Steinbeck

Everytime I pick up The True Adventures of John Steinbeck by Jackson J. Benson, I start daydreaming after a few paragraphs. This isn't because the book is boring. It's actaully really great and I like learning about Steinbeck's life and method. He destroyed everything he written unless it was published. He never wanted anyone to read the inperfections. If it wasn't good enough to be published, then it wasn't good enough at all. He reworked and reinvented his stories. We would spend years on certain novels and then wrote The Grapes of Wrath in a year. Before reading this biography of Steinbeck, I would have called him a genius, but he was just a man who wrote and never stopped writing because it was the process that was exciting and the stories never completed. So I start daydreaming about the process of writing in the middle of the paragraphs about Steinbeck's influential friends, theories and the progress of his life. My favorite of his friends is Ed Rickett. This is merely because he walked from Indianpolis to Georgia and when people asked him why, he responded he wanted to see the country. Everyone was suspicious of this so he started telling people it was to win a bet. Obviously, we have similiar interests. I wish I could write him a letter.

The funny thing is Steinbeck burned most of his work, which contradicts my last blog.
....

The burning of your written work.

Is there something worse than the burning of writing? There's crumpling of paper being thrown into a trashcan. There's the tearing of paper into pieces. There's the slipping of paper, untorn, into the recycling bin. That's all destruction. Maybe there's some frustration behind it all until it's resolved with those sounds. Then there's the infactuation with the burning of gifts from old lovers: mixtapes, stuffed animals or pictures. You need them to be gone, destroyed and never found. That's why they are burned. There's something hateful, destructive about burning anything.

And what if the gifts are letters someone has sent through the mail. They have dates. They are a history of something and you've carried them across state lines all the way to Texas. I don't want these letters destroyed. I don't want to throw them in the trash, but I don't want to carry them around with me anymore. Something needs to be done with them.

I thought I was going to write a book. Take the letters and homemade envelopes to Kinkos and photocopy them on the color printers. Put them inbetween the written pages of a book that was in the form of letters to someone else. That was the idea for almost 2 years. I wrote some and then stopped. I couldn't humble myself enough. I couldn't honestly put myself into the story to make it any good. My New Year's resolution is, "To be honest in your writing, even if you're afraid someone will get angry with you." (This is actually why I don't write so muchbecause I can't show it to anyone.)

The letters have just sat in a box, building up as more came in the mail. The other night when I couldn't sleep, I opened the box and took the letters out. I read each one. I hadn't read any of them since one would arrive. I'm not really the type to go back and look at things over and over, (Although I do replay conversations in my head. They are not tangible so I need to try to grasp them.) but this particular night I pulled the letters out of the box. The letters were spread out between 3 different addresses for me and 4 different return addresses, though one address was a lot fewer since I didn't want to write for a couple of months. That's right, I'm stubborn. My favorite were the first letters. They were the ones written months before anything happened like the one where she said we should sit closer together because she liked the way I smelled.

The only solution is to bury them. That way maybe someone will find them, dig them up, and carefully sort through them like they are old newspaper clippings or a hidden treasure. I want to drive out somewhere in Texas and bury this stack of letters I brought to down here with me. I want to tie them with a ribbon in chronlogical order and hide them under an Oak. Or I should find an attic. But there's also a story waiting to be written on the way to bury them, some significance to it all. I want to write that, but mostly I want to let go. (There, that's me being honest.)

Happy Birthday Charles!!!!

I found "Charles" in a drawing book in the MICA library about a year ago. He was the first embroidery project I did in more than 8 years. I don't know anything about the original drawing except that the artist's name is J. F. Raffaelli. I named him Charles. He currently lives in Minniapolis. I'm glad I had the people around me that reminded me I love embroidery.

paragraphs

Today, I saw a bumper sticker that was the background of the Colorado license plate and it read, "Tourist." I remember a first girlfriend of mine being from Colorado and saying how a lot of Texans spend vacations in Colorado and how the residents of Colorado hate it. I guess that's the good thing (among many great things) about being from New Jersey. Nobody goes to Jersey to be a tourist.

I am hoping to get a letter tomorrow. I haven't got one all week. I want to hear Britt's response.

"You know some ghosts come everywhere with you yet you leave them unaddressed for years." -Adrienne Rich. I have some letters to bury. That will be the best thing to do with them and it is only appropiate that they be buried in Texas soil.

It's freezing out tonight. I was at the last Camp Camp ever. It was funny because it was a celebration of everything that they did and how grateful they all were for being able to be apart of it. I just sat back and watched. I've only seen a couple of them and not even all the way through. So it wasn't a triumph thing for me. I kept picturing if it was the Kitty Club calling it quits. That would be sad. I miss them. I hope I get to see all their grins in a couple of weeks. Less than 2 weeks. I need to call some people and see who's where and when. Hopefully, the Texans won't be in Texas when I'm in the Northeast.

I ran out of black thread today. This is a huge problem.

I'm so excited it's Sagiattarian time. It just makes me so so so happy inside.

Made these all day yesterday and finished them this morning.

The rest of them are at this website...

http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5816109

My kids are awesome and had their embroidery (art) show!!!!

My kids are awesome! They got really into teaching the guests how to embroider and I even got a forward from Wendell from another lady that praised the embroidery section of the WOW! I stood back and watched the kids and their artwork looked so so so great on the board. (That's what the picture is of.) I'm really thankful that I had this experience. I hope the kids don't forget it because I'm not going to forget these past couple months of hanging out with them and embroidering. I love how you can teach something to someone and it evolves and they make it their own.

This nice thing happened today.

I looked at one of Nate's bulletins today and it was one of those silly surveys. Then this happened...

Q: "Is there anyone you want with you right now?"
A: "Jess Pane would be nice."


And then my little heart melted all over the place.

More personalities of fire hydrants.

1. E. 5th and the service road/frontage rd./I 35

2. E. 5th and Sabine

3. E. 4th (outside of Pipes and metals (aluminum))

4. Comal and Rosewood/E. 11th

you may recognize this from yesterday's post...i unembroidered and then embroidered again.

kind of inspired by Henry Miller's page 260 of Tropic of Cancer but then chewed up real good and spit out. and also my love for this country and my thoughts on love.

Untitled I (so far).

on fabric.

and the list continued...

stretching, bandanas, climbing Mt. Royal (in Montreal) in the rain, being humbled, naps on couches, gnomes, grandpa yelling at the television, a multi vitamin and a glass of scotch, not being able to stop laughing, being invited places, mandy picking me up from the airport, rice, hot sauce, fans on front porches, chasing waves, warehouses, lighted streets, homemade whistles, random car rides, apple picking, beet picking, pumpkin picking, when other people remember the same memories, rummy 500, dedication pages in books, railroad stakes, hats, red heads, flannel sheets, new jersey accents, the new jersey shore on christmas eve day, skeeball, fog, britt leaving her hat in my car and me accidently forgeting to return it, how it molded to my head, my quilt from Sears, britt repairing the holes in it in the car on the way to texas, shibori, saturday quilting class, learning how to make rope, story telling, american history, abe lincoln and the lincoln memorial, the portrait gallery in dc, notes you leave on the ground, fabric people lose, how robert sullivan gets obsessed with things and then writes about them, crosswords, getting to talk to leisha hailey, knit hats with pom-poms, hot showers in the winter, cold showers in the summer, lumber trucks, finding Foam Henge with Leah in Virginia, letterboxing, tacos, how fun alexei's brithday party was, being excited and talking too fast you slur over your words, stamp collections, the postal museum in dc, how the museums are free in dc, sijos, fitting everything in one bag, boggy creek farm, feeling good, having a crush, that it's the month of december and that's my favorite month...

I was making this list in my head while I was falling asleep and I didn't want to forget.

Gratitude: noun [grat-i-tood] the quality or feeling of being grateful or thankful.

that leaves change color, my bicycle, rooftops, fire escapes, waving at trains, finding Alexei at the Farmer's Market, the way people are nice in Austin, the closeness of cities in the Northeast, closing my eyes, seeing the Frost Building from my window, wishing on a star and finding out the peson next to you made the same wish, zines, libraries, John Steinbeck, memory of floating handmade paper boats down a river in Baltimore County, Britt's stories (that come in the form of letters and make me grin from ear to ear), the experience of living in Maine, walking in the snow, walking, towns where mail comes in "General Delivery", the Giants winning the Super Bowl, rusty bottlecaps, knowing how to drive, the last name Marquardt, being Italian, that flat tire, embroidery, my mom's sewing lessons, being reminded I love to embroider, cemetery flowers, Ashville, NC, Baltimore stories, having male friends finally, my health, peas and mac and cheese, french fries, grackels, sitting outside when it's cold and no one wanting to leave because everyone is having a great time, dark beers, pepper, onions and garlic, darkrooms, talking outloud to myself and being caught, glasses, impromptu yoga, falling asleep when I don't mean to, David Simon and all he has produced, pens and paper, grandpa, all those people who I don't see everyday, but when I do it seems nothing has changed, Rocket to Venus, Charm City Kitty Club, how everything is connected, repeat smiles from people I don't know, smiles, awkwardness, someone's hand on my forehead, truck stops, fields of wild flowers, wind, backroads, milk crates, sleeping in Stef's bed when she's not around, Stef, Mandy, Emmaline, Leah, Leah letting me hang out in the Props room at CenterStage, all the free plays I got to go to, the dumpster of wedding flowers I found, holding hands, porches, taking naps with dogs, rain, jade plants, learning, being brave enough to talk to new people, holgas, roasted peppers, tea bags, maps, sitting on hoods of cars, black t-shirts, leaving Baltimore, being excited to go back and visit, really good hugs, knowing there's more to be thankful for.

Goodnight.

Layer 1: streets of Charles Village, Mt. Vernon and down to the Inner Harbor (Baltimore)

Sketch of new project. This time a more literal map.

I've been thinking about this project for the past couple of days. I think I have it now. It's going to involve lots of words..minor poems perhaps, which are also being written right now. They are more sentences than poems, but can we ever define poetry? The project is a map again. This time more literal and of Baltimore, of where I lived and what happened in the past 2 years.
Today, Reagan and I walked from 12th and Salina to Barton Springs and back. We stopped at Cafe Mundi and that man that gave me his number was there. By the time I got home my legs were all wobbly and I decided to mash potatoes for 14 people. Then my arm was tired.
My horoscope is a good one this week. I'm reading In Dubious Battle by John Steinbeck. (The book has mold in its pages.) I also got a book of the letters he wrote. Minor obsession, but I think he's a good guy to be obsessed with. Less than a month until I land in Philadelphia. I'm really glad I left the East Coast, but I can't wait to see and walk along those streets again.

for An Atlas of the Difficult World

"I promised to show you a map you say but this is a mural

then yes let it be these are small distinctions

where do we see it from is the question

...

VII (The dream-site)

Some rooftop, water-tank looming, street-racket strangely quelled

and others known and unknown there, long sweet summer eve-

ning on the tarred roof:

leaned back your head to the nightvault swarming with stars

the Pleides broken loose, not seven but thousands

every known constellation flinging out fiery threads

and you could distinguish all

-cobwebs, tendrils, anatomies of stars

coherently hammocked, bluebank avenues between

-you knew your way among them, knew you were part of them

until, neck aching, you sat straight up and saw:

It was..." -Adrienne Rich from An Atlas of the Difficult World

The atlas is almost complete.

Terrain

i found you on the ground...

Fire hydrants and 40s have personalities too

ahhh...1200 block of walnut avenue i love you.

12:47pm. amanda yells down about a man being in our backyard. he is asking us to call the police. he's squatting behind our trash and recycling bin. he positioned them so they were a fort around him. he says nothing else, but asks us to call the police. while amanda is still on the phone, one cop car shows up and the man takes off into the street and waves down the car. over the next 20 minutes, four other cop cars show up. the man is telling about how a woman threw rocks at him this morning and he hit her, but just now her and another man came after him with a gun and tried to shoot him. the gun, however, was jammed. he just keeps talking and amanda is mumbling that he is talking too much. one of the cops comes into our backyard looking for the man's gun because he is convinced that the man was the one with the gun. amanda mumbles, "great." and i'm thinking about putting a lock on the gate to our yard.

which i go to do, only i can't, because apparently i'm not butch enough.

1:31am. (last night) i am once again sleeping in stef's bed because she is not home. i wake up because men are talking very loudly. i get mad because i know i can never fall back asleep. then i notice the flashing lights. i reach for my glasses and trip over stef's clothes (because her room is a mess). there's four cop cars postioned around my house, but nothing else is happening. i lay down and try to fall asleep. it takes over an hour.

(A) list.

1. Go see Mia Kirschner talk about her writing.
2. Get some black pants and a white shirt for your new job.
3. Positive thoughts before putting feet on the ground.
3a. Don't get down on yourself.
4. Cross the street and pick up wood for R & M's future fires.
5. Ride down to re-sale store to ask about volunteering.
6. Make more bags.
7. Get inspired.
8. Hope and pray. Hope and pray Lisa will really road trip in the next weeks, come to Austin so you two can ride back to the East Coast together.
9. Finish substitute teaching application.
10. Get clothes that fit.
11. Meet more people.
12. Dance (even if it's in the living room).
13. It's okay to daydream about going home for a couple of days. Yes, home. And hugs. Lots.
14. Buy plane tickets.
15. Return Random Family to library and find a new book. Suggestions? Steinbeck of course.


And done.
1. Clean grease from bicycle (pipe cleaners would be good for this.)
2. Finish application for Citizen Schools.

Something I started.

Britt called to tell me about soup, asked me if I was okay and I had to answer

Me as a comic.

Maggie as a comic.

Stef as a comic.

Better Known

The faucet water tastes like dirt again.
There’s limestone in the water
because it’s there in the earth.

It’s always the bird’s flapping wings that startles me.
There’s that long-legged Grackle tilting her head at me again.

This morning, I found a strand of her hair on my shoulder
like she had been sleeping there all night.

My first attempt at a comic. (Sorry I can't draw.)