so today i was in my schools student lounge and the senioritis has hit so hard that i was having a small existential crisis over whether to get doritos or chex mix. this girl cleared her throat behind me and i turned around and apologized and she said she’s having junioritis and stressing out about college— and then we launched into a convo about applying to school and all that. i mentioned that i’m going to columbia college chicago next year— and she already knew that at an arts school i’d be doing poetry— and she’s read some of my stuff and had been wanting to get my book which is now happening!! this is a rep that i love a lot!!
i started this when i finished writing for my book, and tonight i think it finally came together. ~Doe
i’ve been up at my parents cabin this week with a friend before going back to school tomorrow. i’m posting this a day late, but yesterday i went to the Pinecrest Gallery and got 20 books for sale there, which is super exciting.
also, i visited the calaveras north grove trail where i wrote most of the nature chapter of Becoming Doe and spent some time with this amazing tree:
i just updated the links in the sidebar, there are tags listed in “more info” and little blurbs about each chapter of Becoming Doe in “more about becoming doe.”
it’s 2 in the morning and i’m writing, which has been much needed for a few days now. a line that came out of my stream of consciousness which i sort of like is
"there’s a lot of slack crashing in on me from all the hope i sent out into the world with your name on it."
there’s a man who i’ve know sort of my whole life but never really talked to and only seen on holidays. he’s my mom’s cousin’s husband’s dad. i went and sat by him for no real reason and he asked me about the typical college stuff and complemented me on the book that had been passed around earlier. and then he just looked and me and said “what do you want to be doing in ten years?” this guy is so not into small talk, i love it.
so of course i got talking about performing, open mics, and poetry slams… and he started talking about his whole life as a coach and also an architect, which was really interesting. he told me his son who teaches english has a friend who just published a book, and the title sounded really interesting. then he talked about how being able to write is a gift and we talked about perseverance. he showed me this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IAhDGYlpqY
he thought it was a rap, and i explained to him that spoken word and slam poetry are the same thing. wow though, i really like the meaning behind this poem, and i was surprised to find someone in my family enjoying something like it. i showed him “the nutritionist” by andrea gibson and paid really close attention and then asked for her story. we talked about how “church should not be a museum for saints but a hospital for the broken” and how queer folks or people with drug issues, or people with body modifications should come to church (if they want to!!) and not be judged and such.
good talk, and now i have a new spoken word artist i like.
i wrote something about a month ago during an open mic i went to that reminded me of this theme, also the theme of finding a poetry reading better than a church service…
(Not yet titled)
the old folks sit in the back of the sunday school room and talk over the hum of their hearing aids and breathing machines about how old they are.
christopher keeps saying jesus as the answer to every question the sunday school teacher asks and she smiles at him with her bored bright eyes,
everyone says “thank you for sharing,” no one is listening.
in a few years, christopher will come home with his boyfriend and his mother will cry every time she goes to a wedding.
the whole church congregation sits and shovels shame onto their backs with another creed, and this is a usual sunday morning—
of trying to say that no one ever got drunk,
or slept with some girl,
or lied to their neighbor,
except if the congregation didn’t do anything wrong—
then why the fuck do they need a savior?
christopher sits in sunday school and everyone goes around the room and talks about their week.
if anyone is unhappy they get a reminder of how ungrateful they are
for everything they do not eagerly throw into the collection plate.
years later, christopher goes to a poetry reading with his partner.
men with titled brimless hats, that christopher’s mother wouldn’t like,
come in and bad talk about the media,
talk about fucking people,
talk about spending their whole lives finding their favorite brand of sinning,
talk about exploring so deep in themselves that they find demons and they like it!
christopher kisses his partner,
there’s nothing wrong about that.
it is three in the afternoon.
usually christopher would’ve just been coming home from church.
he doesn’t have to throw his knees at the tile and keep his teeth crossed to feel he deserves to be breathing.
a man from the crowd,
who christopher’s parents would not like,
listens to his poem
afterwards he says “thank you for sharing,”
christopher knows he was listening.