I used to love writing poems. In middle school and high school I wrote poems all the time… some of them I’d show, some I wouldn’t. But so many times I truly felt them. In my mind they were perfect, and I didn’t appreciate any criticism, constructive or not. They said what I was feeling, and they were for me only. Who cared what anyone else thought?
Now that I’m back in school, one of my classes this semester is a creative writing class, and the first half of the semester we’ve been working on poems. Did you know there was actually a technique to writing poetry? That it is actually very structured and purposeful? That how the author feels about it really doesn’t matter if the author intends to publish it? It’s really an amazing art, and I’ve really learned a lot from this class. And, I’ve realized how haphazardly all my previous poems were written.
That being said, I’m going to take a chance and share one of my recent poems. The assignment was to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object talking to someone or something. We’re talking about it in class tonight, so I may post an updated version later, but here goes.
My Doors Are Open
Sir, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Fourth floor you say? I’m on my way.What burdens you so when you come to work
That you carry a flask in the pocket of your shirt?
Your face is creased; your eyes are sunk;
To get through the day, must you come in drunk?Not one to talk? Nothing to say?
We’ve reached the fourth floor, sir. Have a nice day.Sir, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Eighth floor you say? I’m on my way.Your Armani suit is pressed and fits well;
Your hair’s combed with mousse; is that Dior I smell?
Your nails are trimmed, your skin browned by the sun,
But where do you go when your work is done?
You put on your wedding ring as we passed the third floor,
Why was it in your pocket before?
If I were so brave I’d wager a guess
That it’s not your wife’s lipstick smudged on your chest.Not one to talk? Nothing to say?
We’ve reached the eighth floor, sir. Have a nice day.Lady, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Sixth floor you say? I’m on my way.Fendi on your shoulder; Tiffany on your neck;
A necessary costume to cover the wreck.
You can’t hide the twitch though you fold your arms tight.
Are those tracks on your arm from last night?
Better paste on a smile and pull down your sleeves;
If your boss knew your state, he wouldn’t be pleased.Not one to talk? Nothing to say?
We’ve reached the sixth floor, ma’am. Have a nice day.Young man, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Twentieth floor you say? I’m on my way.Have you been traveling? You’ve quite the tan.
You’re obviously an educated man.
Harvard Law School your briefcase says,
As does the crimson silk tie you caress.
Ah yes, take it off, make yourself at home.
Why do you sweat so? And let your eyes roam?
Don’t move that tile, sir, we’re moving fast.
See how quickly the walls go past?
Please unfasten your tie from the ceiling bar
And push back the tile, we’ve still to go far.
Excuse me sir, but is this a joke?
With your head in the loop you’ll surely choke.
Is that why you’re standing on your briefcase so?
Now you’ve kicked it aside, with six floors to go.
We’ll never make it in time I’m afraid,
For someone to help and you to be saved.
Your hands grasp your neck and I fear you regret
But I am no help, and we’re not there yet.
I’m sorry, sir, that life was so grim
You chose my doors to end it in.Now you cannot talk. There’s nothing to say.
We’ve reached the twentieth floor…
I recently discovered Rebecca Thorman, thanks to Brazen Careerist, and she “hosts” a “Monthly Goal Meetup,” where people are supposed to post their monthly goals on their blog. My life has been “go go go” ever since classes began (and September equally dragged and was over before it began, if that makes any sense), so I think I need to refocus my priorities. A list of monthly goals may help me accomplish that. So here goes.
Goal 1: Market Landmark Editorial. I created a facebook ad today, which may not be exactly the audience I want to target, but I’ll try it for a month and see what happens.
Goal 2: Workout at least two times a week.
Goal 3: Spend at least 30 minutes training my filly at least two times a week.
Goal 4: Winterize my house.
Goal 5: Celebrate accomplishing goals 1-4 with a kickass halloween party on the 31st!!
This growing up thing isn’t all it’s cut out to be.
I haven’t written lately because every time I sit down to write a post I feel myself whining, and I don’t want this to be a place where all I do is whine. I’m in a good situation right now. I have a solid job. Three solid jobs. And while I depend on all three to get me through, I’m a lot better off than a lot of people out there. I really don’t have anything to whine about.
However, something’s been off lately, and I just recently spent some time trying to figure out what it is. Driving to school in Platteville and back 3 days a week gives me a lot more time for self-reflection than I’ve had in the past, and it’s actually been really good for me to have that time. And I realized that I’ve known for a long time what is out of place in my life, I’ve just been afraid to say it. Maybe because I feel like I can’t do anything about it at this point… maybe because I feel like I should be grateful for what I have… maybe because I feel like I’m stuck until school is over, which, maybe I am.
It’s my job. My real job. My daytime job. My salaried job. It’s draining the life out of me. I’m bored with the work. I’m bored with the routine. Not even just bored. I hate it. I hate coming to work every day. I hate having to work on the magazine. I hate having to find ways to fill my day because there’s never enough work for a week, let alone four weeks, each issue. This job doesn’t challenge me. This job doesn’t excite me. This job is going absolutely nowhere, especially considering the fact that it will never change. It’s just me and my boss, so it’s not like I can get promoted.
Unfortunately, I’m not sure I have any other options right now.
No. I take that back. I do have options. I just don’t know how to go about doing it. I want to expand my freelance business. I need to expand my freelance business. Because I enjoy it. I LOVE it. And, I’m really, really good at it. I am an excellent copyeditor. And I don’t feel like I’m bragging by saying that. I still have a lot to learn. We always have a lot to learn, right? But I learn quickly, and I know that I am damn good at my job.
What I’m not good at? Marketing. Finding new clients. Putting myself out there. I have a business name: Landmark Editorial. I have a web site: http://www.landmarkeditorial.com. Did you all know that? Probably not. Considering even some of my closest friends don’t know about it. I only have one regular client, and they give me two to three projects a month. Just recently I completed a project for a new client, and the feedback I received was excellent, but they don’t publish a lot.
Do you know how much easier my life would be if I could find a few more clients and freelance full time? I would finish my teaching degree so much quicker. I would be able to go out for coffee in the morning, and spend time at the horse stable during the day, and actually have a life. AND, sit down with my laptop and work on projects that I actually enjoy.
I know this is what I need. I know this is what I should be doing.
I just don’t know how to do it.
I have a book called One Hundred and One Famous Poems (it might actually be my sister’s now that I think about it…), and I pull it out and read it once in a while. Just because.
There are two poems in this book that really stand out to me, and I read them over and over again every time I pull out this book.
The first one is “Sea Fever,” by John Masefield… I love the rhythm of this one. It soothes me.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
The second one is “Solitude,” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. This one might be more familiar, at least the first line, and I find it centers me when I need a reminder of what matters most in life.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
When I was 17, I had a crush on this boy. His name was Ben, aka Jasper. We had English and History together, but other than in class, I never talked to him. We never talked on the phone. We never hung out at lunch time or after school. But in class, we had a weird sort of connection.
Before I left Australia, I bought an empty journal for my friends to write in so I could keep a little book of memories. I gave my book to Ben to write in, and he took it home over the weekend. When he gave it back to me the next week, he had written 7 pages!
It’s not a love letter. Parts of it are even quite rude. He was sarcastic and obnoxious and immature… but he was also intelligent, and hilarious, and really, really sweet to me. And his letter means more to me than I could ever say. I take it out and read it whenever I need to experience that feeling again… that je ne sais quoi.
Dear FannyHead,
Do you want me to start of [sic] this letter with a passionate and emotionally wrenching line? “I’ve never been good at goodbyes!!” Is that good enough for you. Quite frankly I’m glad to see you leave you arrogant American. I despise you and your accent and that essay you wrote that was better than mine. I didn’t get a copy you know! Not really, I’ve actually grown quite fond of you and our intimate History and English relationship that has evolved over the past year.
(I told you he was sarcastic! Next he writes lyrics to a song by a punk band about how lost America is, and then he continues with this…)
Well it sounds too [sic] me that America isn’t the heaven that you make out. If I was to, in the near future, become President of the USA I would pass a bill banning the production of cheese. Wisconsin would become economically destroyed and you and your family would fucken starve. Nah, not really. I’d hire you as my secretary and sexually harrass you. Nah, only joking. Nah, I would pass a law banning student exchange from America to make sure that no other Australian men have to feel the same ‘pain and loss’ that I feel at your leaving. AM I FUCKEN GOOD WITH WORDS OR WHAT? You have to admit that I’m a champion letter writer. You’ll be able to brag and show all your yankee friends a letter from the most luscious and sexy Australian stud! I hope you like my letters. Your letters are alright but they lack a certain zest that only Australian letters can possess.
(we exchanged letters to pass the time in class!…)
I never thanked you for the last letter you wrote me… and I’m not going to. It’s not often that I get lost for words but I spent the last five minutes trying to decide what to write next. I don’t know whether to continue on my normal rude way, or get all emotional at the sadness and disbelief of you leaving. Fuck that. Me and you had some sicko times eh? I have to admit that English and History were probably two of my better subjects, you have to feel the same. The only reason I ever turned up to class was to pull the piss out of you so indirectly you have been a positive influence on me. And when I pull the piss out of you or your accent, you laugh and then retaliate and I laugh and then we are both laughing and you look at me in a stupid way and I tell you to fuck off and this continues until the bell goes and then we part. Until the next English or History lesson. Fuck me, I’m getting serious. I’ll let Will say his ‘fuck off’s and try and think of some more rude jokes.
(a few paragraphs from Will… then a few more smart ass paragraphs from Ben, some made-up lyrics to a really rude song, then this. The part I read over and over again…)
That song is pretty rude eh? So rude in fact, that it is beyond even my realm of rudeness. I warned you, but you didn’t listen… you innocent American. Are you going to miss me and my rudeness. I could, like all the other ignorant fools in this book write ‘please remember me,’ but I won’t. In two years you will be well and truly forgotten in my mind and I expect that Ben will be eventually lost from your vocabulary. All I want to ask is that you always value the friendships and the Australian culture that you made your own. I know that Australia isn’t paradise and I’m not fooled by your ‘I don’t want to leave’ statements, but I hope that sometime in the future, the year that you spent here will mean something. (I’m being serious now so saviour [sic] it). The way I look at it our lives are simply large rocks and we are the sculptors. With every experience we have and decision we make the rock is chipped away until we are left with the final product. Either a disaster, or a masterpiece and I’m sure that your decision to come here will help shape that masterpiece. I know that in the big scheme of life we will have forgotten each other in a matter of years, but I know that every American I ever meet will revive memories about our time together. You have an aura of confidence that even seeps into me sometimes and I’m sure that you will find meaning and purpose along whatever path you choose. I hope you build your own path and one day our paths may cross but I know that won’t happen. Goodbyes are good in a way. They show all the shallow people that all the trivial things in life, such as friendships with American exchange students, are often the most valuable.
And he signs it, Kiss my ass – Jasper.
I don’t know what happened to Ben. I haven’t talked to him since I left. He’s one of the few I haven’t been able to find on facebook. And I haven’t even asked my Aussie friends where he is. He’s probably married, with a couple of kids, a beautiful wife, and a very successful career. He was going places back then, and I have no doubt that he got there. I never told him how much his letter meant to me… but it sure takes me back. To that time. To that feeling. To that person I was then. That year was the most amazing year of my life. Thanks, in part, to Ben.
