Sunday, November 30, 2008

stamen stained

I bought myself some star-gazer lilies. This morning I pruned the rust-colored stamen away and my fingers are stained by the dusty male organs of the flower.

Yesterday my new issue of ZYZZYVA arrived. It is full of incredible writing and art, as usual. I wonder what the editorial process is like. How does an editor take submissions and prune them down to the essential? Does the editor choose pieces that speak to each other? I wonder. I imagine all of my writings out in the world in the hands of first-round readers, being judged and tossed aside. How subjective is judging work to the reader's mood, life, lifestyle, education, culture or lack thereof? I like submitting to ZYZZYVA because their response time is fast. I've had journals not get back to me for eleven months. I have work out now that feels like it has been swallowed by the black hole of the literary journal universe. And that work is tied up because I often submit to places that allow no simultaneous submissions.

I did the thing yesterday where I went out and bought new a new journal, for new times. I bought new pens, too. All these somewhat stupid rituals I adhere myself to when it comes to writing and living my life. Rituals of one's own creation are just as important as ones handed down by culture, I suppose. I make sure the cup on my altar is filled. I write every morning. I spend enough time in silence to know my head. Maybe there is a strand of obsessiveness in me. Who the fark knows.

Love Will Tear Us Apart
Joy Division

Saturday, November 29, 2008

How to Wash Malaise Away

Yesterday post-feast came my famine, I woke up ill-rested and felt feral. I've had the blues & yesterday morning they were hungry. Bassemah called in the afternoon and suggested we go to a Korean Bath House, or Day Spa. I had no reason to say no so we went.

Why has it taken me this long to discover this slice? Aqua Day Spa is pretty great. I had no idea what to expect but it was just lots of soaking, steaming, scrubbing, rinsing,and a great red clay sauna that may be my new favorite place to hibernate. A room full of woman au natural, no one was self-conscious or awkward. At one side of the room a group of women gave vigorous massages and scrubs. I soaked and steamed and really sweat out a lot of toxicity. It was just was I needed. Submerging myself for long periods of time is some womb-like comfort, the rushing of the jets some heartbeat, I can disappear into myself quickly and emerge somewhat renewed.

After, we went to Buga and pigged out. I love food. I love Korean BBQ.

I love my friends who come around and keep me fascinated till the late hours. I've ended up with some wonderful and creative people in my life and I am truly grateful. I look back at other communities of writers in history and wonder if they knew what they were a part of; I wonder if I am at all in one of those movements or groups without knowing it. It doesn't matter but it is interesting to consider. A number of us certainly have plenty of stories to be fascinating. Last night I was retelling some tales, Cecil & Bass told me I had to put them to paper; weird how I never really consider culling my odd habits for stories. I have to find that voice. I dig that I walk the walk.

Julieta Venegas

song of the week, yo.

Friday, November 28, 2008

The Day After

It was nice to be with family, real and chosen, last night. Our Thanksgiving was male-centric, the men outnumbered the women for once in the Huerta house. We ate, my dad sang, there was a bonfire and alcohol. I have a great family. We are a little crazy but always interesting. There was more food than anyone could eat and I forgot to bring to-go containers. I am blessed to have such a strange, hilarious family.

B- my sincerest condolences for your loss, friend.

Thursday, November 27, 2008


For so much in my life, family, friends, life lesson, I am grateful. This year I am thankful for:

My unique, loving parents, Evelyn & Hector, who love each other dearly, rarely, and beautifully.

Deanna & Teena my sweet, crazy sisters who can always make me laugh and kick my ass now & again when I need it.

The long, great friendship of Heather La Creep, best person I ever met at a death metal show in Mexico all those long, odd, years ago.

Nuvia & Jim Ruland, great friends who have become family.

Bassemah, fierce and beautiful, keeps me on the good edge of my seat.

Sharline & Patricia & Li Yun, insanity embodied but we're so damn good at it.

Beau, who appeared at my doorstep out of nowhere, miraculously.

Dr. Beau, for adjusting not only the bones of my body, for helping me align my thoughts.

Ehud. My genius friend who makes me think more than I let him know.

Kristin VT, sister of my heart, who has one of the greatest laughs on earth and was the best balm early in the year.

Cecil, always good for a drink and sharing existential crises.

Scott Benefiel, it is good to have him back in my life, the strangeness of his mind always amazes and pleases me.

Laura Espinel, deep, wise, brilliant Laura of Havana, the best part of Cuba for me.

Kat, ten years of friendship, sister sister sister.

Icarus, my baby kitty who slept close with his paw on my cheek the first rough months then moved in with my parents and turned them in to cat people.

Muse, you crazy beast, brooding and silent-- then howling like nothing I've ever know. The best mystery. I will let you win.

I've Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)
Nina Simone

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

and, my apartment smells like sad bananas

This is not a week for poetry, not my own anyway, or writing. I've tried, God knows I've tried. I've been taking the laptop to bed with me at night and sit up and stare at the screen until my eyes water from exhaustion or things and I shut the hum down, disappear. I am in an uncomfortable state of unrest. The apartment is cleaner than it has been in months and I'm seriously considering rearranging my furniture. I went for a massage yesterday but it did very little to alleviate the tension in my shoulders or back, I'm having muscle spasms like crazy. Whine whine, pace, pace. The rain at night is something lovely.

Here is some Rilke that does it good, from The Book of Hours, Book of Monastic Life:

I am too alone in the world, yet not alone enough
to make each hour holy.
I'm too small in the world, yet not small enough
to be simply in your presence, like a thing--
just as it is.

I want to know my own will
and to move with it.
And I want, in the hushed moments
when the nameless draws near,
to be among the wise ones--
or alone.

I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.

I would describe myself
like a landscape I've studied
at length, in detail;
like a word I'm coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother's face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged.

Wrong Turn
Jack Johnson

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Monday, November 24, 2008

on endings

somewhere i have never traveled

e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

The last line of this poem has become one of my favorites. Ending a poem (or relationship) is such an unforgiving process. I find myself at the end, where I have decided the end should be, undone with worry; maybe just another line, another stanza, maybe I should ride this out until it makes itself clear to me. There is cliche that poems are never finished, just abandoned. I imagine endings should be graceful and invoke a longing, strum a chord within. That is probably a lifelong process of discovery. . .

Kimberly Dark's CD release party was a success last night. I shared the stage with a truly talented group of performers.

Miss Misery
Elliott Smith

Sunday, November 23, 2008

white night

I had a white night, sleepless and pacing, things within me tearing. The sensation of a person inside my heart, ripping their clothes off in grief. This morning I carefully and precisely broke my own heart and finally collapsed into the dreamless sleep of ghosts. I woke up translating poems in my head. Perhaps because of the workshop on duende yesterday. The holy primal things in me were howling, are howling and my head is on fire with things to say, even if they are not my own. I translated this poem:

Nicolás Guillén


Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.
El corazón me sangra como
una herida abierta.
¿ Dónde estás? En un sueño
donde es noche y nieva.
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.


Oh, mi adorado. Busco
la almohada donde pueda
reclinarse por siempre
mi encendida cabeza.
Te imploro, llamo, pido.
¿Vendrás? Ay, si vinieras. . .
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.


No sé lo que me pasa/
Pero tu fija ausencia
es un mármol de tumba
que sobra mi alma pesa.
Pasaron ya los días
de rosas y hojas frescas.
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.

Se detienen las horas,
mordidas por la espera;
vuelan mis ilusiones,
las derriban tus flechas.
El corazón me sangra
como una herida abierta.
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.


It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.
My heart is bleeding
like a open wound.
Where are you? In a dream
where it is night and snows.
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

Oh, my adored. I seek
the pillow on which
I may always rest
my fevered head.
I implore you, I call, beg.
Are you coming. Oh, if you came. . .
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

I know not what is happening to me.
But your fixed absence
is a marble tomb
weighing on my soul.
Gone are the days of
roses and fresh leaves.
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

The hours have stopped,
bribed by the waiting.
My illusions are flying,
knocked down by your arrows.
My heart is bleeding
like and open wound.
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

translation- Lizz Huerta

Let It Be
The Beatles

Often I am glad that I am a poet. Even when I have my white nights and chaos is rending me asunder, the wounds reveal a little more of the heart in me and I can out it into my writing. I wrote yesterday intimacy with death. Not to be gothic or morose but all of these little deaths are something. Don't know what, but they are something.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

duende & thoughts

I'm taking a class on duende this morning. Wikipedia explains duende as having soul. It is so much more than that. I rarely tap into it but when I do I am completely taken out of myself. The everything of my everything plummets into something primal and beautiful, the beginning of emotion, raw, rare, a nest full of spiders in the heart. It invokes a frenzy. It reminds me of those dreams when I am flying and I can actually control my flight, soar over the sea. I am silly and emotional, huh? But I am a poet so I own it and am allowed to get away with it.

I got my haircut yesterday. My first "adult" haircut in ten years. I always get my hair trimmed but usually it is all one length and plain. Yesterday I went to get it cut and the hairdresser insisted he add shape and layers. I was too tired to argue and figured that if he really screwed up, my hair would grow back. He snipped and clipped and I got very nervous. I concentrated on my breathing and telling myself to let go of attachment to hair (vanity) and to roll with it. The hairdresser finished, blew it out ad I was pretty dang amazed. I have long layers now. My hair looks and feels very healthy and I am pleased. All that old hair carried old energy I needed to get rid of anyway. I feel lighter and more alive.

Be Your Husband
Jeff Buckley

This song makes me want to wear all black in a crowded room and make suggestive eye contact with strangers then disappear before they can find me. . .

Friday, November 21, 2008

going on

This Sunday I will be reading from Kimberly Dark's new cd, Location is Everything. Friends of mine Jimmy Jazz, Lea from the Rubber Rose and various others will be reading too. I look forward to it.

Speaking of reading, I have just set up a reading at the Rubber Rose for December 17. The RR is now carrying copies of my chapbook, half life of memory.

Tonight there is a reading at the Ink Spot. Zack Rogow and Elizabeth Schultz. I am taking a class tomorrow morning with Rogow. Looking forward to it.

Just My Imagination
The Temptations

I'm in a slow dancing type of mood, unfulfilled.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

a poem I dig & thoughts on museums

The Starry Night
Anne Sexton

That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.

Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.


The nights are finally getting cooler. I can sit on my balcony and tilt up to look at the stars. So many poems about the stars, but I love this one. This is how I want to die. Gets me in the gut every time.

Tonight is Cocktails & Culture in Balboa Park. I don't know if I should go or not. The one time I went I had a blast but still wasn't very social. It is a scene, a place to be seen. I wandered around, into the oddity of being dressed up at an art museum at night. I love museums, I get giddy giddy at them. I end up taking lots of note when I wander around museums, those notes often make it into my poems. I should dig up a notebook I wrote in a couple of summers ago in Paris and Madrid. The Louvre, Musee de Orsay, El Prado, I had journal in hand and when a masterpiece struck me I scribbled down how. I need to get out to the Smithsonian sometimes in the near future.

Taking notes these days on an essay I want to write on poetry. Going to meld into another genre a bit to expand my audience. I'm getting more confidant in my essays. This one dips a bit into literary criticism but that's okay. Time to expand.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough
Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell

I dare you to listen to this song and not feel good.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

the man in the twill suit and panama hat

Yesterday afternoon I had a long break at work. I took my computer to the Panniken in Del Mar to get some writing done. The coffee shop is usually filled with people working on computers. After, minimal but perfunctory nod at my fellow cafe mates, I settled myself into a high-back armchair and began to work on some writing. I was on a roll and only a little distracted when I looked up and saw an older gentleman in a tailored twill suit and Panama hat enter the cafe. He looked like the kind of man who would speak with a British accent, call you old chap and talk about how when was an lad he would catch pigeons in the Jardin de Tuliere for Hemingway. He entered the room I was writing in and started introducing himself the people.

"Hello, can you spare $3 for a Norwegian veteran?" I didn't have any cash on me and neither did anyone in my room. Close-up the man's tailored suit was dirty and his white patent leather shoes. were highly polished but cracked with age. He went to panhandle others but he sparked a great reaction in the previously silent room.

We all started speculating on why the man was panhandling; why he was dressed the way he was. He had sparked a mini-camaraderie in the room, it was lovely. One of the women in the room followed the man to the counter to see if he ordered anything with the money he had panhandled from customers. She came back and triumphantly told us he had asked for a sample of coffee and walked away. All of us in the room were elated, it was like we had discovered out own personal sociological experiment to watch.

I noticed when people gave him money we would hand them a slip of paper. I begged one of the slips from a man who had given him money. The paper read: His Name, 45th President of the United States of America. The paper also listed his agenda as president which included gems such as : current money will be replaced with new money; a new constitution will be drafted for the approval of We the people. It also listed books he had read.

All in all it was a strange, charming and slightly surreal experience. A coffee shop employee told us the man comes in about once a month, begs money and then asks for his coffee sample and leaves. It was nice though. He turned a room full of walled in strangers into a little community for a while. I, of course, was inventing all sorts of stories about him in my head, his childhood, lost loves, where he got the twill suit. Things like that are good for the imagination.

VONA has announced it's faculty for next year. Kind of a dream team if you ask me. I didn't go last year but may apply to study with Ana Castillo. I may even apply for two weeks so I can work with Asha Bandele. I will see how my money is. VONA is always fun and exhausting. My girls Patrica and Sharline make it ridiculously wild, though maybe I am the wild one since they said it was very mellow this year without me. It's a lot of money but I get good feedback on my writing. We'll see.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Good Writing Abounds. . .

. . .if Only I could get on that train and stay there. . .

Malcolm Gladwell's new book, Outliers, comes out to day. I pre-ordered it off of Audible. I love his other work. I wish he would come out with an essay collection already, comprised of all his great writing at the New Yorker.

I read an article last night, Love in the Time of Darwinism, by Kay S. Hymowitz. It was linked from Arts & Letters Daily. I'm a huge fan of evolutionary and behavioral psychology, even though a lot of what is written upsets me and makes me want to hole up and never interact with males of my species again. The author has another article linked to the story called Child-Man in the Promised Land. I really look forward to reading that one, Wendy as I have been to way too many Peter Pans.

My friend Kenji linked to this poem on Facebook. Kind of stunning and surprising. I love that, the unexpected inevitable, the transformative little things that happen in poems that take us out of time.

Thinking of taking a class on Duende this weekend. A little ass-kick to myself. I have an essay that bases it's heart on duende. I love that stuff.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Yeah yeah yeah

Yesterday I refused to leave my apartment, despite the beautiful 85 degree weather and sky so blue my eyes hurt to look at it. I sat on my balcony early and watched the hummingbirds feed and swore to myself that I would work on my novel.

It hurt. The first hour I free wrote and made myself sick, literally. After committing once again to the novel I went and threw up. I was sweaty and dizzy. I really wanted to go back to bed but I have been sick of my lameness. After sitting at my computer for a couple of hours I finally did it. I wrote. I am really happy. Now to repeat that every day. . .

New distraction: Thoughtcast. Natalie Goldberg! Alan Lightman! I am undone. Not really but I dig. As if there aren't already enough distractions buzzing around.

I'm Losing You
Corinne Bailey Rae

Sunday, November 16, 2008

I love them 'till they loved me

I woke up with this line from a song in my head after a night of beautiful dreaming. The sun was shining early in my office, the glare of it off of my office door reflected right on to my bed. I woke up joyous with the residue of being loved well by ghosts. Last night's dreams were good for the first time in weeks. I was alive and moving in good circles, familiar haunts with people I want to love better and soon.

Drinks with the lovely Bassemah last night and hilarious unsolicited advice that isn't relevant to want I want in life, but the smiles were good and worth the silliness. I forget I am a social creature and lock myself away too often. I sit here with this lovely machine and isolate myself from the night air and the potential for great conversations. Bassemah wants to write more too. We shall.

Going to give up a little on some dreams of travel. I'm not saving money with the economy as it is. Letting go of the idea of leaving is a little funeral in my heart but sometimes it is better to move on. Moving on. The dream will come again, they always do.

Ballade at Thirty-Five
Carla Bruni

Saturday, November 15, 2008

We Huertas. . .

. . . are kind of a big deal. . . Here is a link to a bit of an interview with my father about being a business owner.

A couple of years ago I took a novel writing class at UCSD. We all brought excerpts of our novels and shared them for critiques. A couple of novels-in-progress really blew my mind. The instructor from the class, Amy Wallen, lives here in South Park. I was wandering around the world of blogs yesterday ad found out that another writer from the class has her novel coming out this coming Spring. I'm really excited, I remember reading her excerpts in class and wishing I could read the whole book. I can't wait for it to come out! You can pre-order her book here.

Lost Someone
Cat Power

Friday, November 14, 2008

Slow Down, November!

I can't believe it is already the middle of the month. Not enough time.

I am toying with an idea about another writing group. Brujas y Bellas back at Voz Alta was one of the greatest experiences ever. I was producing more work back then because I knew I had to have it ready for read & critique. The group lost focus when we tried to concentrate on things other than our writing. It ran it's course and was beautiful. I have been hesitant to start another group for several reasons. But the pros outweigh the cons, I think and I'm going to try to start one soon. Going out to the Rubber Rose yesterday reminded me there are many dynamic and brilliant people I'm not meeting just because I rarely leave my apartment other than for work.

I also need to get my secret project off the ground and running and hope it doesn't spin into cheeseball geekery, that is not my intention at all.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

ex-cult swim team

I met a very cool woman today at the Rubber Rose. After much back and forth we discovered we are both ex-Jehovah's Witnesses and had a few good laughs over the strangeness of our old ways. Lots of same kinds of post J-Dub guilt and the occasional freak-out that the world is really going to end. I popped an idea about a collection of essays written by people who grew up in cults and strange religions. I don't think such a collection exists, but it should. Ex-polygamists are en vogue these days, they have stories all over the place. We kids who grew up in weirdness have such great stories and sometimes freaky ideas about religion and community. I dig us, when we are healthy, truly. My meeting an ex-truthy today makes me motivated to delve back into my J-Dub childhood essay with gusto.

Also, WOW! Today I received a phone call with the mega-great news that according to San Diego Citybeat, I am one of San Diego's BEST LOCAL AUTHORS ON THE VERGE! I had no idea I was even in the running. Thank you, San Diego!

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

language, anxiety, etc

Thinking about language this morning. Yesterday no language did me any good, I couldn't settle into my skin and came home early with a fever. I slept most of the afternoon, my dreams commonly delirious. Maybe it's the moon. Waking up I still couldn't settle into my skin and felt I would slip out of it at any instant. It is horrible and uncomfortable not to fit in one's own body. I left my apartment and took my fever out into the night and walked around my neighborhood but it did me no good. I came home and tried to write but the pen didn't fit in my hand and nothing made any sense after I wrote it. I couldn't handle it so I dipped into the orange bottle, split an anti-anxiety pill in half, swallowed it and disappeared from myself until this morning.

There are a lot of famous dead writers who went crazy or fell into drugs or alcohol. Lots of depression too among writers. I had a theory once that maybe artists feel things more than other humans because we are the emotional historians of the world and it is our job to document. I don't know if it is true. I am not swinging one way or another these days; I'm not happy nor am I sad. My life is quiet and ordinary, maybe that's what is making me crazy. My anxiety attacks are a recent development in my life, less than a year old. I haven't had many in the last half-year, the distractions have been good. It bothers me that the writing dries up at times like this. This is when it would do the most good.

Baby Blues
Andrea Echeverri

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

morning is a strange planet after odd dreams

Dreams too strange last night to let my head go, no room for writing yet. Have to let them seep out and then back into my better head.

Guess I'm Doing Fine

Monday, November 10, 2008

Thanks to La Bloga!

A special thanks this morning to Daniel Olivas at La Bloga for posting information about my chapbook Half Life of Memory. If you're interested in ordering a copy you can email me lizzhuerta at gmail dot com. They are $10. Thanks, thanks, thanks!

Lovely Distractions

Last night playing around on youtube I found a great series of lectures from the Philoctetes Center in New York. I watched a brilliant roundtable discussion called Our Life in Poetry: Artifice and Persona. The writers featured were Monica de la Torre, Cate Marvin, and Brenda Shaughnessy, kind of a dream team for me to watch. I poured myself a glass of wine and watched the hour and a half lecture. First the women read from their work and afterwards there was a discussion on it. Lots of talk about confessional poetry and the voice of the writer. I agreed with a lot of what was said. I found the writer's expressing things I felt but didn't know how to articulate. The Philoctetes Center has a number of lectures available.

Whenever I am having trouble writing I listen to Aimee Mann. Here songs are poems & stories set to music. I heart her.

Stranger Into StarMan/Looking for Nothing
Aimee Mann

Sunday, November 9, 2008

the wind says hello

Stormy outside, a lovely wind knocking over my plants and swishing the bamboo around. My lungs are full of bad news and so I have had to stay still. Stillness is good for the poet. If I move I cough, if I cough I hurt and I don't like to hurt. The muscles in my back are wrecked from sustaining so many coughs and the tension has eased itself into every part of my body. I am a tight spring this Sunday evening but I am writing so it is good. A little break to put some things together, make a meal and blog a bit.

I hate romantic comedies. I say I hate them because I secretly almost sometimes love them. When I don't feel well I always end up watching them. Formula formula formula. Two people who should be together, misinterpreted signals, the coming together, the falling apart, the inevitable chase scene followed by the confession of love, reconciliation and credits. Bah. And always the quirky best pal, the wise fool. Enough already. We've seen the same movie dozens of times. The formula is played out. But when moon is nearing full and my body's hormones are wacky, I confess I cry watching. Dang it.

My new favorite addiction is HBO's True Blood. Here are the opening credits:

The show is sexy, smart and well-written. I love Sookie Stackhouse and her Vampire boyfriend. I love how well the characters are developed and believable, flawed just enough to make them endearing. Vampires are in, apparently.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Plans, dashed

I had ambitious plans to write this weekend, to finish a couple of essays and poems. I have my envelopes ready to send out more work and even bought quality paper. But life has other plans which include a nasty, nasty cough. I feel like a weepy character in some old Victorian tragedy, I'm even coughing up blood. Weakness is lame. Not being able to breathe well is even lamer. I have no energy except to make soup and sit wrapped in a blanket with a heating pad on my chest to ease the pain of breathing. And yes, I would love some cheese with my whine.

Astrud Gilbert & Stan Getz

Friday, November 7, 2008

whether the weather be cold. . .

This weather is killing me. Where is the promised November Rain I can sing along to? 80 degrees in November, dang it. The days are hot, the nights are not and my sore throat has no idea what to do with itself.

Sad face for me as one my favorite people in San Diego, Geoff Bouvier, is moving to Iowa. Geoff and I met at the Ink Spot a couple of years ago and he quickly became one of my favorite people. He is a brilliant poet and teacher; someone I can always wax poetic and odd with. I'm super sad to see him go. I need more intelligent and dynamic writer friends in San Diego.

After dinner last night with an editor friend I've decided to swing back into some travel essays I have been sitting on for a couple of years. I have four and think at least two are pretty tight. I have deep love for one about Mexico City. More of prose poetry but I truly dig it.

I also have a secret project in the works that may turn out to be something very special. Now that the chapbook/Halloween/election distractions have passed I am going to concentrate on my brilliant plan of world domination, kind of.

November Rain
Guns n Roses

Thursday, November 6, 2008


So the country has decided it wants change and so do I. I want change in my life, to be more active, to get better with my writing practice. To let go of laziness and fear. Bravery, come! Long walks, come! I think I've spent many months preparing myself for better things. Now it is time to welcome them in. Away lifejacket! Away!

I have issues with fear, as many people do, I'm sure. It is my intention and hope to be braver. I've been scared of taking chances since a chance is just that, a chance. I've walked away from risks. It is coming back around. I'm sick of stagnation. Life, come!

A Long Walk
Jill Scott

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

good morning, new world

Yesterday I started watching the news around 3pm and was in front of the television until, actually, I'm not sure what time I passed out. I drank half a bottle of champagne plus many other adult beverages. Despite my hangover and how my body feels slightly deflated, I feel phenomenal. How beautiful was it to hear screams and yells of victory across the neighborhood? Yay for making history! Yay for m new president-elect!

This morning I'm hoping that the returns o Prop 8 are wrong. I hope the 3 millions ballots that have yet to be counted show us our state is tolerant and accepting of all people.

As happy as I was, I wish Michelle Obama didn't wear that distracting black widow spider dress. I know, not fair to bring fashion into an election but the dress was like a car accident I couldn't look away from. Speaking of fashion, I guess today is when Sarah Palin starts giving the clothes back.

Going back to bed. Sleepy poet, brain raw.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Today's the Day

I woke up after a dream of scuba diving in Che Guevara costume, in a bumper boat pool knowing today is the day. I don't even know what to say. We have a bottle of champagne in the fridge, optimistically.

I don't know if I feel like this:

Rage Against the Machine

or if I feel like this:

Lovely Day
Bill Withers

Monday, November 3, 2008

the bumper sticker

I have an Obamanos bumper sticker on my car, as well as a regular Obama 2008 bumper sticker. I put the Obamanos on a couple of months ago. (For you non-Spanish speakers it is a play on Vamanos, which means let's go.) My reactions to the bumper sticker have been mixed, some people love it and others get completely irate. I've been flipped off several times as well as had people give me the thumbs-up sign.

Last Thursday I was driving on the freeway when I man in a large, souped up truck pulled up along beside me and started honking. I looked over and the driver flipped me off and was obviously cursing at me. I ignored him. Then the man swerved at my car as if he was going to hit it. The blood in my veins went cold and I slammed on my brakes waiting for the impact. He didn't hit me but sped off, still flipping me off in his rear view mirror. I was shaken and shaking. I respect the opinions of others but couldn't believe a stranger would resort to such an obvious display of violence and threaten me like that in broad daylight in front of hundreds of other drivers.

After retelling the story I was advised to take the Obamanos sticker off my car. I was lovingly told that my safety isn't worth it. My heart was a confused organ thinking this over. If I took the bumper sticker off then they would have won. They would have frightened me into complacency and into keeping my mouth (or bumper) quiet. That is exactly what the infamous "they" want. They don't want us to stand up for what we believe in. They want us frightened and meek, taking whatever is spoon-fed and predigested for us. No. I decided to keep the bumper sticker on and deal with the anger directed at me. I'm not giving in. Si se puede.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

I heart Halloween

It was wonderful. Release. I had a pregnant belly and people kept touching it which annoyed me, even though it was fake. If ever I spawn I will slap people who try to touch my paunch uninvited. We went to the Vag, then the Whistle Stop then to a house party in North Park. I realized at the party that Halloween is an excuse for women to dress provocatively. Ooops, I was just dressed up as a virgin knocked up by God. Beau was a fantastic Joseph to my Mary. I did a great job on our costumes, if I say so myself. When we walked into the house party the first thing I noticed was a stripper pole with several scantily clad woman gyrating on it. One turned around and I was more than a little shocked to see that she was truly pregnant, only wearing panties, a bra and boots. She looked fantastic but I still was disturbed. I don't know how many pictures I ended up in. One woman said she wanted us to be her Christmas card.

Aaarg, the holidays are coming. I know this year's season will be better than last.

48 hours. I was almost run off the road by a zealot the other day but that is an entirely different blog post altogether. . . .