Open Mic Night

Earlier this evening I had the pleasure of attending an open mic night at the college where I teach. Though I'd announced it to my creative writing class, AND sent them a follow-up reminder email, none of them showed up. I mean, in a way I get it. Friday night, after a long school week...but boy did they miss out.

Open mics are classically full of awkward moments. This was no exception. But it was kind of delicious in those moments. So raw and innocent.

A few graduate student poets stood up and read their work. One even sang a song. I got up and read the first few pages of the novel that keeps getting rejected. In the middle of my reading, I gazed up and saw a sea of new people, first five, then ten, then twenty of them. I started feeling nervous. My voice even quivered as I read.

Two guys went up after me and sang a Ramones song. A girl got up and read a poem she'd written on the car ride home from snowboarding earlier in the day. It was really, really good. Another guy got up and started beat-boxing while his friend free-styled. More poems. More stories.

Then the snowboarder girl got back up and said she loved going to a cafe in Boyle Heights and writing poetry in her free time, and once, as the place was closing for the evening, a bunch of people writing there moved outside and started making up poems - one would start while another took over. She said it was the most amazing experience. She said she'd like to recreate it and invited anyone up to the mic with her. I was intrigued - tempted, even, but in the group were old students and I felt self-conscious. A graduate student finally joined her and together they improved poems - each more magical and brilliant than the next. My jaw was agape. My skin tingled. I knew I was in the presence of art - real art.

Sometimes it's daunting how everyone seems to want to write, but in a world that shakes violently on its own terms and unleashes a fury of tidal waves - insult on top of injury - what's the harm in trying to put one word in front of the other and then arranging it on your own terms until it is good, then better, then best?

Quote of the Day

"The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake.
Sing in the shower.
Dance to the radio.
Tell stories.
Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem.
Do it as well as you possible can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something"

Kurt Vonnegut, “A Man without a Country”

Fruit Muller

Today, I was diagnosed by a medical professional as being a fruit muller.

Let me backtrack...

For almost twenty years I have been suffering, on and off, from TMJ disorder. (That's Temporomandibular Joint Disorder, for those of you who like things spelled out).

Recently, after some ferocious popping and clicking sounds, my jaw seized up and has been in spasm for the past 3 or 4 days. I decided it was time to go back to the specialist to see what was happening.

He poked and prodded, made me chew on a piece of gum (and then immediately forced me to spit it out, just as the sugar was starting to taste good - what a tease!), measured, marked up his chart, etc.

He confirmed the spasm, explained the erosion of the joint, suggested a very specific physical therapy and also an oral surgeon if nothing else worked. (No, thanks)

Then he asked if I ate a lot of fruit.

I said I did.

"I think you're what I call a 'fruit muller'. Do you eat and kind of swirl the food around in your mouth while you're reading or watching T.V.?"

I burst out laughing. Not only has my family always made fun of me for swirling whatever I'm drinking around in my mouth before swallowing, but I've always been known as a painfully slow eater. I do love tricking food around, really tasting it.

He said this because the enamel on my teeth is eroding, too, he thinks, from the acid in fruit and juice that I mull around in my mouth.

Yes, I'm a fruit muller.

As I drove home, I realized I'm not only a fruit muller, I'm a career muller. A boy muller. A should-I-sell-my-car muller. And a what-color/interior/exterior/tire/butt warmer/sunroof Mini should I get muller? I'm a you-hurt my-feelings-ten-years-ago muller and a I-can't-believe-I hurt-his/her-feelings-ten-years-ago muller. I mull over the grades I give, the plagiarists I catch. I hold on to things tightly. As tight as a clenched jaw.

Of course I suffer from TMJ.

All this mulling causes lots of midnight grinding. Tooth grinding, that is. So much pain.

It's not alright. Something's got to change. I've got to learn to let go.

So, I'm putting it out there. I'm going to try to stop mulling - fruit and beyond.

But until then, I've just swallowed a half a Percoset to ease the pain. (Thanks to my sweet friend, who shall go nameless, who sacrificed her last, white pill when she saw me in agony the other day) The real work, I know, will come not from subtle stretches for my jaw, or a heated therabead pillow, or a soft-food diet, but from a shift in perspective, an attitude adjustment, an inner letting go.

Are you a muller? Care to join me in shedding this trait?

That Last Post Got Me Thinking...

When I was in graduate school, Margaret Atwood came to visit our department for a week. She's a major reason I became a writer so I was very excited to spend time with her and even more thrilled when the department put me in charge of her. From the second I picked her up at the airport she was full of questions. ("What are those trees? Why does your seatbelt do that? Why are there so many personalized license plates?) My roommates and I hosted a dinner party for her at our house. Half the department came over to help us cook. When she arrived that night she said she'd already eaten, and spit an onion tart out into a napkin in front of the person who made it, claiming she thought it was a cheese tart. I tried to bond over being Canadian but she didn't seem to care. When she asked what my sign was and I said Virgo her face contorted into a sour grimace, "Uch," she said. "My ex-husband is a Virgo." I defended my sign, saying perhaps female Virgos were different than male Virgos, and while she was open to the argument, it wasn't the stimulating conversation I'd fantasized about having with her. Toward the end of the week I was growing weary of her. While crossing the street on campus, a local, celebrated yet quirky poet was walking toward us. Ms. Atwood nudged me away so we wouldn't cross his path and said "Uch, there's that man again." I prayed he didn't hear, though I imagine he did. When the week was through, when I was done driving her places, escorting her to classes, and dining with her, I handed her my tattered-from-reading copy of "Dancing Girls," her short story collection which started me on my own writing path. As she signed it I imagined something like, THANKS FOR DRIVING ME EVERYWHERE or NICE TO MEET A FELLOW CANOOK or even GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR WRITING. Instead, I simply got MARGARET ATWOOD.

I still love her work. I even follow her on Twitter. And despite our nonbonding, Margaret Atwood gave me the gift of a story, and for that this Virgo is grateful!

Tweet Tweet and Anxiety Dreams

I have a renewed love for Twitter. Where else can a girl follow Margaret Atwood and Queen Latifah's witty comments? I also love reading updates from NPR host Scott Simon (who's radio piece a few years ago introduced me to Twitter in the first place), the New York Times Book Review, Whole Foods, Roger Ebert and of course my real friends. Do you Twitter? Who do you follow? I'm @lilok30 in case you want to follow me, though admittedly I don't update that often.

Last night I had my first back-to-school anxiety dream. I have these at the start of every semester so I'm kind of used to them, but last night's was particularly stressful. I was trying to go over the syllabus in class but all the students were talking over me. I was worried about one particular kid in the corner who seemed sullen and troubled. I was screaming but no one could hear me because they were talking so much. I went outside and found my boss. I was hyperventilating and she kept trying to calm me down. She told me to go back in and do the best I could. When I finally reentered the classroom, class was over and the students were walking out. I realized I hadn't gone over their assignment for the next week, so at the top of my lungs I yelled, "Read the Bell Jar!!!!" I awoke with a start and a scratchy throat. I wonder if I talked in my sleep?

I had a good month off and enjoyed skiing, lots of yoga, catching up with friends, reading and seeing movies, but it's back to work on Tuesday.

2011

Happy new year!

Toward the end of the year I always like to make a list of things I accomplished, big or small, during the year. In 2010 the accomplishment I am most proud of is learning to wear contact lenses! It is so freeing not being confined by frames (though I do miss the way the frames semi-hid the wrinkles around my eyes, oh well...) but I am surprised at how vulnerable it feels as well. Slowly but surely I am getting used to it. What has been your proudest accomplishment of 2010?

Tomorrow I head up to Big Bear with the family for a little ski vacation. I'm hoping all this L.A. rain will translate into powdery fresh mountain snow.

Meanwhile, here's a post I wrote for the book blog to which I contribute. I love being part of this group of women authors. Every month we're given a theme to write about and this time it was "Your Writing Journey." When you read about everybody's highs and lows it somehow normalizes this crazy profession.

Happy 2011 to everyone.