When did the library become a night club? Who goes to the library to ogle people? Last week I went to the library to drop off a few books. I also wanted to pick up a couple more Laura Lippman novels to read during the final week of my current class. That didn’t work out too well. The books are still sitting here unread. So while I was looking at some books a guy walked by and mumbled “um um um” behind me. He did speak to and smile at me earlier but I was still a bit shocked. Granted I am bottom heavy and I was wearing yoga pants, and no I had not been doing any yoga, but seriously. Did my bum require comment? He could have made those noises for an entirely different reason. But I don’t think so because I’m quite familiar with that particular utterance. I wanted to tell him that when I go to the library it is to pick up books not men and although a man who reads or knows his way around the library is extremely sexy to me I was not impressed. I show up to ogle and choose books. Which I guess makes the library a kind of book nightclub.
I am in the midst of writing a ten page paper which is why I’ve been neglecting the blog this week. I spent a lot of time this month reading quite a bit which I have been enjoying. But I promise that next week will be better and I’m already stockpiling poetry for next month.
One of the items on my writer’s resolutions this year is to join at least two writing organizations. Well last month during a moment of peace in an otherwise crazy month I joined AWP. This month I received my first issue of their magazine, “The Writer’s Chronicle” and I’m already in love. I’ve already learned so much from just flipping through it. Look for a piece next month that’s inspired by something I read earlier today.
Once again, I hope that you all are reading as many novels as possible during National Novel Reading Month.
Good girls go bad and
But that’s the point
When you can’t
I’ve stood on that ledge
Inching closer and closer
To the edge
Watching pebbles drop
Beneath my feet
Staring into the crevice deep
But the moment that haze drops over the eyes
From the other women and lies
That’s the point of no return, the danger spot
When the good girl gets hot
She no longer cares about hurt feelings or damaged things
There’s no amount of apologizing that can bring
Today I wanted to share a funny piece. Well, I hope you find it funny. This piece comes from a line I uttered in late January, early February and I realized that it is so true. Sugar is my drug of choice. I’m sharing this piece after I’ve loaded up on iced chai & a peach muffin at the local coffee shop and before I go to the kitchen to bake a load of gingerbread and thought of making toasted coconut pound cake. Hope you all enjoy.
I love junk food
I cannot lie.
But my true weakness
is visible on my thighs.
Donuts, candy, baked goods and all that;
honest to goodness,
sugar is my crack.
Swedish fish, Sugar Babies, Reese’s Pieces,
I wouldn’t trade those goodies for
a pot of gold.
The best things in life are sugary,
sweet good eats.
As many of you know, I am a bibliophile. I love, love, love a good book. I recently stumbled across a book on the new releases shelf at my library and I was intrigued by the plot of the book. The novel I read was Laura Lippman’s latest release After I’m Gone. Well, it was amazing! This is the first of her novels that I have read and now I’m addicted. I’ve already picked up a couple more Lippman releases. I read the entire book and discovered that Lippman is married to David Simon (The Wire, Homicide: Life on the Streets, The Corner and decorated journalist) and he gave his wife the idea of writing about the story that lies at the core of the book. After I’m Gone is an amazingly brilliant story inspired by real life events but Lippman didn’t solve the core mystery she instead focused on those left behind. It really struck a chord with me as I am tackling the issue in a paper about the same topic in Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. Needless to say, once again, I am in love. There is power in the words and works of our authors. I hope that you all are taking the time to enjoy them this National Reading Month.
You are not fair. You are robbing me of my strongest supporters; the biggest hearted people I know. So I am not in the mood for your foolery. I am not going to take your crap today. I will not be accepting any troubles, rants, or flat tires today. I know that I have no control over you but I would love it if you’d give me a break, allow me to write, and stop interfering in my varying modes of creativity. I know that you are testing me but I am an excellent test taker.
I will not listen to doubts, criticism, or knocks on my personality but I will live you to the fullest and love like it is air; simply because they would want me too. And I’m good with that.
For me, poetry has always been about conveying emotion, sharing experiences, and giving. It has rarely been about apologies unless that was the theme or message of the poem. However, in this instance I want to apologize beforehand in case this poem offends any of you; especially my loyal readers and followers. It is not my piece but it is my choice to post it. I thought a lot about it before ultimately deciding to post the poem because I knew that it was the perfect choice given that this is Women’s History Month. Gwendolyn Brooks’ “The Mother” is a complex love poem, full of regret and it is also a little graphic. I don’t think that this poem is really about abortion but about loss and the price of certain decisions. I think that there is a beauty in the haunted voice of the narrator. And that is what I wanted to share with all of you. Also, I want to wish you all a happy Read Across America Day!
Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?–
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.
Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you