Outlive Us

http://www.abominable.cc/

That's What She Said

I'm finding it hard... to write. I think those little writing exercises like "write about how you think regret tastes" or "write a short story in 55 words or less" are trite. I mean, I can see how that would spur you to write, but that's not the writing I want to do.

I've noticed that a lot of what I write has a pseudo-posh tone - like I use "rather" too much or I use huge generalizations to further my analysis. It means I don't have to put much effort into my writing. I'm going to stop doing that. Right now.

So here's my more honest voice. It's less flowery and superfluous. I think it's better.

Hello New Year

I'm ready for the new year and what it's bringing my way. I don't think the world is going to end any time soon. I mean, I don't know, but I don't think it will. At least, I hope it won't.

I've been sitting here at the yarn store, writing out the odd knitting blog article thing, and helping around the store all with a sense that I'm not doing all I can.

I'm not writing enough. I'm not studying enough. I'm not finishing my projects enough. And I'm not creating anything new.

Things need to change around here.

So, without further ado, here are my new year's resolutions for all the things I'm allowed to put on the internet with fear of being stalked:

1. More writing - more poetry, more short stories, more articles, more journal deliberations, more

2. More posting on my own blog

3. More hiding of said writing unless it's to be published in something (i.e. unless it's good)

4. More exploring new places to sit around and write without fear of being seen

5. More adventure

6. Less idolizing other people

7. More time being affectionate to the people I'm coming to love and to those I've loved a long time

8. More time being good to myself

9. More time changing the things that don't work and accepting the things that do despite all my best efforts

In Too Deep

And I'm trying to keep up above in my head, instead of going under.

Blegh, so I just realized something - I'm doing lots and lots of writing (well, sorta), for Brown Girl, for Nine Rubies, for UCLAradio, but like nothing for myself or my writing projects. I barely write in my journal. I rarely add to my short stories. I haven't written a poem in forever. BLEGH, I say.

It's very strange maintaining a writing blog because there's so much I want to talk about that I feel like I have to keep it to literature. How weird. Maybe that's self-imposed. I should stop doing that. I should also stop talking like I'm living inside my head.

Weekend Update

Happy Independence Day, readers! It's lovely today in central-north California and it's nice to have the feel of keyboard keys under my fingers again. I've started working on a few short stories and hopefully they'll be completed at some point. Hopefully.

Home is Wherever I'm With You

Hello, you. How are you? Good, I hope.

Me? Oh, me, I'm home.

I'm not sure what that means for this blog, but let's see.

ShitShitShit

It's been almost a month! Ohmahgawd, I'm sorry. But here's a sestina and a pantoum for you. Just for you.

A Sestina on Teacups, Marathons, and Overdone Cultural Clashes

The Breakfast Club resolved to meet every Sunday morning.

During their allotted time and in their allotted space they would discuss the news:

Troubling dreams, sabzi recipes, fashion, and what their children

Weren’t doing with their lives. Tapping their teacups

With the soft part of the spoon, clicking their tongues,

And nodding concernedly, they would tuck their saris around themselves for the rerun

Of the fifty-year old Indian woman’s harsh reality. All the club members would run

Behind her, simpering at her hysterics and aware of the nuances of mourning.

They would catch each tear with outstretched hands and spooned tongues.

The Sunday news was passed around ritually, but it was never new.

Each story was a retelling of the same; old tears, yellowing teacups.

The porcelain cracked silently with each sighing spoon tap for the children.

The children had no idea what they were doing. None at all. These new-age children.

Without a backwards glance, they dropped their culture and ran

After this ungrazi, gordai idea. It wasn’t theirs to forget, the teacups

Broke subtly, just as Sundays were God’s made morning.

Each dismissed pooja and every blond girlfriend brought home stabbed anew

The Indian mother’s wound of a heart. The forgotten mother tongues

And the preponderance of short skirts made them fear how tongues

Would wag at the next club meeting. They shook their heads at their children –

If they had no culture, they had no anchor. The members remembered their newborns.

And I often imagined my mother’s mouth running

In circles about how I no longer take time in the morning

To do breathing exercises, enjoy my food, or think of God, as she refills teacups.

I am not invited to these meetings. I only put away the teacups

After. I rinse off the brown lipstick and try not to think about the quick tongues

That lapped up my mother’s chai and crocodile tears each Sunday morning.

I wonder if every generation was the same – the mother’s cried because of the children

And the children tried to live despite the sadness. Were they always running,

Since the beginning? I’ve heard this story before, I’m sure. Not newfangled.

My mother was from before all this, from old New Delhi,

And she was carried to the new world in marriage. She only brought the teacups

Her mother gave her. She left with tears, but I wonder if she was also on the run.

She brought her idols and ideals with her, but did tongues

Lash in her absence? Did they berate her for her soon-to-be children?

They would grow up with out paranthas for breakfast every morning.

So, did she run too, from her mother? Was she unable to renew

The cycle? The breakfast club meets every Sunday morning, and they sip from teacups,

Wagging their tongues, remembering their own mothers, and shaking their heads for their children.

Pantoum Loosely Based on the Iliad

And the god who loves lightening never missed a word

Of what was whispered under the clashing of spears

And over the clanging of thunder, he heard everything

In the breath of fallen men.

Of what was whispered under the clashing of spears,

Few could make out the meaning, historians argued

Over the breath of the fallen men

Ready to ascribe sentiment to the long dead.

Few could make out the meaning, and historians argued

About why that battle was fought

Ready to ascribe sentiment to the long dead,

The story fell headfirst into romantic tomes.

Why was that battle fought

Atop the deep green of a well-loved land?

This story fell headfirst into romantic tomes

And the bloodshed lay forgotten among the rosy tones.

Atop the deep green of that well-loved land

Waves of men surged against each other,

The bloodshed lay forgotten among those who retold it,

But the lightening god looked on knowingly.

Waves of men surged against each other,

Ready to die and ready to fight on,

The lightening god watched knowingly,

Prepared to pluck up the dead and gone.

Ready to die and ready to fight on,

The men yelled and screamed and cried,

Prepared to pluck up the dead and gone,

Rememberers chose their meanings carefully.

The men yelled and screamed and cried,

And the god who loves lightening never missed a word

Rememberers chose their meanings carefully

But over the clanging of thunder, the lightening god heard everything.