travel a mile to get to a (non-christian) book store around here. SF is dense with people like me: book reading burrito eating bike riding hipsters (more or less). Whereas in Oakland it's a lot more "diverse." Culturally and economically and socially. It's not just homeless and tech people and artists here, it's them and everybody else as well; families, phone guys, and all those people who teach at Oaksterdam University. Inescapable Buddhist truth: "From all that he loves, man must part." Something like that. Come by when you can. Hope you're well.

The good news is that I've found a place to live and I'm moving on Saturday. So excited and exciting to be leaving this apartment, which as been great, don't get me wrong, but wow, I am so glad to leaving. Great in that it's been awesome living in San Francisco, living on a busy hip street above shops and restaurants, and really, I've always wanted to live in a place like this but now I get to live on my own plus two cats in a really great space over in Oakland. I looked at around twenty five apartments over the last six weeks. Of those twenty five, the one I'm moving into is the only one I got excited about. Yesterday my roommate said moving to Oakland is a good idea. More like a good feeling. Searching searching searching and stressing for a while is a productive process. Like writing a poem or teaching a class. Thank you for your support.

But about that housing search, this city is so crazy. I've lived in five big U.S. cities and I've never had to work as hard to find an acceptable place to live. And I'm no slouch. The story is that the dot com people really changed the landscape as far as affordability in the mid 90's. A huge influx of people with money came to the area and ever since the powers that be have been catering to them as well as the standard corporate interests, which of course, is nothing new. Gavin Newsom did not do nearly as much as he could of in terms of keeping affordable housing in the city, and I've read that the homelessness problem in San Francisco can partly be attributed to Newsom and Brown's development policies. The working class have largely been pushed out of the city. That said, sometimes new comers like me luck into affordable situations like the apartment I've been in. I had no idea how good I had it until trying to find a comparable situation elsewhere. And then there are the people that have always lived here, the family that live on the second floor of this building, Six people in an apartment the same size as the one my roommate and I have shared with two cats.

It's hard not indulge in bitterness or cynicism around this whole process. The stencil on the sidewalk reads: "Sanctuary City for the Rich." And there is some truth in that, but more personally, I want to live in a humane space, i.e. a space with room for everybody, a little sun, a heater. Last Saturday I met the property manager at my new place, walked into the apartment, looked around, thought, wow, this is amazing, and said, wow, this is amazing, I'd love to rent it, and she said okay, send me your stuff, and that was that. There wasn't an involved process, there wasn't twenty desperate people trying to make a good impression, there wasn't a fax machine or rental application or gigantic impersonal landholder involved. So simple! They way it should be. In other news, an old poem was recently published by the journal Bath House, along with an audio version of the poem which is kind of cool. Have a listen.

Two Found Poems from Chinese (Teach Yourself 1991)

Exercise 1.3

1. Mr King invites me to drink Chinese tea.
2. Mr Li greatly dislikes Mr King. (Mr Li can't stand Mr. King.)
3. Mr King doesn't like Mr Li much either.
4. You don't thank me so I don't thank you either.

Exercise 20.3

1. All Chinese like eating Chinese food.
2. Any branch of the Bank of China has the same exchange rate for changing money.
3. Current accounts and deposit accounts have different rates of interest.
4. I have to change my traveller's cheques into US dollars today.
5. When you go abroad you have to take your passport (with you) otherwise you can't leave the __country.
6. Asia and Africa are very different from a historical point of view.
7. Do you still remember her telephone number? Don't forget to give her a call tomorrow whatever __you do.
8. Politically speaking European countries are pretty much the same with a few minor differences.
9. Regardless of whether you've signed (your name) or not, I want to look at your passport.
10. No matter whether the bank clerk had counted the money several times or not, he wanted to (had ___to) count it (once).
11. What you're saying is that you'll only get to know him if you happen to bump into him, is that it?
12. I won't do it like this unless there are regulations.

Yesterday evening I went to look at a studio in the Mission. It was pretty small. Not enough room for my big sweaty body and two full bodied cats. Bodice. Bodie. Broom stick. It's impossible. To find. An affordable apartment in San Francisco. I'm slowly going insane. I also went to look at a studio in the Tenderloin. At 4 o'clock. Yesterday. Sharp. It was a nice place. However it was in the heart of the heart of the heart of the Tenderloin which is quite possibly the nastiest place in all of San Francisco. Not necessarily dangerous though it is, but in my experience the strung out drug addicts generally keep to themselves. San Francisco values or something like it. Tolerance, coupled with an implicit agreement to not cause problems. Shit on the sidewalks. Chinese food and no grocery stores. Three blocks in and three blocks out. Jones street.

Really sorry to keep complainin' but I'm hopin' this folksy turn in mah prose will make this post a lot o fun to read. End. On the bright side of things school and classes are going well. Two large but good groups of 202 students, and the support classes, though a little boring, are nice work (if you can get it). Pronunciation lab has also settled in with a couple groups of steady students. Barak Obama. The stress is on the second syllable of his first name which tells us that it's not a name with English origins. Like Andy. Or Susan. Um. Did I mention that one of my cats has been falling over lately and I had to take him the emergency veterinarian two nights ago? His diagnosis: "lameness on the left back limb." The good doctor provided pain medication, either to treat his sprain or arthritus, but either way nothing is broken and he seems to moving around a little better today than yesterday, so as, it's was just a little injury not a life ending neurological disorder.

Asides from the above I have nothing else to report. Scott Walker is messing up Wisconsin. It's exciting to be reading about what's happening in the middle east and I'm so glad Twitter is no longer part of the discussion. It's been raining here for the last couple days but has stopped as of this morning. My other cat is snoring. Every time I see a car with a for sale sign in it I think to myself, "maybe I could live out of that car." So sorry. Housing is all I can think about. I should go. By this time next week I will have either found a place or really be freaking out. See you later!

Yesterday evening I went to go look at a studio in the Haight. It was pretty nice. Two rooms including huge kitchen and a bathtub that seemed to be dug out of the ground. It was priced at the usual close to a thousand dollars a month that most studios that are somewhat close to downtown are priced at, so as, it was a good deal relatively speaking. Because it was a deal, there were twenty people in and out of the apartment while I was there, filling out the application, and I really doubt it will be offered, which is just as good because I really can't afford to pay that much. Two hours previous to that I rang Kristen's doorbell to discuss renting her room but unfortunately she did not answer. I imagined the other roommates looking down at me from the windows as I rang #25, and deciding not to answer the door based on my appearance. A lady walked by with a dog and I asked her, "Are you Kristen?" No, she was not.

But it's still early in San Francisco March housing match play fantasy playoff round robin sudden death tournament. By next Wednesday I will start to freak out a little bit more noticeably. Ariel is in the same situation, and as we talked about the misery of the search while sitting at the part-time ESL computer terminals, we smiled, but only because it's inappropriate to appear despondant at an education institution. Night termors. Cold sweats. Terrible dreams. Bursting into tears while watching a New York Times video about safe injection clinics in Vancouver, and the line, "I have to get clean so I can be with my family." But really, it's not that bad. I'm exadurrading. Really. I have faith that I'll find a good situation, as I always have before. It's just an unpleasant process, and very time consuming. Like, consuming the entire month February, not to mention packing. Yeah.

After viewing the studio I met up with Steven to attended a "class" at the the Free University of San Francisco on Nietzsche, which was more like a discussion group but it was interesting and worthwhile. A good idea, a free University, one that needs a lot of work, but I'm into the idea of not having to pay for self improvement. Some things, like poetry for example, work better when one's livelihood is not part of the equation. At at at at at at any any any any any any rate rate rate rate rate, the semester has also become insanely busy: nine hours of ESL support on Monday followed by three hours of ESL support and three hours of teaching pronunciation on Tuesday make for a draining two days. I'm glad I have the work and need the money, but I always have to be careful about taking on too much work, as when I start to get drained in a particular social/spiritual way it leads to lapses in self-care. So far so good though. I have to get ready for class now. See you.

I start teaching today. The semester started Monday where I supported an Industrial Design classs called Industrial Processes, a six hour class that let out around ten thirty in the morning because there was nothing to do with the six hours until the students started in on their projects, supporting the argument made by students who don't show up on the first day because "nothing happens on the first day." These were graduate students though, so everybody was there. With the rest of the day off I did some reading and looked for apartments, sat in a chair with a hot water bottle on the small of my back which I tweaked the other day while vacuuming up cat hair. Yes I own a vacuum and yes my life is really that boring or as my aunt put it to me a while back, facetiously I think though one never knows, sometimes not even the speaker, "so you've decided to live a life of the mind." Heart and body too I hope.

On Tuesday I supported a class called The Language of Photography which sounds really exciting but actually seems to be the same stuff I supported last semester in a Digital Photography class. The upshot is again, it's a graduate school class so maybe the content is more interesting. Both of the support classes this semester are taught by seemingly pretty accomplished folks, for example the Photography teacher helped make Sketchers' first ad campaign. Which is not only impressive, but courageous of him to admit. Just kidding. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be snarky. I just wanted to use the word "courageous." Over winter break when I rode up to see Adam with Ted, Ted told me that when somebody would tell my father a really stupid idea, my father would respond that he thought it was courageous of them to attempt it. I'd like to think he was being more earnest than snarky, trying to find a way to stay open to possiblity.

Which brings me to Today, teaching an actual class at three thirty but the morning and early afternoon are clear for this blog, class preparation, and a little writing. On Thursday the schedule is basically the same, with the morning here replaced by a morning at the writing lab. Anyway. This is boring. Which is somewhat intentional because I'm looking for apartments, and I just assume that when I sign my name at the end of an email some potential roommate will run it through Google and end up at this blog. Because it's important to check people out. Sometimes. Which is why I'd like to reiterate if you're new to this blog, that this blog is a kind of journal, but it's also a writing project, and I'm a totally awesome roommate. Would you also like to live with two cats? I have a one nice rug (6x4) and am very clean. Looking for apartments sucks. See you on Craigslist.

11TH SUICIDE POEM IN NOVEMBER

The next child I won't father we will name
Nomathamba. We will call her Thembi for short
She will be exactly like Pharaoh drew her. She
Will smile several hours each day. Her teeth
Will come on like white Christmas. She will crawl
Into bed with us to see if we
Are fucking. She will never be scared. She will
Speak Xhosa. I will buy her a dog named Mardi Gras
And she will learn what it is to lose something
You love. She will grow up.

___________________________-John Ross

Why does this electrical outlet not work? It worked just a minute ago but now it's not working. In the library. Working in the library, my new pseudo office, caused in part because my censored's censored in town for the last ten days, eleven nights in the beautiful Mission district who was really nice to have around, clean respectful a little female energy to cut the stale smell of passive aggression and dirty dishes delete delete delete edit internet skip ahead impending home stay in a low privacy one bedroom summer cottage three days before the eagle landed. Like the moon or Apollo 7. Ocean's 11 and 12. Crime capers starring attractive men who bankroll progressive social causes with Hollywood schlock.

Yep. It's really nice to work in the library. There is something about being amongst the homeless and those like me with homes who want to get out of them or can't be there that makes it easy to focus. A kind of bed of nails to keep my back straight. Last Thursday I sat down at one of these broad oak tables at 11AM and didn't get up until 7PM. Which was totally weird. No water. No bathroom break. No talking no running or spitting or playing ball. Nope. Just sitting there, doing research on Ph.D programs which lead into emails to program people explaining my situation leading into thinking about teaching and the little essay that appeared that evening. It was weird. Not like a demon had possessed me but I knew that if I got up I wouldn't finish, and after about three I stopped being hungry. Is this cruel and unusual?

At any rate at any rate at any rate at any rate at any rate at any rate at any rate at any rate at any rate it's the last week of the six week furlough from teaching. Back at it soon, meetings this week, prepping for the semester, finalizing the schedule, which is a word that I've just recently learned to spell: schedule. Not scheduale. But schedule. No a. This is proof that it's possible to learn stuff, that education does have value. Write your congress person. From this week's New Yorker article about Oprah Winfrey's new television channel, 24 hours a day of continuous programming. Oprah says:

I am very much aware of the energy that the television is transmitting all of the time. That's why I don't allow--up until now, I have never allowed it on in my house, unless there was something specific that I wanted to see, because I don't want all that energy coming into my space.

One of the central questions that has come out of teaching non-traditional students has been how to make writing appeal to a group of people who have typically had little success with writing in the past. A group of people who generally are not strong readers, and generally did not do as well in high school as many of their peers. A group of people where the typical class will range in ages 18 to 35, and contain people from five different countries. They do not have very much in common with each other, much less anything academically in common, such as agreed upon standards or shared skills. Some have written ten page papers and some have trouble with basic grammar. Some read science fiction novels and keep blogs and some get all they need through their friends and television. Some are there to study advertising and some are there to study movie make up; the difference between a fashion designer and a fashion merchandiser or an industrial designer and an illustrator. "Commercial arts" is the banner all these different areas of study fall under, but they each require a particular knowledge and skill set. At the beginning of every course we could not be more different.

As the course moves forward, through introductions, games, lectures and assignments, we begin to get to know each other. This happens through the structure of the class and our shared experiences, as well through all the little asides that come out of being together. I saw a movie last night. Oh me too. What'd you see? Nice shoes what are you eating it smells good and we begin to make friends. Meanwhile something else is happening. We are writing about our lives and what's important to us. Each student takes a risk: what if this isn't good? What if other students laugh at me? What if the instructor fails me? Some risk more and some risk less, but regardless, we are putting ourselves out there in a form that is as unmediated an expression of self as there is: what do you think?

For non-native speakers, this risk involves not just the risk of self expression but the risk of misspeaking.The question stands: what right do you have to be here if you do not even speak the language or understand the culture? While this question is illustrated clearly by the problems that come with mastering a second language (when does one become a master?), its existential root can be found everywhere. For the student who barely survived high school because they were more interested in drawing pictures than preparing for No Child Left Behind, the risk involves years of bad grades and all the memories that come with. What right do you have to be here if you do not even have the most basic of skills? For the student who came back to school after twenty years of office work, leaving stability and self-sufficiency behind for instructors with no time and Facebook obsessed twenty somethings, what right do you have to be here? For the minority student, often the lone representative of their ethnicity in the room, and all the cultural trappings that come with that fact, what right do you have to be with all of these people who don't look like you? For the wealthy who don't have to get jobs but all thier friends do, what right do you have to tell your story when its subsidized by your parents? And for the underpaid teacher who has no idea what he's doing, what right do you have to stand up and lecture? To pass judgment on the quality of work? It goes on and we go through it together.

To come back to the original question, how to make writing matter, is difficult. What motivations would a person have to put into writing when there is so much that surrounds the act of writing before one can begin? It's as if the work load for the non-traditional student is doubled when compared to those who do not have such keenly developed neurosis surrounding the work of writing. Then again, judging by the way professional writers talk about procrastination, it seems like anticipatory dread is part of the act of writing, even for those who have made writing a large part of who they are. Regardless, these students need to work twice as hard to reach their college ready peers. In a more general sense, if writing is an act of self realization, finding words for the thing, the act of naming, like Adam named the animals or parents name their child, this is this, this = this, translating what we feel into words, our most fundamental definition of what it means to be human; it is important work to me. Thus, from here we lift off in hopes that the energy these beliefs provide is enough to push through the doubt.

What is the connection between cats and dogs? People? No, I mean what's the connection between writing whatever and avoiding the question? People? No, I mean what's the connection between writing on a computer and writing in real life like a reality television show or during a war? People? No, I mean what's the connection between being relatively content and the quality of artistic work? Merit? No, I mean cake. Delicious. Like chocolate but not the kind I helped make the other night. Frosting that turned out badly postscript: don't beat whip cream after it has whipped it turns into cheese or butter or chunky liquid. Like toast, how does something change so dramatically with air or temperature or tickets to the circus. Nope. Not really. Trying to write something down but letting the chatter box rule. Not trying too hard to stop it. Where does it come from? Radio in your mind. Legs like dead weight no longer able to swim my lower half bent like the blade of a pocket knife. Jack knife as they say, jack knifed across the highway. Highway to Heaven. Necessary Angel. Okay, back to the mean topic, what's the relationship between contentedness and artistic output? Seems to me that when I'm happy my work gets sloppier, not so worried about quality control. Fine how it is like a poetry student always the idea that it's fine how it is. Original sentiment but the sentiment isn't original. "Pedestrian" was what it was called. Question: Problem: what exactly do I have to show for ten years of working on poetry asides from a few publications? No joy but in the work itself not the world it's for. Double negative stopped to pick my nose. Coherant thought forget it back to work my cat is cute I'm moving out of this apartment at the end of February this is crazy fog is gone whew no to work I go.