Poetry is a Rorschach test

I am not a poet nor am I tying to become a poet. However I am trying my best not to embarrass myself in my poetry class. Unfortunately, as a group we are failing miserably. I thought a poem about a brick was a metaphor for child abuse. I had to explain that I was in a dark place when I came to that conclusion. I also responded with delight to a riddle poem saying aloud, “Oh it’s about a cell phone.” To which the author responded, “It wasn’t a riddle poem.”

I thought a car accident poem was about a bad marriage and an ice climbing poem was about sex. One of my classmates thought my poem about an ugly baby was about race relationships in America. (He’s from Scotland if that has anything to do with his analysis). The professor called my work surreal and compared it to a Brazilian poet who writes about cutting off his dirty hand. (He actually is a poet if that explains his assessment). I decided surreal is code for I don’t know what the hell you’re saying here and I don’t want to look stupid, so it must be brilliant.

In tonight’s stack of poetry is at least 2 poems about the Holocaust, 1 about a dog, 1 about Sarah Palin, 2 about sex, and strangely there’s one about a man I used to date. ( I am almost certain of this and it surprises me, because I didn’t think they knew each other). I hope I'm at least partially right, but I am afraid it will be another interesting evening.

Much ado and Nothing

I’m drinking wine and being pissed in more ways than one. I hate it when technology fails me. I needed to be in a chat room tonight and I couldn’t get logged in. It was so damn frustrating watching this conversation flow and not being able to participate. It was kind of like being a voyeur at an orgy. No fun at all. So here I sit. I can’t get me no intelligent conversation, and I can’t get me no fuel for my car (which is inconvenient but not actually bad, because I want us all to have electric cars. Well most of us). What options are left to me? Why open up that nice bottle of red that your friend gave you on Saturday and blog. Heavy sigh.

Now I feel better, but I don’t feel like writing anything. Drunkenness, well tipsiness really, is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I feel very mellow, and the other I have no angst and my snark has left me. It’s all for the best really. I’ve been in the cups before and blogged. It doesn’t usually end well. So … rather than have to defend myself later or wrestle with messy restraining orders I think I’ll go and luxuriate in my tipsiness in bed. I’d watch a movie, but I’d feel guilty for not having the attention span to enjoy it. Besides, I spent all day working on this suburban noir thing and it left me feeling very dark. I’ll be back when I’ve recovered.

Growing Younger

Yes, I believe that I am growing younger or maybe I’m just growing into myself. That’s not to say that I don’t still do childish things. Maybe that’s one reason why I feel younger I’m still a child, a child misbehaving in a woman’s body.

A couple of weeks ago I was at a party people with friends from my writing program. The conversation turned to age and things we did when we were younger. I proudly announced my age and began talking about back in the day when I noticed people were looking and laughing at me. I was explaining the size and price of pot back when I smoked the stuff. I realized that they thought I was joking and reciting some sort of when I was girl we walked 20 miles to school in the snow story.

There was a man was sitting next to me that I’d known for almost a year. He turned and said, “You’re kidding right?” I replied, “No.” He was a little drunk. I say this because his date was sitting next to him while he looked me up and down and announced, “I didn’t know that. God you’re hot!”

Later he opened his shirt and showed me chest hair. Somehow this gesture was supposed to convince me that he was a good writer and worthy of publication in my ezine. I already wanted him to write for the mag but I was not to be out done by male chest thumping. “Oh, I said (heavy on the sarcasm), “why didn’t you show that to me sooner. Chest hair is like gold and makes all the difference in world.” The jibes sort of escalated after that into an embarrassing pissing contest of flirting.

I am very competitive and was not going to back down, politely blush and quietly remind him about his date. No one of us was going to see the other in the halls of learning and hide a bit shame faced and it was NOT going to be me.

And it wasn’t. Now this was delightfully juvenile of me and sure enough I look several years younger now. The other surprising side effect is that I look like I’ve lost weight and gained a cup size in my bra. No kidding!

Maybe the great thing about getting older is not taking everything so seriously. It’s liberating, the place I find myself these days.