KAREN FINNEYFROCK PERFORMS

This is just a taste of how good this woman is live.

Karen Finneyfrock visited the Central Washington University's campus today, and it was an inspiring experience. Her poetry was sublime, but it was her manner that truly sold me on her work. She had a way of speaking to you that seemed to say "yes, I see you. I hear you. I value what you say." As a prospective writer, I cannot put into words how much such experiences mean to me.

I need to go back a bit and put this into more context. The event this evening was preluded by a Slam Poetry contest where I had been, ehem, 'voluntold' into. So, being the good friend that I am... as well as acknowledging that the first step to publication is actually allowing others to hear my work, I went and participated. I shared two pieces: my "Psyche, dear" (which I have mentioned before), and my "Casualties" sonnet. Every writer knows when someone is throwing bullshit their way; the casual "it was good," and such. But watching as someone goes along with you for the ride? Watching as they get the references, the story, and the tonality of your words? How can I express the euphoria of watching that come over someone's face? I can't. Not without gushing like a hormone-ridden teen (which I haven't been for quite some time). I thought I was too jaded at my ripe age of twenty-eight (insert eye rolls here, I know). But, back on topic, Karen Finneyfrock flat out made my night by simply approaching me after the performances. An introduction, and a genuine appreciation of what I had shared did the trick. This writer is rearing and ready to go. The fear is temporarily forgotten. I cannot promise that it will not reappear again, but the gates are, for the moment, open. Who knows what might spill out to the other side?

So, in essence, this is a thank you as well as a poke to my readers to get off your asses and look this woman up. She's good--the rip out your guts discreetly and make you laugh while you're at it type of poet. Be inspired. Be intrigued.

Listen Now and Follow: Quote #4: "Reinventing Rescuing"

Listen Now and Follow: Quote #4: "Reinventing Rescuing":
Thank you to my delightful roommate who shared this with me. I'm enraptured with all of these, and I am already inspired by them. I hope my readers enjoy them as much as I do....


“Imagine this:

Instead of waiting in her tower, Rapunzel slices off her long, golden hair with a carving knife, and then uses it to climb down to freedom.

Just as she’s about to take the poison apple, Snow White sees the familiar wicked glow in the old lady’s eyes, and slashes the evil queen’s throat with a pair of sewing scissors.

Cinderella refuses everything but the glass slippers from her fairy godmother, crushes her stepmother’s windpipe under her heel, and the Prince falls madly in love with the mysterious girl who dons rags and blood-stained slippers.

Imagine this:

Persephone goes adventuring with weapons hidden under her dress. Persephone climbs into the gaping chasm. Or, Persephone uses her hands to carve a hole down to hell. In none of these versions is Persephone’s body violated unless she asks Hades to hold her down with his horse-whips. Not once does she hold out on eating the pomegranate, instead biting into it eagerly and relishing the juice running down her chin, staining it red. In some of the stories, Hades never appears and Persephone rules the underworld with a crown of her own making. In all of them, it is widely known that the name Persephone means Bringer of Destruction.

Imagine this:

Red Riding Hood marches from her grandmother’s house with a bloody wolf pelt.

Medusa rights the wrongs that have been done to her.

Eurydice breaks every muscle in her arms climbing out of the land of the dead.

Imagine this:

Girls are allowed to think dark thoughts, and be dark things.

Imagine this:

Instead of the dragon, it’s the princess with claws and fiery breath who smashes her way from the confines of her castle and swallows men whole.”

-theapplepielifestyle.tumblr.com

Google, how I love thee....

Today turned into one of my baking days, and as per my usual, this resulted in me perusing what google had to offer as I contemplated my choices. You see, I have this habit of setting my heart on cooking when I know that I have limited ingredients, thus resulting in some interesting substitutions that can fall equally along the good and bad spectrums. Luckily, today decided to be a 'good' day.

This was due, in large part, to the blog of Baker Bettie. Please take a moment and be adventurous enough to visit her because I promise, it will be well worth it. Her instructions were seeded with personal tidbits that kept me interested as well as being concise and easy to follow.

So, in all, my endeavors have left me with 2 1/2 dozen of my own recipe of double chocolate chip cookies, and, thanks to Bettie, a little over a dozen of her Cheddar and Thyme puff pastries.

Queue my happy dances and penchant to tell my loved ones, "Eat it!"

Drive by update....

I know that I've been neglecting this blog, but it's hard to find the words. Me speak English, but sometimes English doesn't speak to me. There are more often outbursts of incoherency best represented her as jhg#%sfuda, or some such nonsense. I don't know how else to describe it other than it leaves my roommate with bulging eyes and a flight or fight response.

But I digress. I'm talking writer's block, but it's not the kind where I have nothing to say, it's more along the lines of not knowing how to say it. I'm the queen of one-liners, and witticisms that come with a M-rating... but the finished product? It's my very own white whale.

So, the frog and I have another date tonight. Here's to hoping that he proves to be a witty conversationalist.

Fiction can be cruel

“From the time I met him, he left me little clues of a man, a trail of bread crumbs to a gingerbread cottage. Inside the cottage were peeling pictures of Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe that keep sliding to the floor because the walls were too sweet to hold the Blu-Tack. I tried to pick the posters off the floor and got so distracted, I ended up in an oven. So I climbed out of the oven and out of the house and I was saving myself, but it hurt so bad. I found the boy I loved, but he didn't want to hug me because I was blistered and spotted with bread crumbs. I looked up close because, up close, I could always see myself reflected in the surface of his shiny, iconic beauty. But suddenly he had pores, grey hairs, and chapped lips. And I couldn't see a damn thing.”
― Emma Forrest

Tears and Laughter: Cathartic Melodies

Mary Lambert - Sarasvati (1 Mic 1 Take)

Friday evening I had been invited by friends to attend the Cental Washington University's campus event of a performance by Mary Lambert. It will be a night I will not soon forget. The advertisements should have stated, WARNING: Tissues required! She had not only myself, but the majority of the audience in tears one moment and in laughter the next. So, to make a long story short, if you have not heard her spoken word poetry mixed in with her singing, you should get off your tush and do so... oh, and look! I made it easy--click the damn play button!

Berlin - Original song for 12 cellos (and a kick drum) - ThePianoGuys

...found this on The Piano Guys YouTube page. Well worth the watch!

Sunday Dinner

...and me at the stove. The years in a college dorm had made me forget the feeling I experience when I have a stovetop at my beck and call:

Fear? A bit (what if I've forgotten how?!).

Joy? A heap big plate full (my shimmying should attest to that).

Contentment? Yes, embarrassingly so (nesting syndrome leads to bruised ribs).

But all joking aside, I find it hard to express into words the emotions which flow through me as I plate up my cooking, pass it to a loved one and say "Eat it." In truth, it's something I don't want to give up again now that I have it back. I refuse. I will pout, I swear!

So yes, Sunday dinner.

The Foursome had come together, as is our want to do (and yes, we do refer to ourselves as such), and in celebration of my possessiveness of the stove I had set out to create the proverbial Sunday dinner. We're talking roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, and cake... all made from scratch. There was no grocery store rotissery, no box of flakes, no Stove Top, no can, and no boxed ingredients. And yes, the kitchen did look like a small explosion had gone off... or atleast, Hurricane Sabrina made its' first touch down in the history of... well, ehem, since the last time (always wonderful when a joke I'm making is stalled by a realization that the punch line is too close to a lie, but hey, what's an endeavor without a bit of mayhem?). But, even amongst the mess, it was glorious! ... if I do say so myself: which I do!

This, so you are aware, is where you smile and nod. Agreement is in your best interests--not Midol, nor chocolate (well maybe some chocolate)--lest you wish to encur a form of wrath that will leave you clutching your nether regions and suspicious of any food prep in the near future.

But I digress. Sunday dinner was a hit. My guests voiced their approval, they stuffed themselves, and they promptly and contentedly, if I may add, dozed close to waving the little white flag and succumbing to food comas.

(Insert the aforementioned shimmy)

Overall, I am left on Monday morning with a continued smile as well as enough leftovers to feed the small army I had apparently imagined would be attending. So, here's a toast to good days, to good friends, and to good food.

In Three Words: Vivian Vande Velde

Take a peek: Vivian Vande Velde's Website

...and then, take a closer look at her book, Dragon's Bait.

Excerpt:

Her first inclination was to hope the dragon hadn't seen the torches and that she'd have time to run under cover of the nearby trees...

Then she realized the dragon hadn't seen her, and that if she stayed still for a few moments longer, she was free. But she was soaked to the skin and cold, and she hadn't eaten anything since early morning, and she was an orphan with nowhere, absolutely nowhere, to go. And she remembered the wolves.

Her choices, as she saw them, were to die quick or to die slow.

She chose quick.

Standing, she flung a rock with all her might. "You stupid dragon!" she screamed. "Come and get me!"

 
I highly, highly--let me stress--highly recommend this book. I wont belabor on a topic that I am planning on going into more detail on later in another post, but Vande's book is well worth the read if, like me, you miss having a real plot that isn't paused intermittently for the token sex scene, or if you wish for a heroine that is more the anti-hero in a believable sense which allows a sense of poignancy to the story.

Alys and Selendrile are two characters you must get to know--the tention between them was maintained by Vande so well that it left me feeling as if I was walking across a tight-rope with a cup of hot tea in my hands the whole time. Beautifully done with an ending that leaves you cooing and yelling "no" all at the same time!

Also, for those parents who shudder over the teen novel selections these days, this book is divorced from the current popular theme of having the moral being that of girl gets boy and girl loses virginity. Even the aforementioned tension between Alys and Selendril stays adamantly at the G-rating (which, in my opinion, made it all the better). The story is really about a girl who is wrongfully accussed of something, who then seeks revenge against her accusors, and she realizes along the way that her search for revenge solved nothing.

So, in all, this is a childhood favorite that still finds its way back into my hands from time to time, and, in the end, I hope that proves true of you as well.

Yes... just, yes.

Found on Facebook

Psyche, dear

From amidst all of the ideas I've been working on with my writing, nothing seems to compare to a simple nine line poem that I wrote in response to reading A.E. Stallings "Three Poems to Psyche" from her book of poetry, Olives. With a good dose of curiosity and a bit of a nudge from a school assignment, I did some research into the story of Psyche... and became addicted. For those of you who do not know, Psyche (who personifies the soul) is a character whose story seems to be the origin story to many of our beloved fairy tales. The bastardized form of the story is as follows:

• Psyche is lauded as a beauty that rivals Aphrodite.
• Aphrodite, as usual, becomes jealous and enacts a plan for revenge.
• Aphrodite sends her son, Cupid to ensure that Psyche falls in love with the most repulsive man possible with one of his arrows.
• Cupid instead pricks himself with his own arrow when he is distracted by Psyche's beauty.
• Cupid has Psyche housed in a castle-esque home with unseen servants and only visits her at night; giving her the one rule of being unable to look upon him.
• Psyche, after a visit from her sisters, decides to take a peek while Cupid sleeps.
• Enraptured by his beauty, Psyche forgets herself and accidentally burns him with the lamp oil, thus waking him and starting her whole quest to get him back.
• Psyche is given three tasks by Aphrodite that she must complete to win back Cupid.
• Sort out a mess of grain seed by seed (ants help her).
• Gather the hairs of a man eating goat (the river helps her).
• Travel into the underworld and borrow a pot of make-up from Persephone for Aphrodite (Cupid, in the end, must save her).
•  Zeus, in his bid to stop all of the nonsense as well as get back at Cupid for the trouble he had caused him in the past, settles the dispute by making Psyche a goddess and binding Cupid and her into marriage.

There it all is in a nut shell (some details vary from version to version), and for all of the moments I enjoy from the story, there are some hair pulling ones as well... thus my little addiction. For me there must be qualities that I both adore and loath in order for me to become fixated on a story.

"What are they," you ask? Well, herein is where I will be a bit of a brat. I've been itching for comments on this damn blog, for I crave discussion... argument... whatever you wish to call it. I will happily trade words with anyone willing to humor me and my self-proclaimed witticisms. So, let's do this. Let's discuss Psyche. And always remember that in this zoo, it is always permissible to feed the animals.

All rantings and ramblings aside, here are the Stallings poems I have so come to adore:


The Eldest Sister to Psyche

This palace, those invisible hands
That stroke the music from thin air,
Call it magic:  everywhere
The haunted rooms obey commands,
And yet it sounds like loneliness.
Yes, I’m that ugly sister, true,
You’ll say I only envy you.
The fact—I know your secret guess—
Surrendered blind to his embrace,
You dared not look.  A human voice,
You thought.   You never had a choice.
Perhaps a monster, face to face,
With scales and fangs and leathern wings.
What of the fetus that you carry?
For certain it is human?  Very?
Doubt burns like hot wax; it stings.

Doubt burns.  Like hot wax, it stings.
For certain, it is human, very.
What of the fetus that you carry,
With scales and fangs and leathern wings
Perhaps?  A monster.  Face to face,
You thought you never had a choice,
You dared not.  Look, a human voice
Surrendered blind to his.  Embrace
The fact.  I know your secret.  Guess
You’ll say I only envy you.
Yes I’m that ugly, Sister True,
And yet...  It sounds like loneliness,
The haunted rooms.  Obey commands:
Call it magic.  Everywhere,
That stroke, the music.  From thin air,
This palace, those invisible hands.


The Boatman to Psyche, on the River Styx

          “But I have one last errand for you, my poppet.” 
                              —Apuleius, The Golden Ass


Only a few have come here still alive,
Heroes seeking immortality,
Lovers who refuse to grieve.

They are found out by gravity,
How they unbalance the scow
With one foot still on the quay

And the other stepping into the prow
While evil-smelling bilge comes seeping
Up through the planks, as it is doing now.

The sorry hound is usually sleeping
(Three heads, no brain),
But his job is keeping

The inmates in.  He has no reason
To keep the living out.
All will come here in their own sweet season.

Perhaps you thought
No one would notice you among so many,
But you are not the shadow of a doubt,

You are the thing itself.  Your shiny penny
Will pay your passage, though it should be double.
You are two if you are any—

You quibble?
Aren’t you a double tug upon
The earth, and twice the trouble?

Gravid girl, you’re far gone.
I feel the quickening,
Obscene here where all frenzy is done,

Sickening,
A thing like that, a specter that looms
Out of the queasy future, ticking and ticking

Like a kind of bomb.
An x-ray developing in your chemical bath,
Your dark room.

You wonder how a blind man finds his path
Over the swamp of hate,
The river of wrath?

My eyes are ultrasound.  I echolocate
Like the pipistrelles that drop
Their slick of guano on the sloping slate—

Treacherous footing.   Here’s our stop.
So, you’re on an errand to the Queen,
To borrow her beauty like a pot of make-up.

It’s true that she has stayed just seventeen:
The sun can’t spoil her looks—
Her lips are stained with grenadine.

And here there are only stopped clocks
And no reflections.  A hint:
If she gives you a wooden box

Yea big—scarcely big enough for an infant—
Don’t open it, though you crave
A peek, a free sample.  You say you won’t,

But the living have a flair for narrative.
What if I tell you all the beauty ever worn
By loveliness was borrowed from the grave

And belongs to the unborn?


Persephone to Psyche

Come sit with me here at the bar.
Another Lethe for the bride.
You’re pregnant?  Well, of course you are!
Make that a Virgin Suicide.

Me and my man, we tried a spell,
A pharmacopeia of charms,
And yet…  When I am lonesome, well,
I rock the still-borns in my arms.

This place is dead—a real dive.
We’re past all twists, rewards and perils.
But what the hell.  We all arrive.
Here, have some pomegranate arils.

I heard an old wive’s tale above
When I was a girl with a girl’s treasure.
The story went, Soul married Love
And they conceived, and called her Pleasure.

In Anhedonia we take
Our bitters with hypnotic waters.
The dawn’s always about to break
But never does.  We dream of daughters.


I took the liberty of highlighting the key lines which grab my attention from amidst the whole, and it is many of these lines which prompted my own poem to Psyche. The tone I often hear in regards to this tale can turn a bit snarky in places due to the starts and stops within the meter scheme (I wont bore you with an explication on spondees and what not), and I have reflected that voice in my own piece. Now, I hate to play the tease, but "Psyche, dear" wont be featured in its entirety here because this is another piece that I have hopes of publishing professionally one day. What I will leave you with is the direction, and, if I'm feeling generous by the time I've gotten through typing the synopsis, I may leave you with a few lines. Anyway, my own poem to Psyche is set from the point of view of Demeter as she declines to assist Psyche (there is a point in the story where Psyche comes upon a derelict shrine and tidies it. When she is faced with a thankful deity, the selfless act is then turned into one that can be traded in for a favor--yet, Demeter refuses because she is close with Aphrodite).

The lines I semi-promised:

Oil burned and spurned Desire--
And where has your Love flown?

Comments... questions... random acts of verbiage?

Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential quote #19

Occasionally Mysterious Meanderings: Quintessential quote #19:


“ I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down, I just wanted to be a poem. ”

 —Jamie Gil de Bieda

"How did it come to this..." revisited.

"The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow..."

And here I am, a traveler to the west, looking for that middle ground between reality and dreams. My wanderlust is a byproduct of dissatisfaction, and, as much as I love my books, reading seems to be ascerbating the problem. Those moments where I pause to sigh, to hold the book close to my heart, or even to curse feeds this internal weight I've attempted to balance since childhood--there just seems something so sad to me that the worlds, peoples and ideals which enrich these stories don't truly exist within the world we live in. We've gone past the days where honor was what made or broke a man, where a lover was saught after with unrelenting fervor, and where mysticism was real and spoke of things hidden just over a hill. Now honor is cloaked by ambition, lovers are discarded, and mysticism is dispelled beneath cynicism.

Can you tell that I've recently endulged in a LotR (extended version of course) marathon? I love the books and the movies, but damn, Tolkien can really pull off depressing. But then he makes up for it with the poignancy of the moments of hope and connection, made so much more powerful by the darkest moments. And yet, mixed in with my love for the literature is my aforementioned conflicts with my own thought processes. As crazy as it sounds, I just spent almost a full week in the duldrums because I cannot seem to divorce the emotions which are stimulated by the experiences within what I am reading/watching from my own reality.

Perhaps it's because I don't want this to be my reality. I feel as if I was born in the wrong place, the wrong time, or even the wrong plain. There always seems to be something I'm looking for, but what, I cannot seem to find. I write, I create, and I find joy in that save for that seed of discontent. What does it mean anymore to be a dreamer or a romantic? I want a life that I cannot seem to make for myself (and don't ask me what that is because I can't even tell you). And, I want a love that will consume me--that will pick me up, shake me about and leave me invigorated.

I want, I want, I want.

And I will find some of it, I know. It's what I wont find that scares me, or that I will give in to my moments of depression and give up altogether. So, for now, I will content myself with the moments I can steal from the pages of a book, or from the flickering images of a movie and hope that I can remember to live the moments of my own life along the way.