Third River

And each motion a footprint of light
which I follow, moving throughout this house
about this havoc of earth—
gashes of people.
You move drunk as light
I pull away and still somehow
blushed as an apple about to drop from limb.
You are a beat river and the flash of water
against some sure rock.
Nevermind
what I've become.

haikus from a year ago

I promised Prajna about a year ago I would share with her the haikus I wrote while walking around Eden Hall Farm last fall. It's taken me a year, sadly, to get them typed for her. I thought I would share them here, my own personal auditorium, because haikus are an interesting artform that have more to them than mere line breaks and syllable count. I'm not very good at them, but they are fun and can sometimes get out something we are burying, which is true I feel for most writing forms. As I am in perhaps not a writers block but a lifestyle block where I cannot seem to allow myself time to sit and write, perhaps in fear of what may or may not come out, it is good to go back and look at where I was a year ago. Looks like I was in about the same place, all things considered. Here they are:

Haikus inspired by a solitary walk in the woods near Eden Hall Farm. Autumn, '08.

Carolyne Whelan
whelan.writes@gmail.com

But what if I
don't want to head into
this wilderness

Life my bare belly
high into an unheard
ocean of a scream?

I yell at traffic
throw rocks at it, shout it
straight into phone poles.

My hat pulled over
my eyes still does nothing
to block the blaze.
*
Navigating trails
back to the farm, I hear
footsteps – everywhere.

Twigs crack under
the bruise of my bootstep, but
another prowls here too—

In the woods, coyotes
prey on the last drips of sun
dying on low leaves.

I think of poetry while
the birds chant migration songs
mantras of loneliness.

On the roof, a squirrel
gathers nuts against the sunset
and above – the hawk.
What was Eden but
a place of trees and prey
and humans, who chose The Word.

No matter how loud,
"Let there be light" will never
return to me the sun.

The birch tree is bare
but for the grey sky it surrenders
and the hawk nest, so high.

in the belly of a whale

To be honest, I've been ignoring my blog, consciously deciding not to update, because I've been intimidated by it. Scared, even. Life's been interesting these past months. It's autumn, now. Evan and I are settling into our home and the lives which we've become. Finally, after so many years on the road, ugly, insane, mesmerizing -- I find myself living in a home which is half mine. And in the morning, a man I've come to know in 2.5 years more than I've known of myself in 27 pulls me an espresso shot before work, in our kitchen. And before I leave for work, or before going out at night, I do yoga and aerobic exercises off cable television. My books overflow and I am catching up on all the ones I've collected between the years of then (when I previously purged myself of all belongings) and now (that I've somehow amassed enough "stuff" to justify purchasing a house for them all). I still work at a bike shop but with even less gusto than when I was depressed and on painkillers back in New York. Subtle things seem to be spiraling out of control while the big ship sails steady, regardless. A complete opposite of what I've known and I'm still not sure which I prefer, which is an interesting thing to admit in a public forum but life is hard, whether or not we're afraid of that word ("life" or "hard," take your pick).

What an awkard place to be in, to miss the freedom of the world, the road, the stranger's livingroom floor or spare room....and to also know I've lost that bit of myself, and get tired more easily, and more easily frustrated, or maybe I've set the bar too high for myself and I just can't reach it the way I thought I ought to by now.

A recent trip to Boston helped put a lot of things into perspective, though it didn't quite rest my feet. Seems a lot of friends are starting to settle down, resentfully of otherwise, because what else is there to do? The bright side is the stability, that I'm relatively healthy and isn't that an odd feeling. Evan and I were looking at photos of myself from summer 2006, the pale and bloated skin, big dark red circles under my eyes. I still love that haircut though, I suppose as I love the grotesque in a sense. Perhaps a small part of me still pines unhealthily for the ability to be (not ugly but) grotesque and wander freely amongst the streetly, angrily, stompishly. There is a weird joy to that, right?

Still, despite the restlessness and the eternally blazing asshole flame in the pit of me that refuses to let me just sit and be happy, or move and be happy, or move amongst people and be happy or stay in hermitude happily...I am drinking a Troegg's java stout, writing in an office that is just for writing, in a house that's just for me (and Evan), and my feet are bare and I'm wearing grey pajamas and what else could I ask for, as a writer? Perhaps that some friends would come visit for dinner tonight, which they did, or that tomorrow I only work six hours and saw friends after? Or that I got fitted for my bike today? I could go on. Life is pretty great. Perhaps the reason I didn't write for so long is (as the java stout goes down) that there's no real drama or stress. Any thing going on worth writing about is the deep pit of me, that is not appropriate for the blog, sadly. Or maybe not gutted properly to express. Everything feels bubbling. The flat is easier to express. The bubbling is harder to catch, understand, set loose.

Every day is a changing rhythm. Every year, feels like a different genre. Steady forward, because there's no rewinding I guess.

because Robbie asked about the theory of the relativity of pain

“theory of the relativity of pain” for Ribbit

is a rock
is a splash with no sound
I had a dream last night about a palm tree and an alligator, your front yard, and perhaps you said nothing but stood there. Maybe I want to relive you.
is a hammer
is an unanswered death
is a lie
a brick
when they cut down all those trees for the powerlines, the trolley that never ran
the five meanings of marriage
is the look on your face coming home from Grenada, your new tone of voice, your beard.
The photo of you and Steve in San Fransisco, the shock of your own smile.
is a stepping razor
is a shark.
There are two memories. One: I am at your house, about five years old, I am eating those chocolate marshmallows your mom made and you and I play with my favorite toy racer. You honk the horn while I steer. After a while we go out and play baseball in the lawn, you carry me around the bases on your shoulders. Two: we dance at your wedding. I stutter-step, embarrassed that I don’t like your wife.
is a tree.
is cut down.
Maybe I want to undo you.
This theory is incomplete.
I don’t have enough data.

These final steps of aquiring home-owner status feel like I've entered the world of some completely boring and frustrating video game. Every time Evan and I find a heart or breadloaf or key or scroll, we get closer to passing a level. But at the end of each level is a more frustrating Boss who is harder to beat. It's like Legend of Zelda meets Mario Bros., only in paperwork. And just like in most videogames, the beginning of each level begins with reading some letter from somebody who says, "you need to complete these things!" This time, since we are so close to closing, the list is long and tedious and frustrating to no end. It includes things like "get a new ID, Carolyne, that represents your current address." Which means that, even though I haven't lived anywhere for more than a year since I've moved to Pittsburgh, and since my current (Massachusetts) ID is valid until May 2010, I ought to have a photo ID stating my address. And since I obviously have been holding out on getting a new one, I need to get one now. So I need to either get an ID with my current address even though I plan on moving (into the house for which I need the ID in order to purchase), or else get an ID with my hopeful new address even though I haven't yet closed on the house and possibly won't be moving there (but will be moving elsewhere, regardless). It doesn't make any sense! Haven't people bought houses while having IDs in other states before? Apparently, National Niagra Mortgage brokers think that is a bit shady, regardless of my ability to supply proof of residency for the past five years.

Also, as is similar in videogames, there is a lot of repeat of previous tasks but with more stress - less time, more obstacles, etc. They want more of everything, everything they've already collected from us, they want more. They want more proof of the things we've already proven, then want to go back further into files we've dug far into, they want more phone calls to people who have been called, regardless of whether the number has been disconnected or is just wrong. How can this be reconsiled?

So Evan and I have just been trucking on. Going out for a beer with coworkers after work, battling the houserats fearlessly (well, with some fear, as their teeth are sharp and they don't give a fuck about us), going on long bike rides until I inevitably get too many flat tires and the ride needs to end more shortly than desired, and packing up our stuff by throwing a lot of crap out that we've both been hoarding for too long like old clothes, broken computer parts, etc., and reminiscing about each other's lives with old photographs and show fliers. It's been fun and interesting and stressful, I guess, because it's been a break from the paperwork and meetings and running around.

Tonight is the Nugget's cover show, and Major Tom is asleep on my leg. Evan's out on a bike ride and I am obsessing over do-it-yourself magazines for the house. If we don't get it, I might just build one in the woods myself.

to buy or not to buy....a house....

So I had a reading last night at Most Wanted Fine Arts Gallery in Garfield (Pittsburgh). They recorded the reading, and then had me get up again to do an official recording of one of my newer "hits" which is in itself a strange and awkward concept. The request from people was "Things Ive Left" which was actually a blog entry posted on here a while back, if you feel like scrolling. Here's a link to the video if you want to see it. I think it's less energetic and entertaining than the original performance, since I was out of the groove, but I also think I'm probably trying to talk myself up and pretend that I'm a better performer when, actually, I'm probably pretty lousy at it. Mike Simms was there, founder/editor/publisher of Autumn House Press, for whom I used to work until last week when I was finally begrudgingly but inevitably laid off. He gave me astounding praise afterwards, which I wasn't expecting. He must have seen the look on my face because he added, "I don't think you even realize how gifted you are. Please, I mean it, send me your work as you can, I'd like to stay in your loop." That doesn't mean I will be an Autumn House poet, in fact I think that by working for them I am guaranteed to never be published by them, but it is nice to know that someone out there who knows poetry thinks I'm something, even if I can't get published. Later, he also wrote me an email to reiterate that sentiment. I believe this is at least partially because I was so recently let go that it's important to keep the lines of communication open and positive - like a break up when people are still trying "to be friends." Oh well.

I also got my first real fan mail today, from someone who's read my thesis all the way through and isn't a friend of mine past that I got tipsy on Belgiums and moulles with him when he was in town for a reading at my school a while back. I'd read his manuscript and gave my opinion and some tips, and he graciously paid me the same attention. The letter remarked how I reminded him of an old whimsical friend from whom he'd been estranged due to a jealous wife, how he never got to grab a final beer with her and how reading my manuscript was like sharing that final beer and final laugh. It was the nicest letter I've ever received, except perhaps for a letter Anastasia Dubrowsky wrote me in high school that I still have saved at my parents house in a drawer. Certainly the nicest regarding my poetry, if only because he has no reason at all to stroke my ego He said to let him know with some lead-time when I will next be in New York, because he will set up a reading for me. The Big Time! I am heading to Massachusetts in September for my cousin's wedding - maybe I can do a reading en route, or while Evan heads north to visit cyclocross heartthrob Adam Myerson.

While on the topic, I still have chapbooks (or, Glass Key Press does, as I left all mine at the art gallery to be purchased) so if anyone would like one, as if anyone reads this thing, let me know! It's good I promise!

In other news, Evan and I are still in search of a house. We lost one bid on a perfect house in Regent Square, but that's all over and done with. Now there is a new perfect house, that is beautiful on the inside, and about $20k cheaper than the first house. It is in Greenfield in the Hollow, which means our back yard would literally be Schenly Park - there's even single-track that goes right from our yard, and an 8-point buck stared at us while we were checking the place out the other day. The only thing, though, is that I am getting cold feet because I am bad at decisions and if there's anything I'm worse at, it's commitment. Maybe to me they are the same thing. Once a decision is made, commitment to that decision is involved. I don't like the idea of having to say I like vanilla or I like chocolate, I want to live in the desert or by the ocean, I am a poet or a punk. I don't want to "other" any part of my personality, and I feel that any decision, in general really, has that effect. Purchasing a house certainly does. By saying, "I will own property here, with someone else," I am also saying, "I will live here, and not 'there' wherever that is; with this person, and not 'that' person, whoever that is." The great thing about this house is that it is in the middle of the city, generally speaking, but also in the woods. It is relatively cheap, so the financial burden isn't so great. It's only one bedroom, so we can't take on another roommate, but Evan assured me that if I freak out and have to move - for any of the billion reasons why I may freak out and have to move, almost all of which have to do with the eternal internal struggle of the poetpunk, he can build a wall so the master bedroom is more sealed off and someone can live in the office space. That does make me feel ions better about it all.

It's hard because this is the first house where I've really pictured myself living, and enjoying the space, and having a wonderful life. But for how long? That is always the question. It's like I am an optimist on a circular graph almost to the point of being a pessimist. Perhaps its my struggle with paranoia that swings it into that foggy and uncomfortable territory. But anyway, really, look at it - isn't it darling?

The other day, I went to see the Subhumans at Altar Bar in the Strip District. This band has been a favorite of mine for probably 13 years now, and I've seen them probably five times and it's always been incredible. I haven't even spent so much time watching them, because I go nuts and dance and laugh and rekindle friendships and release energy and agression and refind myself. This band makes me feel punk, makes me remember why I was punk and why I am punk. They cause me to question the directions I take in life, whether they are because they are easy, or because they are what I truly want, or because what I've learned I ought to want. I talked extensively with my good friend Ted about it (amongst other things) and it helped sort things out in my head about. How a lot of songs that are still anthemic to me are by/about/for teenagers, and how I'm not a teen anymore by almost ten years, but still can relate deeply - then it flips the coin a bit on why I still hold punk dear, whether it's because it's something I've conditioned myself to love, or whether it's something that still reigns true despite so much change in my life, that still forces me to answer back to myself and remember what I know to be bullshit and unacceptible.

Anyway, it's bedtime now and I've decided to buy the house, hang out with the turkeyfriends I will make in the new yard in the woods, and roam freely wherever I want/need. At least my rent will be paying off my own mortgage, not someone else's. I am putting my punk foot forward. Plus, of course, this place has plenty of writing space.

log cabin rd. ride

After battling a migraine that kept me from work, drinking some recovery Coffeetree, checking out some houses, and eating cart food, I road my bike 42 miles (mainly in the dark and in the rain, due to the obviously late start). If you have Oscar Swan's book, it's in there under Log Cabin Rd. Ride, though Soupie contests that perhaps we made a wrong turn, in that at some point the rode went at a 90 degree angle, and perhaps we were not supposed to do that on this ride. Oh well, after a good hearty ride, my head's starting to hurt again so I need more water and some sleep, and I can surely put my fork down on the day and say, "Satisfecho!"

In other news, I have been trying to get more upper body strength. More swimming back in my schedule, and more free weights with the arms. I have a hard time holding bikes over my head at work, which I have to do more often in a day than you'd think, and while some arm muscles I can do reps of 10 or 20 lbs., others I can only do reps of 3lbs. How embarassing! But I will be a fearless killer soon, and by fearless I mean able to mountain bike in the mud without hyperventilating, and by a killer I mean lean and svelt. Sure, I have two jobs, work on a farm, and have poetry to write, publish, and read at scheduled events (such at July 10th, if you're in the PGH area, at Most Wanted Fine Arts Gallery), but a little tough love on the bod will do me good.

A good added rule is to think, every time I go to eat something, "what is this doing for my body?" and sometimes the answer is, "something awful!" and I resist. Other times the answer is, "giving me a lot of sugar and fat, which I need right now," and I eat, but in somewhat more sensible amount. Most of the time, though, knowing the question is about to come up helps to pre-emtively choose more healthful foods, such as vegetables from the garden and a side of tempeh and pasta rather than pizza, or the pho tofu (soup) rather than the sesame tofu (deep fried).

I've also added aloe vera juice to my regimen, and drink it a few times daily with my water. It's fairly citrus-y in flavor, and I like it best with some Gatorade powder as well. The benefits of aloe vera juice are muscle recovery, organ/intestine strength, proper bowels, and is an over-all internal healer. While I do still get headaches (see above), my knees have been bothering me, and I am still fairly convinced that I broke my lower rib a while ago, I feel quite healthy in general and have been riding strong.