The Good Typist

Book Review: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking

2012-02-05T14:06:00.000-08:00

Book Review

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking

"Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know." -- Lao Zi

A number of blurbs on Susan Cain’s book “Quiet” describe it as “exhaustively researched”, and they are correct. Cain, true to her introverted nature, digs deep and takes nothing at face value. Just when you think a question has been answered, she comes at it again from yet another angle, and another, gently but persistently coaxing every drop of knowledge she can from her impressive cache of resources.

“Quiet” covers an incredible breadth of territory, exploring in-depth the cultural, historical, and biochemical basis of introversion. But what I found most interesting about the book was its examination of how deeply ingrained the ideal of extroversion is in American society, and how our blindness to the gifts that introverts bring has enormous, if mostly unseen, costs. As an introvert who has often felt misunderstood and devalued in a culture where the loud and loquacious prevail, “Quiet” was very reassuring. Like most introverts, I have frequently been told to:

Learn to be outgoing
“Put myself out there” more
Come out of my shell
Stop thinking about things so much
Let my “real personality” come through

…and other helpful suggestions. Cain has a much different perspective on introversion, framing it as a strength rather than a pathology, and citing the hidden powers inherent in the trait. One of the most compelling parts of the book for me was the opening story, where Cain described an introverted attorney trying to broker a negotiation between two high-powered, dogged, and extroverted forces. At first, she struggles, but because she does not feel a need to shout and posture, she goes silent and deep, listening to carefully to both sides, taking the time to think, analyze, and ask meaningful questions. Eventually her quiet, listening-based approach yields a huge win-win for both parties, and a job offer from her company’s competitor. Such stories are peppered throughout the book, culminating in several chapters in which she provides excellent advice about the proper care of introverted children. (Hint—there is nothing “wrong” with your introverted child. Let them be themselves, and give them time and space to be alone and explore their interests. Left to be themselves, introverted children can eventually become strong and respected leaders among their peers.)

I also found the research in the first part of the book to be fascinating and eye-opening. Cain describes in detail numerous long-term studies showing that introversion is not a personality flaw, but an inherent, biochemically-based trait that cannot be changed. The neural pathways and chemical make-up of introverts is profoundly different from that of extroverts, making introverts much more sensitive to external stimuli. This trait is present at birth, and does not change. In one long-term study, babies were presented with array of loud, colorful, and frequently changing stimulus. Some of the babies cried, kicked, and became very agitated in the face of stimulus, while the other babies watched calmly and were “low-reactive”. The high-reactive babies became introverted children and introverted adults, and remained that way throughout their lives. The low-reactive babies became extroverted adults, and described themselves as needing a great deal of external stimulus to feel pleasure and excitement. (I won’t go into the details of the how’s and why’s of the brain-chemistry differences here, but you can find that information in the book or by looking up the studies.)

I immediately recognized introverted traits in myself—easily overstimulated and tired by too much novelty, needing long expanses of quiet and alone-time to recharge, and needing to keep my external environment serene and free of chaos in order to thrive. Although I understand intellectually that my introversion is not a disorder, but an inherent part of my make-up, it can be very hard not see it as a personality flaw in the face of constant pressure to be loud, outgoing, hyper-sociable, and gregarious. In American society, the garrulous are rewarded and complimented, while the quiet are often dismissed or overlooked. Reading about the unseen gifts of introversion (among them listening skills, deep powers of concentration and analysis, creativity, a keen sense of observation, and empathy), reminded me that I don’t have to change who I am in order to succeed, but that I can be successful in my high-visibility, people-intensive career because of—not in spite of—my introversion. In fact, Cain cites several samples of introverts who have thrived in unlikely professions like sales and public speaking.

However, Cain’s goal is not to knock extroverts or create a society of all-introverts. She is generous in giving credit where credit is due, even citing an all-introvert conference on high sensitivity she attended as part of her book research. She describes feeling that without the extroverts to “get things going” and facilitate socializing, the conference was almost too quiet; a little lackluster. Cain is only asking that we all occasionally quiet down a little, step out of the spotlight, and give the floor to that soft-spoken person in the back of the room who has been listening carefully, and has raised her hand because she something meaningful to say.

--Kristen McHenry

A History of Lessons on the Nature of Work

2012-01-29T11:31:00.000-08:00

A History of Lessons on the Nature of Work

I was told it was heavy.

I was told it was heavy, and brought no reward.

I was told it was a given.

I was told to expect nothing from it.

I was told that in its throes I would have no power.

I was told that its labors would be endless.

I was told that planning doesn’t help.

I was told to make a plan.

I was told I should be grateful.

I was told that the dispassionate succeed.

I was told that pragmatism trumps fulfillment.

I was told that repetition is the stuff of life.

I was told that a task is a task is a task.

I was told it was not the in labor but in the execution.

I was given a stone on which was carved the word “dream.”

I was given a workshop on manifesting my potential.

I was given a poster of a white bird following its bliss.

I was given this phrase: do what you love and the money will follow.

I was given this phrase: the money will follow.

I was given little in terms of benefits.

I was given a bill for every overdraft.

I was given a lesson in floral watercolor.

I was given more than one certification.

I was always given something weighty, and difficult to do.

I gave a promise: I will work hard at something difficult.

I keep to my desk, my heart and eyes compliant.

--Kristen McHenry

Notes from a Week of Snow, Wind and Fire

2012-01-21T16:07:00.000-08:00

The New Furniture Cascade Effect, Mr. Typist's Long-Buried Artistic Flair, and "The Final Say"

The problem with our new furniture is that its presence makes all of our old furniture look absurdly shabby, and not shabby in a trendy, distressed “cottage by the sea” kind of way, but shabby in a way that makes it appear that the apartment is occupied by someone suffering from a split personality disorder; one, a penniless art student with indifferent taste in pressboard tables, and one, a gainfully employed adult who considers things like “color palettes.”

I used to want to be an interior designer, but I’d get mentally exhausted thinking about the sheer number of decisions that would need to be made about granite countertops and window dressings, and I gave up on that idea. It turns out that even making decisions about lamps tries my patience after about fifteen minutes. With the new furniture, our Goodwill-purchased, rusted wrought-iron floor lamp that we’ve had since we moved into together some twelve years ago looked so bad neither of us could take it anymore. We made a trek out to buy replacement lamps last weekend, and something I’ve always suspected was confirmed: Mr. Typist has long-repressed artistic talents. His Asperberger’s-ish personality and eagle eye for detail somehow allowed him the stamina to choose two beautiful, aesthetically compatible lamps long after had I sunk, stupefied and visually overstimulated, into one of Fancy Lamp Store’s display chairs and refused to move or open my eyes.

It turns out we’re a good match when it comes to Picking Things Out Together. I go completely by impulse and instinct; pointing to whatever captures my imagination. Then, when I get overwhelmed by choices, (usually after about ten minutes) he’s able to take on the detail work, searching for flaws, comparing styles, and sizing up color matching, space, and pricing all with computer-like speed and accuracy, while I nap in the background.

Of course, there is still the pervasive idea floating around that as the woman, I am supposed to have “final say” on such things. Even after Mr. Typist has coolly calculated every factor and come up with the optimal choice without batting eye or getting panicky and stressed out like I do, he always says, “It’s really your decision. You have the final say, you know.” When I’ve told males about our new furniture-buying exploits, they all chortle and say, “Well we all know who really makes the decisions on that.” I’m just excited to learn that having a vagina gives me some mysterious, genetic furniture-selecting advantage that I never even knew I had! Next, my vagina and I are going to pick out a dining room set. I can’t wait!

Delirious? Or, the Poet within Me Rears its Addled Head

As a part of a volunteer-based prevention program I’ll be helping to launch at work, I recently went to a conference on Delirium, which was thoroughly excellent. However, towards the end, when they were going through some of the protocols for assessment, one of the questions to ask a patient was, “Can a stone float on water?” I found myself completely confused by this inquiry. My first instinct was to answer, “Yes, of course.” The audience, made up almost entirely of nurses, (with the exception of me), understood right away that a stone doesn’t float on water, but their chorus of “no’s” puzzled me for a moment. They're evidence thinkers. I had to consider the question for a full minute before I realized that a stone cannot float on water; that the question is scientific, not metaphorical. Then I had a terrible thought: What if I have been I myself have been in a state of delirium all of this time--my entire life? Confused, engaged in disorganized thinking, agitated, suspicious, unaware of where I actually am, and of what is happening to me?

It’s a unnerving thought that hasn't entirely left me yet.

New Review!

There is a new review of my book up at Prick of the Spindle! It makes me happy that it’s getting some positive press, and that the reviewer appreciates Chella Courington’s work as much as I do.

Will Introverts Get Their Due at Last?

I was browsing my Kindle the other night for new books to buy, and I was dizzy with excitement to find the following title, to be released on January 24th: “Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking”.

From the blurb: “Passionately argued, impressively researched, and filled with indelible stories of real people, Quiet shows how dramatically we undervalue introverts, and how much we lose in doing so.“

I am very excited to read this book! I’m really happy to see a book on the market that does not pathologize introversion or frame it as something to be “fixed.” It’s refreshing to find a (quiet, well-modulated) voice for introversion among the culture sea of chattering extroverts.

Navigating my introversion in a position that requires managing a volunteer staff of 175+ and having constant interaction with the public has been an enormous challenge, and has led to terrible misunderstandings more than once. My feelings are often deeply hurt by people who misread my actions, and I am certain that I have caused hurt feelings in others due to my introversion. I hope that as more books like this hit the popular market, it will help the lives of introverts get a little easier and less painful.

A Brief PSA Regarding the Term "Young Lady" as Applied to a 42-Year Old, Credentialed Professional:

If you are considering calling a professional, 40-something female co-worker who you barely know a “young lady” and giving her patronizing advice about how she should be managing her time, maybe you should first consider the fact that this will make you come across like a jerk and an asshat. That is all. Cue tinkly piano music now.

Writing Update:

I am in a weird place with the writing...still feeling a strong impulse to branch out, but forcing myself to come back to poetry, even though it's not working very well for me right now. Last weekend, I took a stab at starting a novel, but I feel funny about it, like it makes me undisciplined and unfocused; like I shouldn't be egomaniacial enough to assume I can "cross over" into anything new. I am reading dire warnings about not trying to become a "cross-over" writer, which are depressing me, but I continue to read them.

Right now, I'm just letting the writing be what it is--a big sad sloppy mess.

--Kristen McHenry

How to Cry at Work

2012-01-08T15:12:00.000-08:00

How to Cry at Work: An Essay

“Emotions and good judgment do not go hand-in-hand.”—A commenter on The Harvard Business Review Blog

To cry, to well up, to lament, blubber, keen, or wail--all are unforgivable. Crying, one shows an unseemly level of engagement, a lack of ability to maintain objectivity and distance; one shows weakness, femininity and its inherent manipulations, that are you easily broken, that you are sickly in hue, a wreck, battered, without backbone, pallid and brittle and girly and irrational. That you are so willing to show your cards, so willing to crumble, that you would go unarmed into battle, stripped down to nothing, a mewling milksop in your soft pink skin, pouring out everywhere, inciting terror if you are a woman, disgust if you are a man, for weeping is the most ruinous of acts; better to embezzle, to stalk, to maim, than allow that most evil of elements, the unspeakable fluid, to stream from that which you have failed to weld closed against your enemies, that you have failed to shore up properly, that you have failed to forge and strengthen in the fires of rage and ego, that you have, through lack of willpower let become assailable, a site of invasion for your impotence.

And more unforgivable even in women, for your strength is not for you but for those who come after, for those who will walk upon your proving-grounds, for those who must overcome their inherent failures, the mutations of their sex, the way they leak naturally from every pore, their proneness to flowing, like they are not indeed a kind of soldier, but beings receptive and astute. More unforgivable even in women, who can use such weakness as a weapon, who incite protectiveness, who are perhaps unsuited anyway to the demands, the pressure, competition, the machismo, the aggression, required to succeed. More unforgivable even in women, to fail all those who have come before, those who have marched forward in stoic competence, who have proven that instinct can, in fact, be vanquished.

Therefore, if you are so beside yourself that you are unable to gather yourself, to collect yourself, to get your bearings, to pick yourself up, to pull yourself together, if you must cry at work, you must do so only in secret; you must allow yourself at most three minutes (to be deducted from your break), and two tissues of the rougher variety, and you must do so behind a locked door, preferably a bathroom stall, shrouded in dankness with the water running, all the while crippled with acute awareness of the humiliation you are bringing upon yourself, your gender, your teammates, your organization, your profession, your boss, and indeed, polite society, all of whom expected more from you, all of whom would find you in this moment the weakest and most threatening of beings.

--Kristen McHenry

Own All the Things! Or, How I Learned to Quit Worrying and Embrace My Inner Materialist

2012-01-01T17:13:00.000-08:00

Image by JC Sparks

Own All the Things! Or, How I Learned to Quit Worrying and Embrace My Inner Materialist

Mr. Typist and I took a giant leap forward yesterday and finally brought real, honest-to-God grown-up furniture to replace the pathetic excuse of a broken-down futon that has been passing for a sofa since we got married. Of course, us being us, we first had to have a huge fight about it, since, depending on who you talk to, he was being patronizing, domineering, and completely un-fun, or, I was being irrational and having emotions when I shouldn’t have been. Or, I was yelling at him for no reason at all. Or he just bloody didn’t get it. Or, I was being spatially inept and he had to do all of the hard thinking. After several teary, heated hours and my sobbing declaration that I didn’t give a damn about a new sofa and we could just die on that crappy futon as far as I was concerned, we finally worked through it and headed off to the home store, where we managed to make a final decision without strangling each other on the demo couches.

Of course, nothing is ever that simple. Replacing the futon has elevated everything to a new level. Now that we will have nice furniture to sit on, we will need to replace all of over the other shabby crap, too. It’s hard to imagine, but we may soon be eating on a proper table that we don’t have to assemble from a box. We may replace our light-wood bookcase to match the new dark brown recliner and sofa. This will almost inevitably lead to a real TV stand to replace the old steamer trunk it’s sitting on now. We could very well become the kind of people who make intentional decisions about our material surroundings, instead simply accepting by default whatever we happen to have lying around because “it’s good enough” or, “it’s got a lot of wear left in it.”

I’ve always had a horror of being trapped by material things—of being “owned” by a house, a high-status car, too many possessions, or too-expensive possessions that I would then be accountable to fuss over and protect and fear for constantly. I made a decision a long time ago that I would never allow material items to have power over my life. I valued the freedom to move through my existence without debt, with low overhead, and the freedom to change locations, jobs or even whole careers as I so chose, without being weighed down, trapped, and smothered by a house or a need for “things.” I told myself that this was a marker of spiritual maturity and responsible citizenship. But as I age and become a more grounded, settled person, I am beginning to see that my horror of owning possessions is less about spiritual purity and more about fear, lack of trust, and even a lack of self-respect.

I grew up moving frequently, and not having much of sense of ever owning anything—even the furniture in the military housing we lived in wasn’t owned by us, and was always left behind for the next transitory family. I never developed a healthy respect for possessions, or an appropriate reverence for what it meant to own something of value. The whole idea felt scary to me, and I never felt up to the overwhelming task of intentionally choosing and purchasing anything for longevity or quality. I have often irrationally feared that the moment I become “greedy” and reach out for something nice, I will lose my job, my health, and financial security as punishment. I am afraid I will ruin or break anything of real value. Finally, I associate material things with commitment—and commitment is frightening to me. For a great deal of my life, commitment has meant entrapment, rather than it’s more positive counterpart of grounding, laying down roots, and working diligently through difficulties on behalf of a better future. As long as everything I bought—clothes, jewelry, even cars—was cheap and disposable, I had no responsibility to it. I was free, and I was unaccountable. And I could always hold on to my petty sense superiority over those I knew who were obsessed with brands and ownership; who I saw as being stifled by debt and the need to keep up appearances.

I am now coming to accept that upgrading the old, worn-out, and broken things in my life is not a lapse into wholesale greed and shallow materialism, but a statement about who I am, and my worth. Holding onto cheap, ugly things that no longer serve me is not mature, but self-defeating and self-punitive. I am slowly beginning to trust that things will be okay, that the bottom is most likely not going to drop out of my life at a moment’s notice, and that I can make serious, adult commitments. I recognize that spiritual maturity lies not in refusing to acknowledge the existence of the material plane, but accepting it, joyfully allowing quality possessions into my life, and trusting myself to own them without being owned by them.

And our new living room? It's going to be fabulous!

--Kristen McHenry

Shabby Chic

2012-01-01T14:32:00.000-08:00

Shabby Chic

It’s not so hard once you get it, she explains.
The main thing is building

backwards convincingly, layering on

a past where there was none. Then,

to conceive the toll of weather. I need

a better chisel for distressing, but I don’t
work much lately anyhow, just

come in here to touch the wood.

Well it’s not work work anyway. It doesn’t

exactly an income make,

but Rob’s never said anything. I want

to start painting them someday.

Long vines of

wet plum buds, rings

of hearts, silvery pink, cardinal

licks of sun, a clan of moss-hues, and this

blue they’re calling Bondi now, but I

consider Peacock. Peacock

feathers, too--why not? Something vain and lavish.

We walk down to buy her herbs:

Black Walnut, Boneset,

Oak Moss, Sassafras, and Vetivert.

For grounding, she explains,

measuring their weight.

There’s probably no market

for bureaus like that anyway. The look

is all aged wood now,

authenticity is big. To take

an intact piece and batter it for aging. Just

as violent as making something

beautiful, but of course that’s
been passe for a while.

We share Sassafras tea as she

thumbs through Dwell and Domicile,

gazing at the end tables. The trick

is in the lighting, she explains.

Even pressboard looks appealing in a sunbeam.

When she’s a real decorator, she’ll only furnish

houses for rainy states, where the

gloom burnishes her painted vines, and each

gaudy bud illuminates itself.

--Kristen McHenry

Table Fountains, Shoddy Retail, and Trouble with Object Permanence

2011-12-18T09:26:00.000-08:00

Table Fountains, Shoddy Retail, and Trouble with Object Permanence

Yesterday I figured I would dash off to the mall real quick-like, knock off all my Christmas and office-deco shopping, and be home in time for a long session of writing in the afternoon. Oh, the naivety, the absurd optimism! The entire ordeal turned into a 10-hour long trek that ended with me wearily slumped over a Denny’s breakfast special, while my bruised left knee groaned and turned three shades of purple.

The problem wasn’t the gifts. The problem was the seemingly mythic table fountain that I have become obsessed with obtaining for my office. My office is a bit of a Feng-Shui nightmare, a smallish, dim, cave-like affair stuffed in the back of a large work-space area and a kitchenette. I finally managed to clear out 30 years’ worth of dead files, grime and clutter that I inherited when I started the job a few months ago, and in its new lovely emptiness, the space has been calling to me: I need flowing water! I need color! I need something bright and beautiful on the back wall! I need deep green plants!

I am trying to give the space everything it wants, but it is a slow and clunky process. In retrospect, I think that I’ve been ruined by watching too many home-improvement shows: Benevolent, gifted folk show up out of nowhere, whisk into the hapless owner’s space, whirl around with a little paint and fabric, and viola! In mere minutes, the living room is magically transformed from dull and shlumpy to beautiful haven! It all seems so effortless. The perfect objects materialize out of nowhere, and no one gets sore feet or bangs their knee on a metal shelf.

In the spirit of such magical haven-making, I have been determined to find a nice stone table fountain; the perfect stone table fountain, in fact. The very table fountain that will single-handedly provide clarity, groundedness, and serenity to my workspace, and by proxy, to me. The table fountain that will be the exact alchemical magic needed to soothe my anxiety and allow me to flow calmly through my work day, handling daily crisis’s with ease and grace.

Well, that fucking fountain doesn’t exist.

I’m not going to name names, but the first place I tried was in the mall, at that one specialty retail shop that is known for fancy wine-opening gadgets, Shiatsu pillows, and fluffy slippers. And that was pretty much the extent of their inventory. (Sadly, they’ve really taken a nosedive. They used to have truly innovative and interesting products, but no more.) Then I tried the gardening and home sections Big Home Improvement Store One and Big Home Improvement Store Two. Store One’s floor worker just shrugged indifferently in answer to my inquiry, and Store Two’s clerk snapped that there was “no more inventory.” I tried three large generic department stores, and two big famous local gardening shops. I had a moment of glorious hope when I found a small neighborhood store devoted to lawn and garden art, but that was quickly crushed when I realized their cheapest fountain was over $150.00 and featured a stone Buddha. (Displaying religious symbols of any kind in my office isn’t a good idea.)

I finally found a single, slightly shoddy ceramic fountain in Generic Department Store Four. It wasn’t ideal, but I figured it would do after a little gussying up and some personal touches. I finally made it home at 6:00 p.m., opened the fountain, and discovered it was missing the pump.

I slogged all the way back Generic Store, waited in the return line, and told the lady that the pump was missing from the fountain. She said, “Huh. Well just go grab one from one of the other fountain boxes” But, I explained, that would leave someone else in the same situation I was in, with a fountain and no pump. *Sigh*.

In the end it all worked out, because when I was looking at pumps, I happened to find a very nice blue ceramic globe fountain tucked away on one the shelves—complete with working pump! I took it home and tested it. It’s pretty. And I am certain that is will do exactly everything I expect of it, and transform my little bat-cave into a soothing paradise optimally designed to support my spiritual and professional growth.

Serene, graceful, clear-thinking me—here I come!

--Kristen McHenry

Purpose

2011-12-04T15:42:00.000-08:00

Another Draft in the Work Series

After a few frustrating rounds of writer's block, here's another draft of the poem in the series on work. This is probably the last poem of the series that I'll post here as I start to delve into into with a bit more intent.

Purpose

A single percentage point reduction in unemployment increases predicted deaths from heart attack by about 1.3 percent.—From The National Bureau of Economic Research

That we may prepare

for a whole day of usefulness,

repeat: A heart without work

weighs a third more.

Even hands of the inert

float towards the instinct
of production:

Knitting bag, flour and milk, stain and

raw wood. Even a dozing

cat dreams back the hunt, bats

at an absence of prey. It is not for us

to court stillness, to tempt

Winter and be idle during harvest.

ll.

Mom priced product

nights at Pic & Pac, furious

about everything

from Wrigley’s to Cascade. Once

she counted

two hundred and six

brands of deodorant. “That’s just

brands alone,” she seethed, “not

counting stick or aerosol.”

Dad came home

each night in uniform,

scrawny and diesel-soaked, as Mom

shuffled to her bus. We weren’t

to talk to him

after his Hard Days. We understood

completely. It took it

out of him, those men

with power, minor but absolute.

Those men, with wordless

inscrutable wars, and

everything at stake.

My first job

was a paper route, three nights

a week in all weather. I remember

how important burden felt, the

crushing pouch

biting at my shoulders

as I stepped into the black of stars and snow.

The relentless

strain of it felt right, like

this, indeed, was work.

Like this indeed, was what a living meant.

lll.

A heart

without work is a heart

unleashed from usefulness,

freed

to grin up at God

who has perfected idleness.

A heart without work is

formless, no longer in waiting.

A heart

without work

can know itself only

in its truest form: beautifully

unsung and of no service.

--Kristen McHenry

Writing by Dreamlight, Toeing at Boundaries, and "The Swim"

2011-11-26T15:18:00.000-08:00

Writing by Dreamlight, Toeing at Boundaries, and "The Swim

Lately, I've been dreaming about writing a lot. Waking up, catching a thread of narrative or a line of a poem that I am determined to hold onto, only to have it vanish only seconds later. Dreaming of writing short stories. Dreaming of expanding my writing horizons into short stories, novels, or some form other, mysterious form that only makes sense to me only in dreams. Sometimes I dream that I have written entire short stories or long poems. I see them on the page but they vanish the moment I rise to the surface of consciousness.

I see myself--now at least--as primarily a poet. I've dabbled here and there with short stories and even novels but nothing much ever came of them. As I have begun to write a new series about work, I am feeling an expansion within me, a strong urge push beyond limiting myself to "only" poetry, and to explore some more expansive forms of writing. Short stories? The now defunct and oft-slighted form of Magical Realism, which I am only now beginning to discover and love, long after its heyday? I don't know. I just know that there is a voice that is rising up and pushing my writing past "just" poetry; a need to push past some boundaries I've set for myself. This is probably very foolish and possibly even vain, but it's also very compulsive, and the more I fight it, the less I am able to write, to flow with what's going on in my head.

I've written only one short story I've ever been happy with. In the spirit of nostalgia and longing and mid-winter angst and my own desire to delve back into my past longing to write short stories, I'm posting the story in it's entirety here. It was written at least four years ago, before I started writing poetry. It came out of a larger concept of linked stories, none of which I have completed, of course.

Enjoy!

--Kristen McHenry

The Swim

I’m furious. Lucretia, that gother-than-thou little bitch upstart, got the Saturday night shift and she’s only been here a week. Drake knows I’ve been after that shift for months, that bastard. I’ve paid my dues around here but he’s still mad about the time I called in sick three days in a row. He’s thinks he’s showing me, but what’s going to happen is that I’m going to show him. I’m going to shove a drink tray right up his pleather-clad ass and I’m going rip his stud out with my bare hands. But what happens is I cry. When Sean left me, I got behind on rent and I need those tips, but that doesn’t soften his heart any, no sir, not Drake. Lucretia upsold more in her first week than I have in a year, and the primo shifts go to the peak performers. Drake is a capitalist yuppie pig in filed canines, and I hate him. I leave his stud alone but I do flip him off and on my way out I knock a full bottle of Maker’s Mark off the bar onto the concrete floor; splat. Fuck ‘em. I’m going to get a job at Dante’s and clean up on Slave Nights. They’ll love me. I light a cigarette in the parking lot and key Drake’s Mazarati.

On the bus a pregnant woman is hogging the last empty seat. “Excuse me,” I say. “Just so you know, I have cancer and I’m very weak from chemotherapy right now.” I glare at her until she gets up and waddles to another seat. Sucker. “What the fuck are you looking at?” I snap at the passengers. “Haven’t you ever seen anyone dying of cancer before?” I flop onto the seat and crank up my I-Pod. Stupid people everywhere. Someone left some stupid brochure stuffed into the seat crack. I pick it up and look at it so I don’t have to look at people’s bland idiot faces.

On the front is the giant slick gray nose of a dolphin, bright black eyes and a big embecile smile, with a rainbow coming out its head. “Essence of the Dolphin Experience” is scrawled across the top in curly writing.

"Imagine being bathed in the warm, gentle, aquamarine waters of Bimini, flowing in complete synchronicity with your dolphin friends in a new and magical environment. Feel the alignment of every nerve and fiber of your being, and a heightened ability to take charge of your life and guide it by design, accessing your 'Super Self'. "

"Essence of the Dolphin Experience is a blend of exhilarating physical and mental activities which expand self-concept, clarify life vision, and provide tools with which to achieve that vision. This powerful combination adds up to the ultimate in a transformative vacation."

I need a trip. I need a vacation on the water. That fucker Sean owes me a trip to Essence of the Dolphin Experience so I can get over him dumping me for that vapid blonde skank. I get off the bus two stops earlier than normal and walk around the back of Sean’s place; a shit basement apartment in a duplex with rotting wood and old sliding windows. The blinds are still bent in the same place and stained piss yellow with cigarette smoke. He always keeps the window open, even in the winter. He’ll be playing his gig at Sonick and then be out with his friends sucking down shots at Atlas all night. I reach my hand through the gap and slide the window open all the way, easy as grease. I brace myself on the wet grass and work my way in, feeling for the pull chain on the Rainier beer light. It clicks on just like old times, and I can see the mirrored closet door glowing blue and orange in its light. The little chip on the left side that I used to stare at during sex is still there. I open the closet and find the sport sock where he keeps his emergency stash. I count out all the cash. I go through the apartment for signs of the blonde skank, but I don’t see anything of her. I pop the top off a Bud in the fridge and chug it, then for good measure I swipe the dime bag in the cupboard behind a row of dusty soup cans.

I’m going. I’m going to have the biggest experience of all of them all. They’re all going to be in awe of my deep connection to the dolphin force and the instructor will say, the student has surpassed her teacher, and I’m going to get special privileges and live out my days on the dolphin boats in Bimini, blowing whistles and bossing around encounter groups.

I start making calls and then I’m on the plane and then I’m in a cab and then I’m standing in a tiny room with a fat woman named Luminous. Luminous has long grey wavy hair and is the type who wears purple caftans.

“Did you make that name up or were your parents hippies?” I ask.

She just looks at me calmly. “Can we have a conversation about establishing some boundaries for our time together?”

Luminous has special needs around the lighting, Luminous doesn’t want any meat brought into the in the room because the smell lowers her energy vibrations, Luminous would like her morning and evening meditation times respected, and Luminous is sensitive to “all manner” of chemically-based hygiene products. “Would you be willing to respect those requests?” asks Luminous.

“Whatever.”

She smiles like she’s fucking St. Teresa. “Do you any have requests of me?”

“Yeah. Leave me the fuck alone.” I flop onto the bed and cover my eyes with my forearm.

At night after Luminous finally falls asleep and starts snoring, I take my baggie of weed and go out on the deck and look over the water. I look for the dolphins. I want to be the first to spot one.

In the morning, Luminous wakes me up with her Patchouli stench. I’m slow and congested from a pot hangover and my mouth feels sticky. “Awareness group is starting” she informs me.

The group leader is Teddy. We’re supposed to close our eyes and tune in to the energy of the dolphins. We’re supposed to ask the dolphins for a message. Teddy has a hemp bracelet on his arm and long brown hair. He’s kind of hot. I stare at him, thinking of ways I could shock him in the sack. Thinking of things I know about sex that he probably doesn’t on account of his being on the boat all the time communing with dolphins.

As we suit up, this skinny girl named Haley looks over the bow and shrieks, and there they are, four of them, following the boat. I’m scared of the dolphins and I don’t know how to swim, but I dive over the rail and after a minute in the cold my muscles burn and I’m short of breath. And one of them is here, suddenly, right next to me, with its wrinkled charcoal eye and its downturned smile. Its skin is slick and blue and it’s looking at me with this awful kindness, and I feel my chest fill up with hurt, so much hurt I feel like I’m going blow apart. I hit him at hard as I can on the nose with my fist. He shrinks back like a flame and then he’s just a quicksilver trail, his wake washing over my ribs.

"Wait!!" I scream. I push as hard as I can against the water, trying to find him, trying to chase him, to get him to come back to me, but he’s far ahead, gone.

I’m in my quarters spraying Aqua Net on Luminous’s pillow when Teddy shows up in the doorway. He looks indignant and stricken at the same time. “Were you aware of our rules about interfering with the dolphin’s natural environment?”

“I guess.”

“I need to let you know that by hitting the dolphin today, you violated those rules. And anyone in violation of those rules is asked to leave The Essence of the Dolphin Experience.”

“Do you even care about my side of it?”

“We’ll have a cab waiting to pick you up when we get back to shore. It would probably be more comfortable for you if you had your belongings packed and ready to go at that time.”

“What about the encounter group? I’m entitled to be at group. I paid fair and square like everyone else.”

“I’m sorry Evie. I think it would be best for the group and for you if you just focused on packing your belongings before we dock.” Joseph nodded and turned to leave.

“You know that shitty little bastard tried to attack me, don’t you?” I screamed. “He came right at me his big stupid smile and I thought he was going to rip me to shreds. I felt violated!”

But Teddy had already vanished to the deck. I throw Luminous’s bottle of Eucalyptus oil after him, which cracks and slithers down the door in a wet thud instead of ear-splitting shatter I was hoping for.

At the airport, I drink three mimosas in the Space Lounge, and lurch onto the plane, sore and irritable. I tipped my chair back and curl up on my side, looking out the tiny window at the gray tarmac. When I fall asleep, I dream of the dolphin. He swims back to me, his eyes black and bright, and I follow in his wake, flowing along in the water, momentum moving me forward, blending, no effort, space opening up around me, the deep blue rushing into my ears.

--Kristen McHenry

Ten Things People Feel Perfectly Free to Say to Me about My Non-Childed Status:

2011-11-13T11:50:00.000-08:00

Ten Things People Feel Perfectly Free to Say to Me about My Non-Childed Status:

But what do you do in all of your spare time?

Personally, I just wouldn’t feel whole as a woman if I hadn’t experienced childbirth.

I know you think you're getting away with it now, but did you ever consider the fact that you’ll be old and alone?

I'm not trying to tell you what to do--I just think it’s sad that you’re never going to know real love.

But what holds your marriage together if you don’t have kids?

I didn’t want kids either, until I met the man I truly loved.

But without the demands of kids, how are you going to learn how not to be selfish?

Fortunately, most of society does the right thing and contributes to the tax base by having children.

What’s the point of even having a home, if you don’t have little ones to fill it with?

But if you don’t have kids, what’s going to make you care about your community or the future of the world?

--Kristen McHenry

Two Quick Hits on Dyslexic Literature

2011-11-13T09:54:00.000-08:00

"Forgotten Letters" is a new anthology edited by Nim Folb, featuring the work of dyslexic writers. I'm honored to have six of my poems featured in the anthology! You can learn more about the anthology and read sample poems from the book here: http://www.r-a-s-p.co.uk/

Also, Dana Guthrie-Martin and I are gearing up to launch the first issue of "Voices of Dyslexia", an online journal featuring the work of dyslexic artists and writers. We're excited about the format we've chosen and very proud of our first featured poet, to be announced soon!

--Kristen McHenry

Sunday List: The Unbearable Okay-ness of Being

2011-11-06T20:02:00.001-08:00

Sunday List: The Unbearable Okay-ness of Being

1. In Over My Head

2. Beside Myself

3. Begrudging People with Firm Ideas about What it Means to be Okay

4. Realizing That I am a Person with Firm Ideas about What it Means to be Okay

5. Craving Pickles But Not Correspondingly Pregnant

6. Waiting for my Perpetually-Unsorted Laundry to Dry

7. Wanting a Brain-Vacation

8. Decidedly Not Going to the Gym

9. Considering Pizza

10. Wondering Where the Cat Got Off To

11. Setting the Alarm with Vague Dread

12. Reflecting on the Fact that I May Have Shopping A.D.D.

13. Feeling Guilty about Spending Too Much on My Favorite Perfume

14. Wondering if Putting Everything in Caps is Diluting the Message

15. Angry About the City-Wide Lack of My Favored Gel Pens

16. Haunted by My Blank Journal

17. Wanting to Watch T.V.

18. Feeling Self-Righteous for Not Watching T.V.

19. Agonizing over How Fat I Look in Pictures These Days, And How Little I am Willing to Forgo Eating to Correct This Condition.

20. Thinking One Day I Should Buy A House

21. Realizing I am Too Apathetic to Care for an Entire House

22. Wondering if This Means I Need Anti-Depressants

23. Considering What to Do With An Entire Extra Hour

24. Realizing I Have Wasted My Entire Extra Hour

25. Reading “The Watchtower” And Wishing for Solid Answers to Life’s Big Questions

26. Finally Turning on the TV and Watching That Show about People Who Go Around Bidding On Storage Lockers

27. Realizing that in Spite of Everything, I’m Probably, Relatively, Pretty Much Okay.

Kristen McHenry

Book Launch Party: The Full Report!

2011-10-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

Book Launch Party: The Full Report!

The luxury hotel of a
jet-setting author.

My fives of readers may remember in my last post where I was hesitating about going to Canton because I was all worried about my boarding pass and getting lost in O’Hare and chemical leaks in the hotel. Well, it all came true!!! My boarding pass didn't work on my i–phone and I had to jump the line and go print one out on the little kiosk thingy and then run back to the long queue and wait again… and I did get hugely lost in O’Hare, and all panicky and disoriented, but then they delayed my flight for four hours anyway, and the hotel…while I didn't actually experience a chemical spill per se…let’s just say they were “renovating” (see photo) and leave it at that. Plus, there was the enhanced pat-down at SeaTac, which is a topic for another post.

But no matter! In spite of these minor glitches, it was a gorgeous evening filled with some of the most warm and welcoming people I have ever met. I have a total crush on Canton, OH now. The launch was attended by supporters of Jessica Bennett, founder of Indigo Ink Press, board members of Indigo Ink Press and Arts in Stark, (a non-profit that supports the arts in Stark County), members of the Canton Chamber of Commerce, luminaries from the English department at Walsh University, and a lively assortment of local artists and arts supporters. The event was held in the storefront of Buzzbin Magazine, a local paper focused on arts and cultural events in Canton, Akron and Cleveland.

Many of the attendees were part of a determined if slightly beleaguered group of artists, writers, and arts supporters who are working diligently to revitalize the arts in Canton, in spite of struggling in an area hit especially hard by the Great Recession. Among other things, Canton is renting out its ever-emptying downtown retail space to artists at very low rates, (Dear Seattle—kindly follow their example before artists are priced out of this city entirely), and hosting Art Walks every month that continue to grow in popularity and bring business into the downtown area.

Captain Kirk, looking spiff!

They were such a genuine and welcoming bunch that despite my normally introverted personality and horror at being the focus anyone’s attention, I felt at home and comfortable right away. I opened by reading one of my poems, then the audience members came up one by one and read their favorite poems from either “Triplicity” or Chella Couringtons’ “Paper Covers Rock”. They all did an amazing job, but several of the readings were absolutely breathtaking, notably Barbara’s reading of my poem “Orchid”, which gave me chills. Chella thoroughly charmed the audience with two poems she pre-recorded via webcam. And to my amazement, Captain Kirk himself showed up to read, "Spock: A Romance in Quotes!" It was a so much fun to hear both Chella and my poems being read aloud by people who genuinely liked them.

I closed out the evening with a final reading, and afterwards, we all crowded into Bender’s Restaurant for a late-night meal, conversation, and drinks. When the desert came, my crème brulee had a candle it in, and they all sang me Happy Birthday! The next morning, Jessica picked me up from the hotel and we had coffee in the Canton airport. I got a crash course in publishing, which was interesting if slightly gloom-tinged. We hugged goodbye and I hopped the plane back to Seattle.

The audience-participants

Flying into Seattle and looking at all the dazzling lights and beauty of the city from above used to make me feel uplifted and happy. But this time, I felt very lonely. The city looked monstrously big, frenetic, and cold. It occurred to me what a claustrophobic yet ever-expanding city this is, and how difficult it is to find community here. The group I met in Canton had the feel that I have been looking for in Seattle forever, and have never found. I don’t mean to end on a down note, but despite our maddeningly aloof "niceness", the Seattle Freeze is more that just a myth. For whatever reason, I have just been unable find a group here that could duplicate the warmth, open-heartedness, and commitment to the arts that these wonderful bunch of people in Canton demonstrated. But now that I have experienced first-hand what I’ve been looking for so long, maybe I can begin to build it here, in spite of the barriers.

So, thank you, Jessica and all of the fun and engaging folks who attended the Launch Party! It was a great trip and I’m so honored I got to spend time with all of you!

--Kristen McHenry

P.S. If you are so inclined, you can purchase the book here or here. Help support Indigo Ink Press! They deserve it!

Three Short Chapters in the Life of A Week

2011-10-16T21:19:00.000-07:00

Who I wish I was....

Gaming with Ladies!

Last Sunday, I had the opportunity to meet with a fellow lady-gamer (who would probably be offended by the term, "lady-gamer") and talk about about all things gaming! It was heavenly, as this competent typist loves nothing more than a good turn at a dungeon raid while playing a flighty Night-Elf Druid. But alas, I have no female-type people in my life to share my great joy of gaming with, and so it is often a lonely existence of crushing my pixelated enemies with only the menfolk to stand behind me and shout, "Mana-management!! Heals on the mage! Watch the aggro on the Flame Demons!"

So, I was really excited to hear from one of my old, long-time RP buddies from World of Warcraft that she was going to be in town for Geek Girl Con and was hoping to meet up! And meet we did, and great conversation, (if a mediocre meal), ensued! It was awesome to meet someone who actually knew about "Syberia"--one of my all-time favorite games--and could hold court about Queen Anora, our mutual hero from "Dragon Age." It was an altogether awesome night, and so much fun to talk freely about this somewhat secretive passion of mine with a sharp, incisive, intelligent woman who could like, totally relate.

The Outsider Participates! And Kind of Likes It.

I'm not what one would ever describe as a "participator." I eschew anything to do with large crowds, "movements", or involving myself in general society in more than a cursory way. Not because I feel that I am better than general society, but because I feel like an outsider, and in many ways, I am an outsider. I never get much out of trying to court the favor of normal culture, as it becomes clear very quickly that I am not part of it, and this embarrasses the normal-culture people and makes things awkward for all of us. But, on Saturday, I did participate in the Heart Walk in downtown Seattle. If I had realized ahead of time the sheer size of the crowd I was going to have to contend with, I would have broken my own ankle to avoid it, but, I showed up and there were people and suddenly we were walking and there was nothing I could do about it but try to embrace the experience.

And then this weird thing happened: I started to have fun and actually enjoy the crowds. I was looking at the back of people's shirts, where they wrote the names of family members or loved ones they had lost to heart disease. It was very touching to see so many people come out to honor their loved ones; the people in their lives they cared about. There were dogs and kids and everyone was happy and energized and in a good mood. There were thousands of people there. I...I...was actually a part of a something, and I felt proud about it. I felt like I was adding to some measure of good in the world, and that I did, for a moment, actually belong.

Who I actually am.

Wherein I Share with You All of my Embarrassing Neurotic Fears for Your Gawking Enjoyment:

It's not good to talk to me about making decisions when I am exhausted and stressed out, but Mr. Typist doesn't have much of an instinct for those subtleties. He recently tried to convince me it would be a great idea to fly to Canton, OH for the weekend to attend the launch party for my new book. However, I had a hell of a week and I was tired and anxious and sweaty and nervous and unable to overcome myself. All week long, here is what I used to argue with my husband about going:

But what if I get lost in O'Hare and miss my connection?

But what if there's a chemical leak in the motel and I get brain damage?

But what if I go and nobody there likes me?

But what about all of the work I have to get done?

But what if I'm allergic to something in Canton and sneeze uncontrollably during my reading?

But what just after we spend the money for the tickets we find out we've both lost our jobs and that you need expensive life-saving surgery?

But what if some cold, shadowy figure appears at my bedside in the dead of night and you aren't there to protect me?

But what if my boarding pass won't download on my i-Phone?

What if the only thing on the motel TV is re-runs of "The Wheel of Fortune"?

and of course, the classic...

But I seriously have nothing to wear!

At the time, these seemed like overwhelming difficulties that I could never surmount. However, after Mr. Typist's constant, irrefutable and exhaustingly logical rebuttals, a good night's sleep and some aspirin for my throbbing knee pain (see Heart Walk), I woke up at the hard-driving hour of 10:30 in the a.m. feeling clean, refreshed and ready to bust a move. I finally booked the tickets this morning, and although I'm still slightly worried about getting lost in O'Hare, I'm mostly just excited about the opportunity for a new, really fun experience.

I don't know what I was so panicked about, but there is definitely a lesson here about the healing properties of a good night's rest, the power of a perspective shift, and how the real stress lies not in coping with the decision you make, but in not making the decision.

--Kristen McHenry

Released Today--My Book!

2011-09-30T19:25:00.000-07:00

Today marks the official release of my chapbook, "Triplicity: Poems in Threes". Fun with clicks below!

On Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Paper-Covers-Rock-Triplicity-Threes/dp/0982833016/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1

At Indigo Ink Press:

http://www.indigoinkpress.org/flip-edition/

Reviews:

http://poetrylog.wordpress.com/2011/09/10/paper-covers-rock-and-triplicity/

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11914820-paper-covers-rock-and-triplicity

Videos:

My Own Personal Poetry Week, and Acupuncture for Fun and Failure

2011-09-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

My Own Personal Poetry Week

Today, I took the day off from my new job to teach a series of poetry workshops via Skype for some tenth-grade English classes in Houston, TX. It was a really interesting experience. The kids were delightful, and other than a few technical glitches, everything went really well. This was the first time that I’ve used Skype for teaching workshops, and I realized several things: One, that I lean more heavily than I realized on my ability to “read a room”, to pick up subtle cues, to gauge what’s happening to the collective energy in a group. Teaching over Skype was in some ways like working blind, because I couldn’t rely on my normal spidy-sense and adapt accordingly. I had to pay very close attention to visual and verbal cues, which usually don’t hold as much weight for me as the energetics of a group.

And secondly, I realized that somehow, somewhere along the line, I think I’ve actually become a poet.

My days are astoundingly busy. I rarely have time to think or reflect on what I am passionate about. But today, words came out of me that filled me with a sort of peace and calm…yet, a passionate expansiveness, too. I deeply believe in the creative process as a means to heal. I want each one of those kids to be able to understand the value of their creative expression; their ability to hone that expression and use it to make sense of themselves the world around them. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I think that I am just playing pretend at all of this, that it’s not really a real thing. I belittle my own value as a creative being. I buy into the same cultural crap that those tenth-graders are being fed on a day-to-day basis. Today, I was reminded of what I am really here for, and it was very real.

In between sessions, I did a little writing on my own, which felt good and right, if not particularly brilliant or productive. Shortly after I finished teaching the last session, the doorbell rang and opened my door to find a box full of my writer’s copies of my new chapbook! And, I finally managed to finish reading a chapbook I’ve been toting around with me for a month, and haven’t had time to pay much attention to. It's called, "Recurring Dream" by Avra Wing, and it's fantastic!

Acupuncture for Fun and Failure

I’ve never figured out if I am naturally anxious person, or if I am a naturally calm person who simply adapted early to a chaotic, unsafe environment by generating massive adrenaline responses that I never learned to de-program. Either way, as an adult, I default to being a nervous, hyper-alert, anxiety-prone person. (I also have a calm, relaxed, happy-go-lucky hippie chick residing within me, but I’m worried that person will never get anything done, so she doesn’t get to come out to play.) I love my new job, but the stress of these first months has been beyond anything I could have imagined. And I can imagine a lot. It came to a head last week, and I realized that if I don’t start in on the self-care ASAP, I was headed towards a world of hurt in the mental health department. I went to acupuncture this week, and I think I’ll keep going. It’s simple and relaxing and I’ve been assured that will improve my memory, help my chronic shoulder pain, and make me all loosey-goosey and The Dude-like, ala “The Big Lebowski” Who knows? Maybe my super-chill inner hippie will get her day in the sun after all.

--Kristen McHenry

On New Jobs, Book Launches, Authentic Hope, and Being Your Own Worst Enemy

2011-09-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned here before that I've started new job recently, which is why posting has slowed down to a bit of a trickle lately. It's one of those Big Jobs, one that I am daily convinced that I am not Up To as a human being or a woman, one that daily makes me re-consider applying for my fantasy, "I've officially given up all hope of becoming white collar" job of High-Rise Window Washer, which for some reason, I have never been able to let go of. At the same time, while the adjustment has been a big strain, I am definitely learning and growing, and that's what I wanted; what I asked for. There is a lot of love there, a lot of life.

I can see now why people go into the medical field. It puts you on this precipice so close to life and hope, and so close to death at the same time. It's very intense, but it's intensity is fuel--for increasing compassion, diligence, love, patience, and self-reflection. Each day puts me in touch with so many strong and amazing people. I am very lucky, in spite of all of the frustrations. It has been a huge learning for me...in balancing compassion and boundary-setting, in learning to listen effectively, in seeing where my flaws trip me up and coming to terms with my strengths and limitations--and my own deeply self-critical nature. It is not easy. But I didn't want easy. I think a part of me wanted a trial by fire, and this has certainly been it.

Having undergone multiple failures, academically and otherwise, and having been constantly told that I am underachiever and a slacker, I have never once thought of myself as even slightly ambitious or striving. And yet, I am coming to realize that tolerating prolonged stagnation is simply not in my nature--even if it means being constantly and slightly over-extended. Even it means having a mild emotional breakdown after forgetting to show up at my best friends' Opening Night play, for which I had only days before purchased tickets. Even if it means fighting--fighting for my place in the world, yet again. Fighting for my boundaries, my power, my self-assertion, my instincts, my way of leadership. Even if it means being a little bit tired, all of the time. Even if it means being okay with not being loved by everyone.

In addition to all of this, my next book will be on sale soon, and I am working with a truly tireless and determined publisher this time, who has sent out all sorts of review copies. I'm not used to being reviewed, and it's a weird feeling. I am very, very grateful to everyone who has taken time to read and comment on the book, whatever their reaction. And undergoing this experience is helping me to heal from the idea that I need to be all things to all people, at all times. My work is not for everyone. I think that at certain times in my life, that concept would have devastated me, but now, I am a in place where I can step back from it and realize that I don't have to be. That my job as Someone With An Impulse To Write, is simply to write, and do what I can to hone my limited skill, put my weird little impulses out there, and let God sort out who it affects and who it doesn't, and how.

Last night, I watched a devastating documentary, "Dear Zachary", with Mr Typist. By the end of it, both of us were collapsed in a mutually clinging puddle of helpless, deeply cathartic tears. Yet what I was left with was this ultimate sense of hope...a sense of hope that is becoming more and more prevalent in my life--me, a person who has struggled my entire life with clinical depression, anxiety, and despair. Me, a person who believes in exactly nothing, who trusts very little. But I think that what is happening for me now is not a fantasy-based hope; not a childish hope, but one that is based in reality, more in knowing what we are up against, seeing the reality, and yet having faith anyway. And this has not come from me, but from the amazing people I am blessed to work with every day, those who have suffered far longer and far deeper than I ever have, yet do not use that suffering to set them apart, but to connect to others.

I am humbled, and I am blessed.

--Kristen McHenry

Asking the Hard Questions, Part One: Why Is Everything Melting???

2011-08-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

Asking the Hard Questions:

Why Is Everything Melting???

A few weeks ago, I went with my friend Frankie to volunteer at a local art show. She had called me the day before, disturbed by her observation that a great majority of the art depicting human beings portrayed them in some stage of what could only be described as melting. As I walked around the venue, I realized that she was right. Almost all paintings, sculptures, or photos of people showed them in various stages of fragmentation, squishiness, distortion, or most commonly—simply melting away. It was very disconcerting, and we had an interesting conversation about the artist collective consciousness, etc. etc. but we didn’t reach any real conclusions.

I have noticed this same squishy, melting trend when it comes to women’s clothes for quite some time now, and I am getting really sick of it. I had to completely overhaul my wardrobe for a new job recently, and most trips the mall have found me in tears, hysterically texting my husband and telling him I was going have a full-blown anxiety attack for the lack of wearable, professional clothing in every women’s clothing store in the entire…fucking….mall!!!!

This has been a repeating pattern with me:

1. Work up the courage and fortitude to actually decide to shop for clothes, which I HATE doing more than almost anything on this earth, including cleaning the cat box and being forced to do math in my head.

2. Head off to mall, repeating my affirmations: I will find scads of professional, adult-type-person clothes that fit me flawlessly and reflect my highest spiritual nature and innermost soul. Thigh fat is beautiful. I will purchase only quality fabrics. I am a “Fall”. I will not hyperventilate in Nordstrom’s. Shopping is fun!

3. Go to mall, resisting almost overwhelming temptation to avoid demoralizing shopping experience by hiding out in the journals-and-pens section of Barnes and Noble.

4. Survey, with increasing panic, the shockingly prolific array of bizarre “clothing” on display, replete with floppy ruffles, giant deconstructionist bows, inexplicable strings or flaps hanging down for no reason, flimsy, foofy, weirdly-pleated fabric, in color combos that look like Timothy Leary vomited.

5. Give up on finding tops and go to try on pants in Express, attempting to avoid thundering-club-music-induced tinnitus. Heroically avoid strangling horrifyingly perky teenage sales "person" when she pounds on the dressing room door and shouts, “Have you found a big enough size yet?”

6. Text Mr. Typist with trembling hands, threatening to drive car into oncoming traffic on the way home, develop diet pill addiction, or “open my own store with only clothes that fit me and that I like”.

7. Go to the food court and drown my sorrows in bad Thai chicken.

8. Drive home empty-handed and spend the rest of the day despair-napping and plotting triumphant, Sara Rue-like transformational skinniness through iron discipline and just the right amount of anorexic thinking.

All I am asking for is one store…just one store, somewhere out there…to please, please, please sell one or two items of clothing that don’t involve the god-forsaken ruffles, flopsy, drooping, drippy, extranea, “whimsical” designs, or epilepsy-inducing color patterns. Please. I am beginning to experience trendy-clothing-induced paranoia. I am having intrusive thoughts that this all a giant conspiracy to keep women down by infantilizing and softening and melting them out of existence by cutting off our supply of authoritative clothing.

And well, that’s just downright irrational…right?

--The Good Typist

Working Life

2011-08-06T16:22:00.000-07:00

Working Life

Writing poetry has been felt laborious and slow lately. I thought this was partly because I have been pouring a fair bit of my creativity into my new job, and partly because I have been strangely anxious about the upcoming release of my new chapbook.

But I realized today during my usual Saturday writing session, it’s actually because I have been operating with the conviction that my life as a poet and my life as a person with a paid career must remain carefully separated; that I cannot be a poet in my job or a worker in my creative life. And that those two parts of my existence will inevitably remain in conflict.

My existence, for the last nine months or so, has been consumed with the vagaries of my working life…being in a job that was no longer challenging or bringing meaning to my life; that was in fact, actively worsening my depression; going through multiple, grueling cycles of job searching, interviewing, anticipation, and disappointment, and losing hope of ever finding work in my chosen field. Then, experiencing the blessing, excitement, anxiety and stress of actually getting what I wanted, and plunging into the new and (very) unknown. But it never occurred to me to write poetry about it.

My working-class roots make me feel ashamed of even caring about something as high-falutin’ and haughty as poetry; something as essentially frivolous as creating art instead of just being happy to have a job; any job; to make a living at something, no matter how dull or unstimulating. At the same time, a part of me still buys into the myth that poets who need to work at jobs outside of teaching poetry and writing poetry are failures who are not committed enough to their passion to give up everything for it; that there is something shameful about working for a living if you are an artist. So I’ve been trying to keep work out of my poetry, and minimize my identity as a poet at work.

But it occurred to me that as a poet whose life informs her art, it’s a waste of a rich fount of material to pretend that work does not take up the amount in space in my heart and soul that it does; that I must be secretive about how much it has consumed my mind, body and spirit this last year. Ironically, my chosen career path is in the field of volunteerism, where I support an unpaid labor force for whom defining the meaning of work in their lives outside of material reward is tantamount to their success, and the success of my organization.

Today, I wrote a great deal about work. What it means in our lives, what it means to lose it—as so many have and continue to in this country—what it brings to our lives and takes away from our lives, and what it tells us about our national and personal identities. I’m excited to start a new series of poems, possibly even an entire chapbook, of poems about work.

--Kristen McHenry

Fun with Celtic Festivals, Crushing-Against-Type, and the Deep Significance of Drugstore Jewelry

2011-07-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

The Good Typist's Super-Secret, Most Inappropriate Crush--The Wicked Tinkers Drummer. Kieth Jones!

Fun with Celtic Festivals, Crushing-Against-Type, and the Deep Significance of Drugstore Jewelry

I have been too (happily) overwhelmed with adjusting to a new job to blog a heck of a lot these last two weeks, but today I took a little break, and Mr. Typist and I drove out to Enumclaw to enjoy the 2011 Scottish Highland Games and Clan Gathering. It’s sort of akin to a Renn Fair, but it has dance contests, lots of music, actual Highland Games competitions, like the Caber Toss, and….The Winked Tinkers! Don’t tell Mr. Typist, but I have a super-secret, totally-against-my-usual-geek-type crush on drummer Keith Jones, who oozes a sort of wild, man-of-the-Moors,“Woman-I-will-strangle-ye-dinner-with-me-own-two-hands” sexuality. Plus long hair. Plus, he is what certain period novels would call “corpulent”, and I am quite attracted to chubby men, mainly because it makes feel like they wouldn’t judge me for eating a giant cheeseburger with fries, tartar sauce, and a beer…Oh, and guess what?? He smiled at me as walked past him on the stage while he putting away his stuff! I mean, I smiled first, but I was too shy to do anything but look away when he smiled back….hmm….cheeseburgers and Scottish Moors…

Anyway, right…my husband…Mr. Typist…and I, try to make it out to this event every year. He loves the Massing of the Pipes and Drums, and while I have to admit that the first time he told me about it, I was horrified, when I actually saw it, it was so amazing, I teared up a little. And I have, every single time I’ve seen it since. It’s very overwhelming to watch in person. I’ve included some video here, but it’s crappy and cut short due to a rain torrent, and it doesn’t really give you the full sense of glory that you feel when you really witness this event in person. Something about it just fills me with what I can only describe as patriotism, but it’s not a sense of patriotism related to any country in particular--more of a general sense of pride and “we’re in this together-ness” that always make me choke back tears.

In these days of constant short-cuts and marketing hoodwinks and lies and sloppiness and general lack of expectation, there is something inspiring about watching a group of over 50 pipe bands from all over the Northwest dress up proudly in their uniforms, stand up straight, and march in unison, playing their hearts out on one of the most difficult instruments you can master. This to me says, “Some things are still worth doing right, and doing impeccably.” This is what makes me believe in art. Art makes us aspire to be better, more impeccable people. And why not? What’s wrong with taking a little pride in the best that we can be as human beings? Why let ourselves off the hook all time, when we could be reaching for real beauty, real transcendence?

On a somewhat unrelated note, Mr. Typist has been all over me lately like alien on face for buying cheap jewelry from the accessory rack at Bartell’s. He got huge brownie points today by telling me that I have “delicate” fingers, even though I know for a fact that I have huge, gnarled sausage fingers, made even more gnarled and sausage-like from my years as a massage therapist. (He also insists that I have dainty feet and should wear heels all the time, even though I am 5’9” and can wear up to up a size 11W shoe.) But I am hopelessly attracted to huge, gaudy, artsy, hand-made Gypsy-type jewelry. I can’t help it. I would feel absurd wearing some damned, tiny, delicate Tiffany pendant, and I would rather kill myself than sport something as femmy as a “diamond tennis bracelet”.

We comprised. Today, I bought two hand-made necklaces that were crafted from dyed heather stems. (Don't worry--I looked. It was all sustainably-harvested.) He got to see me buy something besides plastic, and I got my “unique, hand-made” requirement fulfilled. But the whole incident did make me think about the connection between women, adornment, our sense of worth, and the role marketing has in all of this. I will blog more about this later, but for now this chubby-fingered, cheap-jewelry-loving, clunky-footed, inappropriate-crush-havin’ girl needs her beauty sleep. Peace, out!

--Kristen McHenry

Fragments from a Week

2011-07-24T17:01:00.000-07:00

The Prosthetics Ward

Everyone missing something, no one fully intact. No one fully intact anymore. Oh how to speak of brokenness without feeling joy, without knowing its true purpose. We’ll think first of salmon and then of machines, parts lying sprung and rusted. I keep trying to get at something, about the breathless between, the lifting and handing over, what shimmers just beyond hearing even in the falseness of us. It is as hard to know love as to not know love, so where love is we create our fictions, a narrative of trade. We swap out our limbs, politely, allowing each other our dignity.

Lords of Tight Pants (Las Vegas)

What doesn’t change is how enamored we are of the body, but I don’t believe that this is evolutionary. How many times can I talk about its fragility, the way a brain can go, or an eye, or the most important of your fingers--one flash and it’s over. Sometimes, I would like to pray for the young and supple among us, but I realize that the whole point of being young is to be lacking in protection. God, it is tiresome, the body, the body.

It is very warm here and the warm is hot only a kinder hot than I am used to. Everywhere inside is cold and slightly dirty-smelling. I am sitting here in something that is very clearly a Burger King, which they are going to great lengths to disguise as not a Burger King, and I am looking at a lit billboard of seven smiling men with individuated abs and bow ties around their necks and tight black pants. I can see the reflection of the TV from the not-Burger King across from me in the glass. On it, there are more men, with little quilted squares for abs. To me, a ridiculously handsome man seems innocuous--amusing, even slightly un-masculine But a truly beautiful woman seems dangerous and powerful and compelling. A blond man poses on the not-Burger King TV, smiling, the camera fixed on his abs. A woman and her young daughter watch raptly, while the woman’s husband snaps in mock exasperation, “You want I should just buy you the calendar?”

I am afraid that I going to be facing much about the death of the body in this is new job, and yet there is something about that that feels right, that feels real and to some to degree to peaceful to me about it. I need to be somewhere authentic, (Angel Card: I will communicate clearly and honestly), somewhere where messages are not “crafted”, but words are spoken from an impulse of compassion, where bodies are valued for the spirits they house, not for their use as aesthetic devices.

Write A Poem About An Inanimate Object:

For once, I would like to write a poem about a rock, about a paperweight, a plastic shoe, about anything very surely dead, about anything that will not one day be dead, or that is capable of betraying us in even worse ways. You go, too. Post your inanimate object poem in the comments section.

Pink (Las Vegas)

The Flamingo at the dead of noon, in the flat heat of Vegas and the dull air, looks like a sad old dump of a relic. But at night, it’s really beautiful. Pink! Brilliant, glowing pink. All of those flamingoes, those hot birds. I do love them. I keep thinking about Vegas: I hate this place, then, I love this place, then: Well this is just us. This is America. This explains everything.

I find it is too hot to fret much; my long and insistent worry list has shrunk. Maybe Vegas has taken a toll on my ability to take anything seriously, including money, especially considering how much I have already put into slots. Someone, some ex-boyfriend, once told me that he had “a healthy disrespect” for money, and that is only thing he ever said to me that seemed truly wise, in spite of all of his hours of meditating. There is something about putting cash into a machine that you know full well will just eat it, that is a recipe for a healthy perspective on holding on. Maybe in some ways that is what this place really about; it’s about learning how to die. How to let go of everything you think is going to fill you up. There are so many things here to consume.

The Tale of the Seahorse and The Water Hag, Part One

The seahorse lived a careful life among reeds and corals with his devoted mate. He made sure to avoid the tides and spent most of his days between mating times gathering food and keeping a close eye out for enemies. A cautious and scrupulous sort, he was quite startled when the Royal Page of the seahorse kingdom appeared before him with this proclamation. “You,” announced the Page importantly, “ have been summoned to the lair of the water hag and must journey there by dawn, for she has a task of utmost importance to which you must attend post-haste.” The Royal Page then spun off without another word of explanation, and the seahorse steeled himself for a frightening trek.

At sundown, he made the long and tiring journey to the cave of the water hag. She did not offer him drink or respite, but merely gazed at him with her glass-green eyes. After a time, she spoke:

“You will spin and you spin and you will go down with the tide. You will allow yourself to be torn. Your babies will be flung from your pouch, breathless stars, and you will not know their fate. Your mate will grow restless and will not wait for your return. But you will continue to submit to the thundering tide, you will go deaf from it, you will not be returned intact. This is what must be done: Each torn piece of you will return to me one water lily petal, under a half-moon at the hour of nine, for there will be nine fragments and nine petals. You must return them by the ninth day of the ninth month. This will be done, and done unto you. Now, you will begin.”

--Kristen McHenry

Notes from Las Vegas, Part One: Cat Carnage, Tanning While Irish, Burlesque Bamboozle, and Hag Happiness

2011-07-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

The Nature of the Beast

I just returned from four days in hot, bright, Las Vegas to wet, clammy Seattle skies, and a kitchen strewn with half-eaten guppy corpses and cookbooks wavy and dripping with fish water. The weather was an act of God, and the dead guppies were an act of our angelic little cat, Yoshie. In spite of our best attempts to lock down the tank and weight the glass cover with two 5-pound hard-back books, at some point between daily check-ins by the neighbors, he managed to topple the books, remove the locked lid, knock it on the floor, drag the tank onto the counter, and enjoy his own personal seafood buffet. The carnage was a deeply dismaying sight at 1:30 in the morning after a long night of travel, but what can one do? It is the nature of a cat to eat fish, and eat fish he did.

Tanning While Irish

Being a very pale-skinned redhead with the deeply-ingrained genetic memory of sun-deprived, depressed, Irish-Swedish farm stock, I usually find the idea of “sitting out” in the sun poolside or on a beach horrifying. All of those summer-vacation-porn ads on TV with people in sunglasses and tanning oil, lying under palm trees, does nothing for me. But when I got to Vegas, something in me just snapped. Suddenly, I was convinced that I could go out sans 896,000 SPF sunblock like some swarthy Mediterranean, and be perfectly fine. I craved the dry heat, but mostly I think I craved the feeling of being normal; of being a regular person who loves nothing more than sitting out at a resort pool in the middle of July, soaking up “the rays”. The Rio has a lovely pool area with gorgeous fake rocks and waterfalls and little secluded “hot springs” everywhere, and I just wanted to be there, to lie there and stare at the neon-blue sky, revel in the aggressive heat of the noonday sun blaring down on my fish-belly white skin, and attempt to feel like a person who isn’t pathologically sun-avoidant. So I put on my best Seattle hippie-dress (a bright blue East-Indian number with a lace-up bodice and Stevie Nicks-style jagged cuts in the skirt), popped the top on Coors Light, and plopped down on one of the remaining lounge chairs.

Ahhh….the sun! The heat! The imported palm trees! The waitresses in with their coffee-tanned skin and sparkly pink bikinis! And…good god, after ten minutes, the top of my red-haired head started to feel like it was set on fire, I became panicky-paranoid that my sunscreen wasn’t working, I was sweating profusely under my hippie-dress bodice and actually sticking to the plastic chair slats. I looked around at the other revelers, who didn’t seem the least concerned and were all easy-breezy in their tans and bikinis and trendy sunglasses. Determined not to give up, I marched over to the nearest gift shop and dropped twenty-five bucks on a giant sunhat and sunglasses, then came back out to the now even hotter poolside. I got a few funny looks, but the hell with them. What, they’ve never seen a sheet-white redhead complete with giant hat, insect-eye sunglasses, long dress, and 18 layers of sunscreen before? Well, fuck ‘em. I was going to feel like a normal, sun-worshiping, heat-reveler for once, damn be the consequences, and I didn’t care what anyone thought.

I lasted another 20 minutes, and then it just became too much, and I left my Coors Light and staggered into the sweet, smoky, blessed darkness of the casino.

Burlesque Bamboozle

Other than cheering Mr. Typist on during his round at the World Series of Poker, I didn’t go to Vegas with any particular agenda, but I did want to see a show. Our first night in, I was all a-twitter because they were advertising a burlesque show at the Flamingo! I was super-excited to see some good burlesque, and also, as it turns out, naively and easily suckered into marketing ploys that advertise high-end hootchie-shows as authentic burlesque. Whatever it was we saw at “X Burlesque” at the Flamingo had nothing at all to do with burlesque, and was, in the end, appallingly unimaginative and banal, only with lots of bare breasts and pole action. It wasn’t the bare breasts and the proliferation of G-strings and butt-wiggling that offended me, it was the total, unimaginative dullness of the whole thing, which bore only a faint whisper of resemblance to real burlesque, and relied on a lot of stupid pole tricks and boring, derivative choreography.

PSA to "X Burlesque" producers: Playing the audio from a few old burlesque tunes before the show, and in the same inane video in which you portray Howard Stern interviewing one of the dancers while pretending not to know the difference between stripping and burlesque, does not make your crap show “creative” or “daring” or cutting edge. You basically just co-opted an alternative movement to exploit it, sell it to women, and get them and their husbands/boyfriends in the door, then provided nothing more than a dull, run-of-the-mill tittie show, albeit with some admittedly competent dancing here and there.

Additionally, I have nothing against strippers,--so, to Random-X-Burlesque Dancer-on-Howard-Stern-Video? To brag that you’re somehow “better” than strippers because you don’t allow patrons to touch you or put money in your bikini bottom is delusional. Just admit that you’ve made some of the same deals we all have in order to wrest whatever petty power we can from the patriarchy, and stop trying to pretend you’re better than anyone else. You’re not. (Although, you did have some sweet moves on that pole.)

On the plus side, they did serve me a knock-out vanilla martini that was not only delicious, but also served to make the whole performance almost tolerable, and--Mr. Typist has not stopped grinning since we left the place.

Happiness is Being a Hag

Before I left for Vegas, I had a nice get-together with my friend Frankie, in which I told her that since I quit my job, I was suddenly seeing hag imagery everywhere, and dreaming about hags almost every night. She explained to me the spiritual meaning of the Hag, and I was transfixed.

Tomorrow, I begin a new job, and I hope, a new, fulfilling career. On my first night in Vegas, I scribbled in my notebook: “Young women do not yet know that as a women, when you become old and invisible—that is when the real work of your life can begin.”

I hope for me, it starts soon.

More Notes on Vegas, coming soon!

--Kristen McHenry

Why I Didn’t Write a Poem Today

2011-07-09T16:27:00.000-07:00

Why I Didn’t Write a Poem Today

Because the cat caught sudden
sight of a fly, and I couldn’t keep
my eyes on the screen for watching
his obstinate pursuit of this elusive,
graceful speck, straight up the screen door,
over the kitchen table, onto windowsills and sinks,
then back again for damn near forty minutes.
He didn’t stop
to doubt his methods, or the
worth of his pursuit. He did not
lose focus, or grow pessimistic and fatigued.
Each new sighting
ignited fresh exuberance, and I thought,
lightening, and,
been dead a long time now.

Myself, I’ve been careful
for years to hide my joy, to bury
my fires in sand each morning
before entering the glum
din of this world, and I think
of chasing ink across pages
in my own pursuit
of some agile, juicy speck,
grown rich and fat
on equal parts despair and fervor.

--Kristen McHenry

Transition, Faith and Sacred Timing

2011-07-08T16:56:00.000-07:00

Transition, Faith and Sacred Timing

Today is a day of transition on many levels. It was my final day at the job that I’ve held for well over four years. When I began the job, I created an oil painting of a heart. I painted it as a blessing, and as a vessel to hold my dreams and hopes for what I would accomplish. I hung it above my window in my office, where stayed in watch over me until today, when I thanked it, blessed it, and took it home.

That painting has seen a lot of tears and loss, and not nearly as many dreams come to fruition as I’d wanted. But it has also seen excitement, achievements I once thought were out of reach, and the formation of what I hope will continue to be amazing friendships.

Over these last weeks, I could feel shifting in the energetic formation of the place…slowly, I felt the work-bonds weaken and diminish, and new bonds form and strengthen among my team in my impending absence. I felt the buzzing of energy of the possibilities in a new addition—my replacement. And I also felt gentle, energetic waves of goodwill towards me, and genuine sadness at my departing. It was all okay. It all had a rightness to it, and I was somehow able to experience it with the detached stance of an observer.

I wrapped things up with as much integrity and goodwill as I had in me, not because I am such a virtuous person, but because it felt important to me to be kind and gracious; to handle these last weeks from a place of love for the good that was there, rather than anger, bitterness, and a sense of victimization. To do so was the right way to make the transition, so that I don’t carry negativity and baggage over to my new position. It’s over, I’m proud of how I handled it, and I feel at peace with it.

I think I have talked about this before on this blog, but a wise spiritual teacher once told me that I don’t respect timing. I have been thinking about this a lot since having accepted a new position just a few short weeks ago. I have always had difficulty with faith. I can be extremely, irrationally, impatient. Just as children under a certain age don’t understand object permanence, I seem to experience any emotional or spiritual suffering as permanent, rather than transitory. It the midst of pain, it’s very difficult for me to be able to wait things out, and to access my intuitive understanding that it will pass--that all things will occur in their right time, not before, and not after.

Since giving notice at this job, I’ve been paying close attention to time. It seemed like there was very little time for everything that needed to be done before I left. But instead of going faster, I forced myself to slow way, way down. And I noticed that the slower I went, the more time seem to expand. I felt calmer, more focused, and more in control. Everything fell into place. I felt a sense of allowing, of flow and timing. It was as though everything simply adjusted itself to accommodate my pace, although I’m not quite narcissistic enough to believe that was what was actually going on.

I hope to carry this feeling to my new position, where I will be stepping into a high level of leadership and responsibility, both on the material and spiritual plane. So far, I’m far more excited than scared. I am ready. I will embrace what comes.

--Kristen McHenry

Indigo Ink Flip Edition Chapbook Preview!

2011-07-02T11:56:00.000-07:00

The Good Typist’s Guide to Words and Phrases that Should be Retired Post-Haste

2011-07-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

Someone e-mailed me this link recently, and I agreed universally with everything on the list. I liked it so much that I thought I would make up my own “Worn Out Words” list. I am all one for language remaining a fluid, ever-evolving entity, but there is a big difference between evolving and eroding—hence my personal favorite on The Guardian’s list--the complaint about “literally” being used metaphorically, to the point where no one knows what it means anymore. (And, no—doing so ironically doesn’t change my feelings about it.) I hereby present you with:

The Good Typist’s Guide to Words and Phrases that Should be Retired Post-Haste

“Old Soul” (as in, “My five-year old may be just a kid, but he is such an old soul!” Or, “You just can tell that Susan is an old soul.”)

Please, just shut it down with calling people “old souls.” It’s one of those compliments that is not a compliment to the person it’s directed at, but rather a pat on the back to the person delivering it. It’s a showy, public ode to your own “deep” insight and spiritual perception, but has nothing to do with the actual person it’s directed to, especially if you’ve just met them. This falls into the same category as re-defining your child’s behavior issues as a manifestation of their being a “crystalline” child and therefore too evolved to stop biting their classmates or tormenting the dog.

“It’s Simple Math” (bonus points if it’s followed condescendingly by the word, “people”)

This phrase is usually sputtered angrily by someone on-line in a comments section or forum, and is universally used to lay the down the law on a complex and nuanced situation or circumstance that can in no way be solved by a simple equation, much less a mathematical one. But Mr./Ms. Know-it-All has decided that the housing crisis or fighting in the middle East could be resolved if we all just understood, for once and for all, that a+b=c . It’s simple math, people. Huff, puff, cue righteous, finished-one-year-of-grad-school, inflated-intellectual-indignation here.

It’s very sad that these multitude of geniuses who have simple solutions to complex international issues choose to remain alone, huddled in front of their keyboards with their incisive brilliance, instead of helping all of us mouth-breathing stupid folk create order in the world with their easy-peasy math formulas. If only we hadn’t alienated them with our complicated thoughts!

“Bone” (Applicable for poets only)

This was a difficult one for me to put on this list. “Bone” is an all-around great word, but I have made a conscious effort to stop using it in my poems, because I’ve been noticing lately that it’s in almost every poem I read, including a good number of my own. It’s such a temptress, the word “bone”. It has a lovely, long, low sound, yet it evokes starkness and loss and hunger. It’s a great go-to. If I could use it at least six times in every poem, I would. But using it is starting to feel like a cop-out and a short-cut, instead of a well-thought-out choice. Look, fellow poets? We’ve all done it. There’s no judgment here. All I’m asking is that maybe we cut back a little on the weekdays, okay?

Side note: Using “bone” to describe activity that may occur between a man and a lady who are very much in love is still acceptable, as long as you are under 21 and in a fraternity.

“Happy Wife, Happy Life”

Ever since this obnoxious phrase was uttered by one of the especially terrifying Real Housewives, (the angry one with the glassy silver eyes), I’ve heard it way too many times. I find it demeaning to both women and men, and I wish it would go away. It implies total a lack of hope for any sort of equal partnership in a marriage. For men, it means that you’re not capable of, or responsible for, being emotionally intimate, as long as you can pay for your wife’s material indulgence. For women, it implies that you’re shallow, narcissistic, and don’t care about your husband’s happiness as long you can shop in the manner to which you feel entitled. And if you don’t, well by god, you’re willing to make things hell on earth for the man you love, and that’ll show him!

Personally, I think we all can do better. It’s simple math, people!

Bonus Phrase! “Um, Basically” (brought to you by Mr. Typist, who won’t actually bother to read my blog, but is always willing to offer his opinion on what I am writing about.)

“Um, basically” is over-used and wrongly-used constantly. According to Mr. Typist, The only time that it is acceptable to use the word “basically” is when need you a really fast way to describe the process of nuclear fission: “Well, um basically--you get two groups of plutonium rods and push them together. That causes fission, which causes heat, which creates steam, which moves a turbine, which in turn generates electricity. Basically.”

Addendum:

It is still funny to say, “Let’s put a pin in that and circle back” ironically in a meeting, especially if only a few people realize you’re being ironic. It’s even funnier when combined with the gun-point/finger-snap combo gesture. Bonus points if you can slide "Just keep that one in your back pocket" at least once in the same meeting.

And, it’s still not okay to use the word, “ironical”.

--Kristen McHenry

The Rites of Spring

2011-06-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

The Rites of Spring

I sponsor a woman in Bosnia through Women for Women International. Today, I received a letter from her with a pale yellow and purple pressed flower attached to the page. The letter read:

“We are cleaning gardens and preparing ourselves for seeding. This flower is for you, this flower is the first sign that Spring came.”

Lately, after a long period of darkness and lost-ness and pain, synchronicity has been exploding in my life. I feel more alive and open-hearted than I have in over a year. I am being showered with so many spiritual riches right now that I can hardly believe this is my life. Having this flower arrive in the mail when I am a few short weeks from starting a new position in my chosen profession was amazing, and fills me with both grateful tears and a sort of deep spiritual humility. I feel like I am finally, finally, returning to myself, to my Source of joy and flow and open-heartedness.

And I am absorbing some very important lessons about faith. They do not feel like hard lessons, they feel like smiling lessons, like gentle and laughing lessons, but no less painful for their gentleness. I see how much my anxiety and fear and the need to control and the anticipation of failure exhaust my energy. I was recently told by a spiritual guide of mine that I have difficulty respecting divine timing, and he was absolutely right. I am so certain that there will be disaster and suffering and loss in my life, that I actively strive to create it for myself, to work against my innate sense of intuition, when I should be saving that energy and channeling it into the full expectation of love and peace and abundance.

This is not an easy thing for anyone, I think, but I feel like after how amazing these last few days have been, I owe it to the Universe to at least try to loosen up a little bit, and trust......to finally, simply, and with the enormous difficulty and courage it takes—trust.

--Kristen McHenry

Experiments in Emptiness, Part 2

2011-06-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

Emptiness: Experiment 2

l. Poem

Though Spring this is not
season of sowing. We will have
a long spell in forage, root
our hands in ink pulp for worm
onus , globe omen, worry stone.
Anything luminous. Anything transmutable.
Anything to imitate passions of the heart.
To hold up to a mirror at all
angles and map
the shape our of emptiness.

ll. Hollow

Things that are hollow: reed and cup
palm and chamber, bone socket, eye
and larynx both. Stray lash, rib of boar,
prophecy. Cone and sternum, stem,
star plate, rosy chant, germ
core, hopsack,
herringbone, claw of spine.

Cascade
of sparrows in long descent against the drowning of the sun.

lll. Element

This method removes not only
child (and other
descendant) elements, but also any text
within the set of matched elements.

We can target any element for removal:

$('.hello').empty();

If we had any number of nested elements inside

, they would be removed, too.

Call () empty on above paragraph.

--Kristen McHenry

Emptiness (Experiment 1)

2011-05-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

Emptiness: (Experiment 1)

When I stick my hands in there to feel around there’s nothing. Once I sat for emptiness alone, entire months, flailing blindly in the spaces where emptiness had weight. Nothing rolls off of my palms, nothing mocks my efforts. I’m parched and I've received bad information. All that time I sat, breathing in, only to know my own low feelings. To kneel there open-handed and say, this is all I have to offer. My palms no longer ferry light.

They say within a void lies all possibilities, but I think there are only two persuasions: Corpulent emptiness, and a nothingness that drifts above our heads, that will not acknowledge us. In second grade we planted seedlings. They came up vivid, lusty shoots. I understood then there was a kind of order, that this was nature’s outcome. It was impersonal and pleasing. Were I now to proclaim, I am feeling full, or I must fill up, or, I am fully felt. I flounder with seeds and window boxes. The problem is that emptiness has teeth and wishes of its own. The emptiness is un-content. It will not do with the least it can survive on. No stones, no feathers, no shells settle in my hands. Only a crusted thing, grown around its nut, seed of all nourishment, jewel of the essential.

Sit and think of nothing. Sit and engage only in the hollowness of breath, its motion in your veins. I tell people all day long because I believe it is important: We breathe in oxygen, we breathe out carbon dioxide, the lungs lunge, the lungs, too, do their job. There is nothing easy in the effortless.

I remain to this day faithless despite everything I knew my heart could do. I stick my hands in there to feel around. I bring up tangled in my fingers a clear and weightless substance that slips off into space.

--Kristen McHenry

Image source: http://noheels.wordpress.com/2010/05/

"Our Own Expressions" Teen Arts and Poetry Contest Celebration!

2011-05-25T19:09:00.000-07:00

"Our Own Expressions" Teen Arts and Poetry Contest Celebration!

I'm super stoked to be emceeing the "Our Own Expressions" teen poetry, writing, and arts competition today at the Langerquist Concert Hall at Pacific Lutheran University! Click the link to read more about the contest and the celebration, and check back this weekend to read a full write-up of the event. I am so excited to coach the kids, introduce them to the audience, and watch them show off their artistic talents. It's going to be a beautiful reminder that we haven't forgotten the value of art in our lives. My sore throat seems to be healing with honey and lemon, I got my power earrings all set to wear, and I'm ready to help those kids shine--wish me luck!

--Kristen McHenry

Flowers Bloom in the Moonlight

2011-05-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

Flowers Bloom in the Moonlight

It was a very long time in coming, but the book, "Flowers Bloom in the Moonlight" is out! This brainchild of Rhonda Harris is a collection of poems and essays about how pain illuminates our path and allows us to grow in ways we otherwise couldn't. I have a poem and a (very) personal essay in the book. Check it out, and support this wonderful, start-up publisher. They are amazing!

--Kristen McHenry

Thursday Miscellanea: Anniversaries, Pinched Nerves, Exploding Ear Vessels, and The Tyranny of “Effortless Beauty”

2011-05-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Thursday Miscellanea: Anniversaries, Pinched Nerves, Exploding Ear Vessels, and The Tyranny of “Effortless Beauty”

Romantic Lady!

Yesterday was me and Mr. Typist’s 9th wedding anniversary. Wednesday in the middle of a stressful week full of long days and sweaty, crawling commutes over the 520 bridge is a crummy time to have a wedding anniversary, so we’re postponing it until Saturday. We just ate take-out in front of the hockey game instead of embarking on a big, long, complicated dinner neither of us was up to. But still, it is nine years yesterday. It’s not like we didn’t notice. Mr. Typist wore a red shirt, and yesterday morning, I felt a little extra-buoyant when I brought him his morning coffee. I felt sort of Singin’ in the Rain-ishly romantic and floaty. It was our anniversary. This means we have put up with each other for that many years! And I honestly don’t mean that in a cynical way. I am not cynical about marriage. As much as I complain about marriage as an outdated institution, and a method of social control and economic engineering, I also believe that it’s pretty much what we’re stuck with culturally as a means of proving love and commitment to the one we are romantically involved with. I think that people should just get hitched if they love each other and want to be together for a really long time. I’m a big fan of the piece-of-paper aspect, the signature line, the stamp, the former filing in a civil court. It’s like getting a tattoo—it symbolizes permanence, the ability to express a point of a view, a willingness to put a little elbow-grease in on behalf of the one you love.

Physical Issues!

I have a pinched nerve in my shoulder and it really hurts to be at the computer right now. I have contorted my arm into all sorts of poses to relieve it, but it remains stubbornly present. When I was a massage therapist, I would have gotten this treated holistically with acupuncture and massage, as it was a snap to trade services with my colleagues. Now I don’t have those connections, but I somehow feel like I am still good enough, knowledgeable enough, to self-treat it. But my self-treatments are not working, and that hurts my pride. On top of it, my ear has been bleeding enough to soak an entire Q-Tip head about three mornings out of each week for the last week or two. I casually mentioned this to my supervisor today (just by way of making conversation), and she wanted me to see a doctor right away in case it was a “severe head injury”. Which I think I would have remembered getting, but you never know. It turns out that I have a burst blood vessel my ear. The doctor didn’t know why. I filled out eight reams of paperwork and waited two hours past my actual appointment time, and all I got was a six-minute exam and a shrug. This is why I don’t go to doctors unless I am actually dying and happen to care at the moment that I exist for a while longer.

Fuck the Tyranny of “Effortless Beauty”!

Today on my favorite podcast, there was a discussion about “natural beauty”. Host Luke Burbank asked co-host/producer Jen Andrews why all of these skinny, hot celebrities are always pretending that they eat cheesesteak, spaghetti, and bacon cheeseburgers six days a week, and never even think about their appearance, when it’s patently obvious they spend five hours a day in the gym, three at their stylists, and never even see so much as a potato chip. I really resonated with this conversation, as I recently had headshots done, and I spent the entire day laboring at looking “natural”. I paid a lady fifty bucks to do my makeup at Habitude. It took an hour of elaborate mixing, plastering, and artistic application of at least nine different cosmetics to bring out my “natural face”. That doesn’t even take into account the elaborate hair products needed to get that bouncy, flowing, natural look to my hair, and the almost 250 shots the photographer took for a final, re-touched photo that makes me look totally, “like me", instead of a chubby, angry, tired 41-year old wearing the wrong sweater.

Jen was right in her response to Luke. As women, we are expected to have effortlessly skinny hips and butts, large, luscious, natural breasts, and no hair anywhere on our bodies, except of course, long, thick, naturally flowing hair on our heads. We should be able to guzzle beer and eat burgers and steaks at the same rate as men, yet never gain an ounce or dare to be vain enough to actually put any effort whatsoever into our appearance. It’s not the pressure of being beautiful that kills us, it’s the expectation that it all be “effortless”. It’s the idea that we if actually think consciously about being attractive to men and take action towards that aim, we are vain, but if we don’t put effort into our appearance, we’re dried-up bats who don’t care enough the feelings of to put effort into our appearance. It’s one of those games we will never, ever win as long as we live. I think Jen (and Luke) were right to agree that what we all need in this world is just a little more honesty. So here it is:

My headshot erased my under-eye wrinkles, and I had about eight layers of very “natural-looking” foundation on, as well as about ten minutes worth of mascara application. I specifically requested a very natural-looking make-up job. It depresses me that it took almost 45 minutes to create that look. Voila! Me!! Effortlessly gorgeous, indeed. But I must say, I do appreciate the effect of all of that artifice. And I will attest that the lighting was completely un-faked; we did the shots outdoors on an overcast day. Does that make me vain? Is vanity really just deep insecurity? Am I far too worried about my softening chin?

I am at a weird stage in my life where I feel like all of this concern about how I look is actually humiliating. I'm in that between-stage where I either need to go gangbusters on the Stairmasters and South Beach Diet, or give up entirely and just let each of my round, chubby parts emerge in all of their waddling glory. Since I'm probably more lazy than vain, it will most likely be the latter.

--Kristen McHenry

2011-05-13T13:53:00.000-07:00

The Swan

Each morning I remove
a burial cloth, my skin
released
chastised
so much
the better for its pain. Each
tooth is unwrapped, too—
small brown mummies
emerging bright as Chiclets.
I perform
all requisite penances.
I do it for acclaim.

I dive under
steam towels, gels,
knives,
cold seaweed.
I swim towards the image
you have offered me of me.
I will swim and
swim until
I slip into Her shell,
rise up
from the waters,
an exalted thing,
my errors
swallowed, my image
flattened to perfection.

--Kristen McHenry

Image from: http://johnwalshphotography.blogspot.com/

Where Have All the Poems Gone?, A Rousing Game of "Where's Zooey?", and More on Dyslexia

2011-05-01T19:54:00.000-07:00

Where Have All the Poems Gone?, A Rousing Game of "Where's Zooey?", and More on Dyslexia

I'm doing some site clean-up in preparation for editing and sending out some work for publication, so I've taken down a number poems that have been posted within the last month our so. If you're really dying to read some of my work, you can check out the awesome Bare Root Review (Spring 2011 Issue ), which recently published my poem, "Letter to My Second Sister". And check out the other poems on Bare Root as well. They're fantastic!

In Other News:

Zooey is home. Not in a Rainbow-bridge, cat-heaven, spiritual home sort of way, but home, in our now decidedly cat-ridden apartment way. She's emaciated and a bit listless and cranky and traumatized, but she is home. I picked her up from the city shelter last Wednesday, where she was cowering under a towel in a cage in the isolation area. I can't talk about it yet. I'm too busy staring at her bony, concave ass and shaking my head in a completely gobsmacked manner. I will go on and on about it here shortly, but for now, I will just say that this is one tough little motherfucker of a cat. She's been living outside for almost three months, in all kinds of freezing cold, crap weather, with no food or water except what she could forage or hunt. And yet, here she is. Definitely aged at least five years, but still with enough strength in her hoarse little voice and enough piss and vinegar in her queenly spirit to hiss at Yoshi for his mere existence, and to insist on her rightful spot flopped out on my stomach at night.
I am going to be working on a creative project with my partner in crime Dana on dyslexia, but I can't really say anything about it yet since it's all sort of unformed at the moment. But as soon as things are firmed up--we will be looking for submissions, so get your quill pen and ink well in order, and get ready to write!
I started playing Rift. Don't judge me. It's fun, okay?
In preparation for figuring out the cover art for my next chapbook, I read all about the Tarot's Three of Swords today. Then I went and dug out my two Tarot decks, the Haindle and the Osho. I really love both of those decks. I have done so many readings on them they are actually bowed. Lately, I've been using the Celtic Animal Oracle, which is very intense and deep. Then I thought if I were really ambitious I would write a book of poems based on the Tarot. Then I realized probably lots of people have done that already, and went back to eating popcorn and watching the hockey game.
I didn't watch the Royal Wedding but I did obsess over the dress photos the next day. It was a really lovely dress if you ask me. And Kate's hair looked amazing.
They finally evicted our downstairs neighbors, so I am looking forward to many peaceful nights without the sounds fire trucks, police cars, screaming matches, stiffed drug dealers, loud projectile vomiting, and breaking glass.
I need a really snazzy new haircut (longcut?) but don't have any ideas and have been told in no uncertain terms that I am not cute enough to pull off a pixie anymore. (Eh, whatever, they're right. No hard feelings.) I'm taking suggestions. I have a long, horsey face and need a style that minimizes my facial flaws. Right now my hair is well past my shoulders, so I have a lot to work with. Ideas?
This is really pre-news news, but I will have an exciting Official Announcement soon about my next chapbook!

--Kristen McHenry

Beauty Breathes: On Tulips and Tour Buses

2011-04-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

Beauty Breathes: On Tulips and Tour Buses

I've been struggling with a lot of old, heavy grief lately, but within that, I’ve been gifted with the presence of some beautiful people, handing me offerings. One was a recent session with my former mind/body counseling instructor, Pietro Abela, who I sometimes feel is my own personal Giving Tree. He helped me through a horrendous healing crisis; he has seen at my most broken, he's watched me struggle and grow, and he has held in his hands both my most intense grief and my most transcendent peace. Sometimes I think I am going to come to him, an exhausted old woman who ate all his apples, knock on his door, and ask if I can just sit on his couch and rest. And I’m certain he’ll let me.

On Sunday, I got to see my friend Dana, whose Compassion Project I decided to ride on the coattails of with Beauty Breathes, and we talked about our mutual struggles with dyslexia. She left me an absolutely lovely voice mail that evening, offering me a beautiful reflection of myself at a time when I was feeling especially ugly both inwardly and outwardly.

Today we had our annual staff outing to go look at tulips. I wrote disappointedly in my poetry journal that I had no real thoughts, poetic or otherwise, about tulips. On the way back on the tour bus, one of my co-workers said the lady at Costco told her that to make tulips last longer, you put a small cut in their upper stems. The tulips will focus their cellular energy on healing the wound, rather than opening and blooming. They require less resources, like water, during this time of healing. Only when the wound is healed will they begin to expend their energy and external resources to bloom. And this simple statement made my entire life make sudden, perfect, and elegant sense.

--Kristen McHenry

Poem-A-Day Interlude: An Introvert in an Extroverted World

2011-04-07T19:03:00.000-07:00

An Introvert in an Extroverted World

"Extroverts like to experience a lot, and introverts like to know a lot about what they experience." -Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D

I don't like labels, and I especially dislike being labeled an introvert, because it tends to have so many negative connotations in this society. But at the suggestion of my therapist, I started reading a book called "The Introvert Advantage", by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D. It's been helping me sort out a lot of issues that I have been struggling with due to working in an overwhelmingly extrovert-dominated workplace, and existing in an extrovert-praising society. As a person who deeply values silence, time to write, and "alone-time", I often find myself very out-of-step with most of society. It's difficult to navigate through an extroverted world as someone whose richest, deepest life resides internally, in my heart and mind, rather than through a collection of external stimuli.

The book points out that:

"Introverts have increased blood flow in the brain and it follows a different pathway, engaging memory, problem solving, and planning. The pathway is long and complex, activated by the neurotransmitter, acetycholine, which stimulates a good feeling when thinking or feeling. The extrovert path is activated by dopamine, fired by adrenaline – they need external stimulation to feel good."

Reading this book has engendered some real "a-ha" moments, and this one of them. Primarily, it's helping me to understand why I seem to get overwhelmed so much faster by external stimuli than other people do. For a long time I thought it was because I was just dumb, or lacking in vitality, or both. But I realize now that it's actually because, among other reasons, introverts absorb far more, and far more subtle, information from their environments than extroverts, and they need time to process and make sense of that information. (I'm also someone who, as introverts often are, falls into the category of "The Highly Sensitive Person", so that definitely adds to my overload--what I like to call "antennae syndrome", where I pick up on subtle energy very easily and can often get drained by it.)

It's also helping to explain why I have a difficult time speaking, especially when I haven't had time to think and process first. It has nothing to do with a lack of spontaneity, and everything to do with the need have integrity in my communication--an innate understanding that our words have impact, and that before speaking, we should know--really know--how we feel and what we think. And again, that sort of processing takes time. There is nothing more stressful for me than being put on the spot to answer a question or give my opinion before I've had time to fully process and integrate the information I'm being asked to respond to. I prefer to listen, take in, absorb, reflect, and examine from different angles--quietly, and with focused concentration. I dislike speaking for the most part, and I very much dislike noisy, chattery environments and gatherings. I find group meals, outings, and other big, chaotic gatherings nerve-wracking rather than "fun"--no matter how much I like the people involved. I get overwhelmed when conversations flit from topic to topic when I am still expanding in my mind on the topic that was raised just before. And because I tend to be able to extrapolate all of the possible ramifications of each decision that is made, I'm get very anxious when I feel that decisions I'm responsible for reside outside of my control.

I don't hate people. I'm very interested in new experiences, I'm not anti-social, and I do deeply need and value friends. But I am someone who is absolutely drained by shallow, frequent interactions with large numbers of people, or constantly shifting external stimuli. Being required to flit around at a party and make small talk is high up on my list of worst nightmares. I am much more likely to want to engage one or two different people in richer conversations, getting to know them on a deeper level, rather than dash around catching snippets of conversations for "stimulus".

I have worked really hard to try to change my natural personality, to adapt more to my conditions, or at least be able pretend to when I have to. But it's not easy. I feel constantly misunderstood and often de-valued. With this book, I'm finally starting to understand why certain things are so hard, and that it's not about something being wrong with me. Only about 20-25% of the population are introverts. Introverts tend to be the listeners, the compassionate advisers, and the observer/preceptors of subtleties--the ones who can support the extroverts, who can then take their own gifts into the world and use them wisely.

We live in a culture that worships and rewards extroversion, and traditionally pathologizes introversion. Introverts are mis-labeled as aloof, uncaring, timid, shy, mysterious, stingy with their opinions, "unenthusiastic" or closed off. But introverts have many gifts, among others--deep powers of concentration, the ability to see things from many sides and viewpoints, patience, creativity, and the ability to form deep and long-lasting connections.

I'm going to stop trying to fight off this label and instead, embrace it and own it.

--Kristen McHenry

The Working Lives of Poets: An All-Call for Your Stories!

2011-03-26T11:17:00.000-07:00

The Working Lives of Poets: An All-Call for Your Stories!

A year or so ago, I went to an open mic poetry reading. The host, when introducing one of the readers, said, “She’s probably the only poet here with a real job.” I found myself bristling slightly at this comment. “I have a real job!” I wanted to protest. At the same time, I felt a simultaneous guilty need to explain myself: I’m in my early 40’s, I’ve had a very meandering career path, and, well, damnit, I’m just at a point where I need things, like a dental plan and a little bit of savings in case I actually make it to old age. To me, this (I am sure well-meant) comment seemed to imply that as a poet, I should be perfectly content to make espresso or waitress the rest of my life in order to dedicate myself more fully to my art; that having a “real job” somehow made me less of artist. Then I got equally huffy thinking that perhaps the assumption was actually that poets were too flaky to hold down “real jobs”. So much projection, so little time! Still, that little moment has always stuck with me, and I find myself thinking about it again this morning as I get ready for my usual Saturday writing session.

This is an all-call to poets, writers, and artists out there. I would love to hear from you on some or all of the following inquiries:

• How does your working life add to or take away from your artistic life and work?
• What is your attitude towards your job?
• Do you enjoy what you do to earn a paycheck?
• If you could quit and dedicate yourself full time to your artistic life, would you? Do you think this would increase your artistic productivity, or damage it?
• Is your working life and your artistic life entwined? In what way? (ie, teaching or making a living from your art).

And anything else you’d like add about how your work life and your artistic life bump up against each other.

I'm super-excited to hear from you all!

--Kristen McHenry

Join Me for A Reading!

2011-03-21T09:26:00.000-07:00

Poetry at Elliott Bay Book Co., Friday 3/25, 7 p.m.

LANA AYERS

JOHN BYRNE

CHRISTOPHER JARMICK

ROBERT LASHLEY

KRISTEN McHENRY

BELLE RANDALL

MICHAEL SPENCE

Elliott Bay Book Company

1521 Tenth Avenue, Seattle

Tel.: store, 206-624-6600 or David, 206-633-2725

E-mail: David, rosealleypress@juno.com

URL: www.elliottbaybook.com

All of the performing poets have poems featured in Many Trails to the Summit, the new Rose Alley Press Anthology:

LANA AYERS is poetry editor at Crab Creek Review. Her latest poetry collection is A New Red.

JOHN BYRNE reports recent publications in The Lyric and 14x14. He lives in Albany, Oregon.

CHRISTOPHER JARMICK hosts series at Bookworm Exchange and Parkplace Books. His 2010 collection is Ignition.

ROBERT LASHLEY often performs in Bellingham. His collection Songs My City Taught Me was published in 2009.

KRISTEN McHENRY's 2009 collection is The Goatfish Alphabet.

BELLE RANDALL's newest collection is The Coast Starlight. She is Poetry Editor of Common Knowledge (Duke U.).

MICHAEL SPENCE's work has appeared in The New Criterion and Sewanee Review. His latest collection is Crush Depth.

Rose Alley Press, David D. Horowitz, President E-mail: rosealleypress@juno.com Web: www.rosealleypress.com

Loss Prevention

2011-03-08T19:01:00.000-08:00

Loss Prevention

Welcome, Minka!

In the last month, I have lost two things—one, a living creature who I love and miss very much, and the other, a more abstract, probably illusory thing I deeply desired but didn’t receive.

Too early, in the midst of my grief, against all logic, and to not an ounce of regret, I adopted a new cat from the shelter on Sunday afternoon. She’s adorable and she’s doing great, but she’s extremely protective of the small territory of the bedroom that we’ve confined her to, and has been unwilling to acquiesce space to our other cat yet. I understand this intense sense of protectiveness. She’s been through a lot, and she doesn’t have much to hold onto. She’s not yet familiar enough with us to feel safe; to know that her resources will always be replenished, to understand that she will be loved and provided for and that she doesn’t have to fight to exhaustion for it.

I’m cursed with a personality trait that is probably half nature, half nurture, that causes me to experience the normal losses and abandonments of life as crushingly painful. Because the universe never felt safe to me, because I never felt a strong sense of being protected or provided for, I have an intense need to control loss and avoid abandonment. I’m not an optimistic bouncer-backer; I’m a more of crawl–under-the-duvet-er, only to emerge when bored with my own suffering or lured out by an enticing treat. So I have a lot of compassion for what this cat is going through. And I know that when she feels safe; when understands that she’ll have everything she needs, she’ll loosen up a little.

The trick for me is to work on this trust on my own life; in my relationship to abundance and my faith in the fundamental benevolence of the Universe. To learn to trust enough that I can let go of all of the futile and exhausting grasping, fighting, struggling and attempting to manipulate and control. To know that everything will be replenished; that I will be easily carried to the place I need to be; that time will do its work and that I will be provided for, materially, emotionally, and spiritually. That if I calm down long enough, I may learn to develop the wisdom to understand the difference between useless, hysterical action and right action. And to know that often, I need to be protected from getting what I want.

I wrote the following poem several years ago. At the time, I wasn’t sure what it was about. Today I look back and see it as a message to my future self; the self now who needs to hear this, and believe in it.

Baggage

What would you carry with you?
How much weight would you hoist off the strap
onto your soft frayed shoulder
as you swim through the haze of your day
with your full and crafty tote?

What provisions would you gather
under the chapped mouth of the leather:
candies, needles, cigarettes?
Cold solid things you’d know by feel,
reachable and assuring.

What are you willing to lose;
to let sink to the bottom, forgotten
into the deep wrinkled floor?
What burdens would you let that abyss
of worn satin swallow?

And what would you tuck away
in the place of honor, that one-off
disfigured, awkward pocket
where you stash your favorite secret
like a stale and stolen butterscotch?

Or are you simply willing
to fall out into the open world
with no keys, no mints, no stamps,
not a saltine to your name
lacking chapstick, phone and change?

Would you just walk, and trust
that doors would fling open before you,
that the rain would rinse your breath,
that ravens would bring your messages,
that ripe vines would leap at you,

dropping their medicine fruit?
And that all you needed would be there
for the clean, easy taking--
you could go free, practically naked,
bagless and loved and wild.

--Kristen McHenry

Beauty Breathes: Grief, Privacy, and the Fine Art of Giving Up

2011-02-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

Beauty Breathes: Grief, Privacy, and the Fine Art of Giving Up

In spite of the fact that I’m an almost entirely emotionally-driven person, I find that I still have certain ingrained convictions around privacy as it pertains to grief. I don’t know if this comes from growing up in a stoic, blue-collar Catholic family, or if it’s just that something in my personality has an innate and overblown sense of propriety, but I find public displays of raw grief gaudy and distasteful.

Maybe I’m a poet exactly because of this weird tension between the shame that my intense, ever-present emotions cause me, and the need to control those emotions, to use the alchemy of words to transform their ugliness into something structured and useful; to create organization around unbearable chaos. In spite of the reputation of artists as being sloppy and unorganized, I find that most of them are actually obsessed with organization—it’s the nature of an artist to give voice to the chaos of emotion and spirituality; to make sense of the insensible, to build meaning from the meaningless.

Right now, I’m experiencing an amazing, wrenching, horrid and godly grief around my missing cat, Zooey. Tonight, I drove to where I thought she might be hiding and walked around fruitlessly calling her name, tapping a can of this certain stinky, cheap-o cat food that for some reason she thinks is the most delectable thing on the planet. In the midst of this, I had a sudden realization that the can of food was not a magical tailsman; that it was not going to flush her out, and I just lost it, right there in that benign Ballard suburb. I stood there in the rain, clutching this disgusting food, tears streaming down my face, and realized that I had no control over whether or not I will ever find her; that I was only doing this as an act of love towards her; as a homage; as a ritual. As a fruitless and final “I love you." See, I know what food you like. I love you.

We live in a culture of endless optimism; of “never give up”, of “if you can dream it, you can be it.” There is a constant push to keep going in the face of hopeless circumstances, after all, there’s always a solution just around the bend; there’s always a great, shining Hope, we must have faith; we must go on. I understand the value of this sort of thinking; I have a love-hate relationship with the ever-present American specter of the Can-Do Narrative. It has led us to enormous heights, and I admire people who can integrate this sort of thinking into their lives and continue on. But I’m not a continue-on-er. I read somewhere once that those who tend towards depression actually have a far more clear-headed and realistic view of circumstances than those who don’t. And now, I need to let Zooey go. I am acutely aware of the futility of any more action in this search. Whether or not she comes home is no longer contingent—and probably never has been—on any action I take or don’t take. I have no control. I can only hold her in my heart and hope that she isn’t suffering.

I’ve been worried that my intense grief is somehow out of proportion to my loss; that it’s neurotic and unbalanced; that I’m projecting something onto this loss that goes deeper than the loss itself. But the fact is, I have been with that cat longer than I've been married. She has been my steady, grouchy, selfish, thuggish, nosy, gluttonous and insistent companion for eleven years, and I really fucking miss her.

And I’m grateful that loss of a little animal can weaken me to this extent; can bring me to my knees, helpless and open and raw. It means that I’m still alive after all.

Notes on Surrender

2011-02-24T14:40:00.000-08:00

Notes on Surrender

We when we think
of surrender we think
of salmon, of their thoughtless yielding
to biology, and of those
poor saps in archaic tales,
forced to slaughter their own
to learn the nature of loss.

So forgive me but today I shredded
with my own hands each
of your bouquet’s petals
just at the peak of their bloom. My fingers
stink of rose. I have wiped
their tribal stains onto my cheeks.
I did it, understand, because
I resented their timing,
unwilling as I was to bear
witness to their death--not this dozen,
not these.

How much has God lost
to our disregard for a mystery, to our
heroic, ham-handed
rescue of our ourselves?

Let us surrender this day to our cowardice, to our
one bad turn too many. Let fear
take hold of us completely, let us
offer it our necks.
It’s okay for a while to cower
frozen in our terror,
to clench and hide,
until starving,
we emerge to search for home.

--Kristen McHenry

Image from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/littlefeather100/2985784575/

Beauty Breathes: Why Poetry Matters Edition

2011-02-21T15:46:00.000-08:00

Beauty Breathes: Why Poetry Matters Edition

"...let it be known you’re willing to suffer
only in proportion to your errors,
not one unfair moment more.
Insist on this as if it could be granted:
not one moment more."

--From "Talk to God" by Stephen Dunn

It’s day nine of my cat-of-eleven-years Zooey’s disappearance, and I’m afraid I have become one of those slightly embarrassing, sad-washed people who no longer have the ability to fake it long enough to sustain proper social behavior. I awoke yet again uncharacteristically early this morning, after having an awful dream in which Zooey was carted off by a shady entity called “The Dark Carnival”. (I’m pretty sure that weird little quirk of the imagination was dredged up from a long-buried memory of having read Ray Bradbury’s “Dandelion Wine” when I was fourteen.) I managed to get (sort of) dressed and convince myself that I looked perfectly normal, then drove to the local office supply store to get neon-colored paper and thumbtacks for our postering campaign.

As I was tacking up posters on the telephone pole outside the senior living building by my apartment, an elderly man limped down the stairs, coffee in hand. “Are you the one who was wandering through here last night poking around with a flashlight?” he asked. I said that yes, indeed, I was. “I was wondering what you were looking for,” he said, peering at my LOST CAT poster. “Well, she is a fine-looking girl, isn’t she?” he added. I felt a completely unreasonable surge of pride. “Yes, she is,” I said, thinking, yes, she is a great-looking cat, and I picked her out, and she’s always been exceptionally beautiful as well as extremely clever. He assured me he would keep an eye out for her, then ambled back up the stairs to his apartment.

Every time we visit the city animal shelter to look for her, the volunteers there are extremely kind. They’ve been very forthcoming with lost-pet-finding tips, and they keep telling us not to give up. Last night, we had a very helpful consultation with Sharon, a detective from The Missing Pet Partnership, who was also very kind and understanding, and urged us to keep looking no matter what. And one of my colleagues from my days in healing work set me up with Heather Faris, an animal communicator from Canada who offered me a pro-bono phone session. I'm very grateful for everyone's empathy and kindness, and that no one so far has said, "It's just a cat, for Godsake; you can always get another one."

I’ve been trying to focus on writing poetry this weekend, but I’m too torn up. I realized that this is a weekend for reading poetry, not writing poetry. I’ve been making my way through Stephen Dunn’s volume, “What Goes On”, and I’ve found it to be enormously comforting and affirming. It’s exactly the kind of poetry that I want to be able to write—accessible, but full of depth, delicate but impactful, real, honest, and strangely comforting in its ruthlessness. One of the poems that has especially resonated with me is, “Talk to God ”. (The link will take you to the text and audio.)

During the days when life is rolling along okay, I encourage you to start amassing a few books of poetry that will provide you solace during the hard times. Mary Oliver is a great one to start with, as are Raymond Carver, Rita Dove, Anne Sexton, and Erin Belieu. But look on your own, too. You might come across someone I’ve never heard of, and if you do, please share it with me. And, in the comments section, please share with me which poets (or lyricists) you turn to for comfort in times of grieving and hardship. Let's help each other get a collection going to arm us in the rough times--and to deepen our souls when better times return.

--Kristen McHenry

Purple Pixelated Macaws, Want, Choice, and the Wheel of Fate

2011-02-19T17:13:00.000-08:00

Purple Pixelated Macaws, Want, Choice, and the Wheel of Fate

Sadly, my Maine Coon, my dearest little buddy, remains missing. It’s been a full week, and I’m already grieving in anticipation of the worst case scenario. I woke up early this morning and drove around fruitlessly in my pajamas, unwashed hair lank on my forehead, make-up-less, teeth un-brushed, looking for her, calling her name—until after a few hours, I realized that searching for her is this way is nothing but an exercise in existential, Waiting-for-Godot-like torment.

Last night, as I was sacked out in bed sobbing, Mr. Typist came in and told me that I should go log onto my favorite MMORPG, as he had bought one of my main characters a gift. I was hit with a sudden intuition. “Did you get me that Hyacinth Macaw?” I asked hopefully. He smiled. I slumped shakily to my computer to log in, and sure enough, there it was…the vanity pet that I had been lusting after three years, an extremely rare “drop” in the game—one that has a less than one percent chance to be looted off of the Bloodsail Pirates in Stranglethorn Vale. I don’t know why I’ve always wanted that pet so much, except that’s rare and special. Having rare and special things makes me happy, even if those rare and special things amount to nothing more in the end than a few lines of computer code that make up the numbers and pixels that create the light vibrations of “purple” and “blue” in the shape of a slightly oversized and gawky parrot. (And it was a fun, momentary distraction from my grief, even though it does nothing but hover there and look pretty.)

Why the hell am I babbling on about the Hyacinth Macaw? My point, and I do have one, is that lately I have been caught up in maelstrom of Want. Aside from wanting Zooey home, I have been waiting for and badly wanting something else in particular for several months that has been very slow in coming. Upon recent further examination of this object of want, I have realized that my desire itself is based on illusion. My want is not based in any sense of reality, but in a fantasy that I have built up in my heart and head about what this thing might do for me; what it might rescue me from; the person it might make me into. When in fact, it’s no more real than the elusive Hyacinth Macaw; something that is valued not for its inherent worth, but only for its manufactured rarity and for what is projected onto it. A false economy of desire. And it’s something that is not even in my grasp yet, and may not ever be. The receipt of this thing depends on numerous factors involving fate, chance, and more mundane variables which are now completely out of my control—the same factors that helped Mr. Typist come across the rare Hyacinth Macaw on the in-game auction house at just the right moment before it was snapped up by someone else. And it’s something that, if it comes my way and I choose to receive it, may only make me mildly happier, or distract me for a brief period of time. It may turn out that the power of my own wanting is far more pervasive than the power of the thing wanted.

Life is made up of complex interactions between choice and chance. Control is an illusion. And no one makes it to where they are in their lives based solely on self-determination. We all are brought to where we find ourselves by an interplay between choice and chance, between decision and fate. And sometimes choices are driven by a want that has more to do with illusion and dreams than hard-core reality, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe without making “bad” choices, we can’t reach the place we’re meant to get to in our lives.

--Kristen McHenry

P.S. If you are so inclined, please ask whatever sky or earth or flying-spaghetti -monster god you commune with regularly to help Zooey get home safe. I am so heartbroken right now. Thank you all for your good wishes. I have will detectives on the case shortly. She is mircochipped and all of the shelters in the Pacific NW have been alerted that she's MIA.

This is what she looks like:

Missing since February 12th from 2200 block of NW 59th in Seattle.

Beauty Breathes: Crazy Cat Lady Edition

2011-02-15T21:13:00.000-08:00

Beauty Breathes: Crazy Cat Lady Edition

It’s been a while since I’ve added something to the “Beauty Breathes” series, and it’s time.

A few years ago, I worked briefly with a beautiful, and as it turned out, very disturbed young lady, who badly wanted a cat. But she wouldn’t actually adopt one because she was hell-bent on getting a boyfriend, and she was terrified that owning a cat would brand her with the mythical Crazy Cat Lady stigma.

I’ve always found the association of cats with women and madness to be fascinating. I haven’t quite put together all of the pieces yet, but there do seem to be these free-floating associations out there that somehow equate cats with a particularly female type of being-ness, and a particularly female sort of madness. I think this has something to do with intuition and mystery and the yin aspect, but I’m not sure. Cats are also much more strongly associated with writers than dogs are, but I think that one’s easier to figure out--writers and cats are both very solitary beings. (If you are a woman, a writer, and a little bit mad—I’m sorry to inform you that you’re an inevitable draw for a feline companion.)

I never grew up with cats. We always had dogs around, nervous, quivering little breeds that my mother preferred. My father, who detests cats, instilled a certain amount of fear and distaste for them in me from a very young age. Nonetheless, I got my first kitten when I was a lost, lonely 22 year-old, living the poverty-stricken artist/barrista life in downtown Olympia, in a studio apartment above a second-hand clothing shop. Lucy was a tiny, beautiful, orange and white long-hair with giant green eyes and a delicate, femme-fatale temperament. It took me a very long time to learn how to relate to her. She ultimately became a consolation prize for my first fiancé when we broke up, and I’ve long since lost track of her. But she taught me how to truly appreciate the nature of a cat.

I know that cats have a reputation for being cold, selfish, and aloof, but that’s just not the case. The fact is, they are extremely affectionate and caring companions once they’ve bonded to you. In fact, I believe that they’re ultimately more loyal than dogs, because cats are very self-directed. They make their own decisions about where they go, what they do, and how long they stay. So if they’ve chosen you, it’s not because of an instinctual pack mentality, but from a choice they make of their own accord. You don’t every really “own” a cat. You share your life with a cat, you steward their health, you care for them, but cats ultimately belong to themselves. You can’t boss around a cat, bribe loyalty or affection out of it, or make it do a damn thing it doesn’t want to do. Cats demand patience, respect, and equanimity. They are not interested in doing any of the undignified things that dogs do to make us feel good about ourselves as people.

But this is also what makes cats so great. Cats will never give you the immediate gratification and joy that you get from a dog jumping and yelping with happiness to see you come home from work. But when you feel like total crap, cats know. If they are like my cat Zooey, hey will just quietly come and sit next to you, not demanding that you talk about it, not asking anything of you, just quietly offering their presence. If they’re like Zooey, when you’re really messed up, they will insist on climbing onto your chest and laying there in the heart spot where you hurt the most, no matter how many times you try to push them off. If they’re like Zooey, they will constantly attempt to seduce you into taking a long nap with them. And they will be hilarious and fun and ironic and will try to get you to chase them down the hallway in a roaring, terrifying manner just so that they can feel something. They will stay with you through a major breakup, numerous job losses, a marriage to a new man, five moves in almost as many years, emotional and spiritual trauma, skint times, apartment flooding, and even the almost unforgivable addition of a threateningly cute, feral kitten to the household. (And they might even come around after eleven years and decide to lick said feral kitten on the forehead occasionally.)

And they have a well-documented 6th sense, something about understanding the earth’s magnetic pull; a homing instinct. They have an innate sense of direction, unlike me. And how a damn cat can have the power to make me cry every single night since their disappearance is a mystery to me, but I suppose it’s just another weird, spooky cat power.

Zooey, I miss you long time. Please come home.

--Kristen McHenry

A Handy Guide to Anxiety-Free Poem Interpretation

2011-02-07T17:58:00.000-08:00

A Handy Guide to Anxiety-Free Poem Interpretation

Recently someone sent me some song lyrics and asked me to interpret them for him. He's told me on several occasions that he finds poetry--and especially my poems--difficult to understand. I was puzzled by this, because this person has a great ear for music, and usually people with an ear for music tend to have a natural affinity for poetry.

It could be that my poetry is completely obtuse, but considering the feedback I’ve gotten occasionally from other poets and editors, I’m actually a bit of a simpleton--my poetry is shallow, too easy to understand, too “matchy-matchy”. Which is fine with me. My intent has always been to write poetry that non-poets can understand and enjoy. In other words, I want to write accessible poems. After thinking about it, I realized that this gentleman, who is very intelligent, and by no means verbally stunted, is probably just suffering from a touch of Poetry Anxiety.

Poetry Anxiety is caused by the bad teaching of poetry in the formative years, and common misunderstandings about what poetry is, and its function in our lives. I think we’re culturally conditioned in many ways to be suspicious of things that have multiple layers of meaning, shades of gray, ambivalent interpretations. Because of the way we're taught early on, it’s very anxiety-provoking to be confronted with a work of art or a piece of writing that does not have a clear meaning or message; something that we can't be "right" about or find a single, definitive answer to. This is compounded by teachers who use poetry interpretation as a sort of “gotcha!” instead of an open exploration of themes. Teaching poetry with the idea that understanding its meaning is the most important thing about experiencing a poem is short-sighted and often turns kids off very early to what could otherwise be a wonderfully expansive venue for their creativity.

So, for all of you non-poets out there, (or for you poets who also have Poetry Anxiety--and I'm one of them), here’s a simple, stress-free guide to reading and enjoying poetry:

Practice Makes Perfect

1. A poem usually needs more than one read-through before it begins to reveal itself. For me, reading a poem is a bit like staring at those weird 3-D posters in the mall where you’re supposed to find the pattern in the squiggly lines. If you’re not accustomed to reading poetry, it can take a while to get used to it. But the more you read it, the more you get used to hearing language used in a poetic way, and over time, it will start to feel more natural.

Center Yourself

2. To experience poetry, you need to be in a still and quiet state. Take a few minutes to breathe, eliminate distractions, and get your mind focused on the poem in front of you. Although reading poetry can be very entertaining, it's not a passive form of entertainment. It requires your full involvement and some degree of concentration.

Be Fearlessly Wrong

3. Once the poem is written and “out there” it becomes less about the poets’ intent for the poem and more about a dialogue--an interaction-- between the reader and the poem. The reader is entirely free to have their own experience of the poem. So, it’s okay to be “wrong”, because a poem is not a static object; it’s a living thing that depends on you as the reader to bring your own experience to it. Everyone will perceive a poem differently depending on their individual perceptions and being-ness.

Sound it Out

4. When you’re first reading a poem, focus on images, sound, and the general rhythm, and try not to be anxious about deciphering “meaning” right away. For example, a staccato sound will evoke a different emotions than a lot of soft, extended vowel sounds. Shorter lines create a different feel than a poem with long, extended lines. Poets usually make very deliberate choices about these things when they write, depending on the feelings they want to evoke in the reader. Consider this when interpreting the intent of the poet, but mostly consider how you feel when the sounds wash over you. Again, read the poem more than once. Let it in. Open yourself to it's texture and feel.

Images, Images, Images

5. If you feel like you aren't understanding the meaning, concentrate on one or two images that you find interesting, and just meditate on those. Or, refer to the title. Clues to the intent of the poet can often be found in the title of the poem.

Symbolize This!

6. Consider what the objects in a poem might be symbolizing on a deeper level than the surface appearance. For example, lots of images of winged creatures (butterflies, etc.) could be about reflecting a longing for freedom-- or escape (flight). You might find over time that you begin to develop your own vocabulary of symbolism and that interpreting imagery will start to come more naturally to you.

Pattern Recognition

7. Sometimes a poem may appear to just be a fragmented collection of images. Try to find a pattern in the images; some common thread or theme that runs through all of the images, or a feeling or emotion that the images evoke for you.

How Does This Directly Affect Me?

8. Think of the poem expansively; apply it yourself and your life, and then the world outside of you. Be playful and creative! Poetry is not supposed to be all that serious; just have fun with it.

Take the Wild Ride!

9. Reading poetry should be emotional, exciting, fun, comforting, inspiring, humorous, adventurous, deepening, wrenching, uplifting, eye-opening. But it should never be about the fear of being “wrong”.

For a simple place to start, check out Poets.org. They have a huge selection of poems based on topics that are easily searchable. This is a great place to begin discovering poets whose work you resonate with. And if you really want to go out on a limb and try your hand at writing yourself, Big Tent Poetry is a wonderfully supportive environment for beginning and experienced poets alike.

Happy reading!

--Kristen McHenry

Poets and Comedians, Part Three: The Fifth Chakra Blues*

2011-02-02T20:19:00.000-08:00

Poets and Comedians, Part Three: The Fifth Chakra Blues*

Part Three of my Poets and Comedians series was going to be about the dearth of female comics with their own successful podcasts, as compared to the many male comics who are wildly successful in this realm—Adam Corolla, Chris Hardwick, Kevin Smith, and Marc Maron to name just a few. This led me down a path that started to feel unmanageably large in scope and just more a bit more than I can cope with right now. Instead, I’ve decided to talk about my own relationship to speaking, which is really where this whole idea came from in the first place—that is, my fascination that someone can confidently talk for up to an hour or more straight without it ever occurring them that they aren’t going to be utterly fascinating to at least someone. This attitude represents a level of self-confidence I find awe-inspiring and completely unattainable.

I went to high school in a dirt-poor town in a remote area of Upper Michigan, and they didn’t have a drama department to speak of, so I didn’t begin studying performance until, through the miracle of a small scholarship and some generous financial aid, I was able to go to the local university, which had a fairly reputable drama program. Being a painfully, almost pathologically shy girl at the time, I paradoxically found a lot of relief in acting. It was very freeing to be able to escape mentally and emotionally into a character; to be able to express the intense feelings I had through the safety of transforming into someone else. I did have horrid, hand-trembling stage fright, but once I was on, I was completely transformed. I could dive into almost any persona and both hide myself and express myself fully at the same time.

In some ways, I feel this now about writing poetry. But both acting and writing, while they are authentic forms of expression, also put up a barrier of safety between myself and the world. It’s not me raw; it’s me processed and churned and formed and presented. It is voice--in poetry, I hope a more and more authentic voice as time goes on, but it’s certainly not me flying without a net; simply talking off the top of my head and fully expecting to be found intriguing and charming.

I’m very comfortable being the quiet one. I feel much more attuned to the role of listener, reflector, receiver. I suspect there were a number of forces that formed this in me. I come from a big family of bellowers and yellers, and maybe turning completely inward, simply going “off the air”, was my way of coping as someone who found screaming and fighting intolerably painful. Maybe it’s because I learned very early on that there were certain secondary rewards for acting in the role of caretaker and banishing my own need to be heard. Maybe it’s just something I absorbed from the culture around me; that as a female, it’s unseemly to call attention to myself; that I should step aside and let the men bluster and clown and natter on; that it’s my job to be a good audience, but never try to grab the center of attention. Or maybe I’m just scared of calling attention to myself because I’m afraid, deep inside, that I am really a very boring person.

Reading my own poetry out loud has its challenges, too. I feel incredibly vulnerable unless I create some sort of persona around the reading, and even then, it’s a layer removed from acting. One less piece of protective armor there between my heart and the audience. And, there are times when I hate my own voice. There are times when I feel like there is far too much talking in the world and I want nothing to do with it. There are times when I feel that I could never speak another word and still be perfectly happy. Speak up, I’m often told. You never speak up for yourself. Say it; say your piece. But often, my throat is simply unwilling to work on my behalf.

And there is a part of me that wants to know what it feels like to grab a mic and command attention. To speak about nothing in particular with complete authority, to know with utter certainly that I am being heard, and found amazing, funny, and irresistible. This is another reason why I am so fascinated with comedians and the whole process of performing in that way--podcasting and radio in particular, where there are no visual cues to go on and the performers depend on the intimacy of voice alone. It seems to require an even more intense vulnerability than either acting or reading poetry. It seems to require both an insane confidence and a sort of deep, driving insecurity and need to be loved.

I have the deep, driving insecurity part in droves. What I need is a shot of that insane confidence. What I could do with just one small taste of that stuff!

--Kristen McHenry

*The fifth chakra is the throat chakra; the seat of expression and speaking our truth. Some consider it to be the etheric template upon which God created the blueprint for the physical manifestation of humans.

To-Do List After An Hour of Writing in The Ballard Library, 1-29-11

2011-01-29T13:24:00.001-08:00

To-Do List After An Hour of Writing in The Ballard Library, 1-29-11

A bad bird poem from Sadie's dream of crows. Reference: Great, black beating wings, molting as a metaphor.
Look up the Latin name for “pig”. Write about the difficulty of skinning after slaughter; the incessant need for a blowtorch and patience.
Ponder: Depression as a preponderance of passion; too much energy, nowhere to go. Include these words: Light's edge, gobsmacked, implacable, mourning.
List the ways that pigs and birds are different. Who gets to leave the body. Which is a thing released, which is a thing bound inexorably to flesh. Make it unpredictable.
Think of skin as bald, like ice cream. Think of it as melting, as alkaline. It’s too early to consider what emerges.
Best form for all this a villanelle, as contains within its very rhythm a haunting repetition, etc.
But not a bird emerging after all. Rather something red and wild, all hair and feathers, screaming, perhaps. Don't say "perhaps".
Something about skipping off down the sidewalk, the body slithered out of like a cheap coat. (Don’t say “cheap coat.”)
Include this clip: Outside the window as you write, a homeless man picks up a bright purple bag left in the bushes. He shakes it upside down, but it’s empty. He leaves it; continues on.

--Kristen McHenry

Image from: http://bobsartdujour.blogspot.com/2007_03_01_archive.html

If Reincarnation Exists, I Know Who I am Coming Back As!

2011-01-24T20:31:00.000-08:00

If Reincarnation Exists, I Know Who I am Coming Back As!

If reincarnation exists, I have decided I am coming back as Kevin Smith. I've heard Kevin Smith on three different podcasts this week, and there's no contest: Kevin Smith does not worry himself sick over things he can't control. Kevin Smith does not plunge into an abyss of self-hatred and shame spirals over being Kevin Smith. Kevin Smith does not torture himself with a litany of petty failures, he does not grieve excessively over minor losses, and he does not constantly over-analyze his choices. Nope, not Kevin. He's just a generally all-around laid-back, happy-go-lucky guy, doing his thing and cashing his checks. I am coming back as him, because I deserve to after everything I put myself through in this life.

--Kristen McHenry

Poets and Comedians, Part Two: Podcasts I Have Loved

2011-01-23T20:06:00.000-08:00

Poets and Comedians, Part Two: Podcasts I Have Loved

In Part One of "Poets and Comedians", I stated that I would list some of my favorite comedy podcasts...here are some highlights! Check them out if any of them sound interesting. (You don't need an I-pod to listen to a podcast.)

Wiretap with Jonathan Goldstein

I know it’s become trendy to call everything “quirky”, but the CBC’s Wiretap with Jonathan Goldstein truly is. It’s a brilliantly scripted show that follows the exploits of Jonathan and his assortment of eccentric, moody friends. It usually opens either with a monologue or short story from Jonathan, or, to his perpetual exasperation, a badly-timed phone call from one of his buddies who are either in need in advice, or just plain bored. Some of the conversations are hilarious, (like when the hyper-Type-A Josh calls to rant about his new job at a peace-loving, hippy-dippy Yoga magazine), some are highly silly, (two words: Howard Chackowicz), and a few have actually been intense enough to make me cry. Wiretap is never just one shtick; it’s collection of conversations, weird snippets, stories, and deeply affecting moments that come together in a lovely sound collage that has become an integral part of my inner world. For a great read, check out Jonathan’s book, “Ladies and Gentlemen: The Bible”, a collection of short stories re-telling famous tales from the Bible. And, a special shout-out to frequent guest Heather O'Neill, author of "Lullabies for Little Criminals", and a writer who I am sick with envy over.

WTF? with Marc Maron

How do you solve a problem like Marc Maron? This man is smart, a gifted interviewer, and a talented performer. He’s also an angry, neurotic, self-destructive mess of a human being, which is what really what makes me like him so much. Just when I start to think I should put my shrink on speed-dial, Marc says something like, (and I paraphrase) “You know, at age 45, I’m just beginning to realize that I don’t have to walk around all day waiting for other people to confirm my worst fears about myself”--and I’m so familiar with that way of being that it suddenly becomes absurd and loses its power, because I can laugh about it. Thanks, Marc, for being faster and cheaper than therapy! (And for regularly assuring your fans that you’re not about to become a normal, happy person and abandon us). The N ew York Times recently wrote a great article about Marc that describes him and his work very accurately.

The Adam Corolla Show

Dear NPR: I’m breaking up with you. When I’m driving to work through the 520 gridlock on yet another oppressive, gloom-ridden Seattle Monday—I’m sorry, but I can no longer emotionally cope with your earnest, in-depth stories about the untenable plight of mole farmers in outer Sandlovia. All that gets me through this commute nowadays is Adam-- dear, loud, cranky, foul-mouthed, hot-tempered Adam, with his endless, petty gripes, verbal diarrhea, and hilarious vitriol. Also, his guests are generally awesome (when Adam lets them talk), and although he comes across as Joe Six-Pack on the surface, he actually possesses a shrewd, analytical intelligence, and a Renaissance man’s mentality. He can give you smart, in-depth advice about love, house repairs, cars purchases, food preparation, and child-raising (he has four-year-old twins). Plus, he invented the “mangria”—a combination of wine and vodka--and, according to his book, he hates spiders almost as much as I do. What’s not to love?

Larry Miller

Larry Miller, a recurring guest on Adam Corolla’s show, is a wonderful, laid-back contrast to Adam’s intensity, and a fine podcaster in his own right. I cherish those thirty minutes a week I get to spend listening to Larry natter on about soap chips and the five levels of drinking, or about nothing in particular. He’s a warm, amiable, calming presence, funny, with great stories and a happy-go-lucky outlook that never descends into sentimentality or vapidity. I kind of wish he were my best friend and next-door neighbor, but for now, just listening to his podcast will have to do.

Too Beautiful to Live (TBTL)

Technically, Luke Burbank is more of a part-time stand-up comic, and full-time radio and podcasting personality. But that doesn’t make him any less engaging and funny. I’ve been a huge fan of his show ever since I started catching it by chance on KIRO (before they stupidly canceled it), when I drove to a volunteer gig in the evenings. Since cancellation, TBTL has reached new heights as a podcast, and I find myself embarrassingly over-involved (in my head, at least), in the lives of him, producer Jen Andrews, and regular Sean DeTore, whose on-air chemistry is truly special. I’m not making that up—radio god Ira Glass gave TBTL an amazing shout-out last year, saying that the show was changing the face of radio. Me and the other “tens” (TBTL fans) agree. The show is really less about Luke, Jen and Sean, and more about forming a community of caring people and bringing a positive, hopeful and uplifting spin to the Gen X plight. Not that it’s a generational thing—TBTL has listeners as young as four and as old as ninety-three. Luke, Jen, Sean…you barely know me, but…*sniff* I love you guys!

These are just the highlights of the podcasts I listen to and love; however, true to the pattern here, none of them have female leads and few have a strong female presence. Part Three of “Poets and Comedians” will explore the question of why, with so many amazing and talented female comedians thriving in the biz now, there is still a dearth of female-led podcasts. In the meantime, if you do know of any kick-ass, funny, lady-podcasts, please let me know about them in the comments section! (Because God knows, I don’t have enough to listen to!)

--Kristen McHenry

Poets and Comedians: Twin Souls?

2011-01-19T20:46:00.000-08:00

Poets and Comedians: Twin Souls? (Part One of A Series)

I’ve been a chronic podcast-a-holic ever since I broke down and got an I-pod two years ago. And, like a typical addict, I’ve needed more and more over time to stay satisfied. Slowly, my podcast subscriptions have gone from two or three a month to fifteen, sixteen a week, plus a few booster ‘casts from Stitcher just to maintain between hits.

Since almost all of these happen to be comedy podcasts, I’ve been treated to hundreds of hours of interviews and monologues detailing the inner workings of the comedic mind. (Comedy, it seems, is a small and incestuous world-- to my endless, grungy delight, comics from my “fave fifteen” often show up on each others podcasts and in turn, gossip viciously and funnily with and about other comedians.)

I think I’ve gotten hooked on podcasts dedicated to comedy because, as a poet, I’m fascinated with listening to comics talk in-depth about their writing and performance processes. From my very first hit listening to Marc Maron’s “WTF” podcast, I’ve noticed a lot of parallels between poets and comics. I’ve never actually had designs to be a comedian myself, but I’ve always felt a strong spiritual affinity towards them. Without humor, and without poetry, I absolutely could not have survived certain times in my life. And in my opinion, the best of humor and the best of poetry contain at least some elements of both.

Here are a few of the similarities I’ve noticed between poets and comedians:

Comedy and poetry both require a weird combination of discipline, and a reckless sense of risk and playfulness.
Poets and comedians both tend to be highly sensitive and thin-skinned, with a driving need to be liked.
Both are, to varying degrees, on the social or cultural fringe, if not outright social outcasts
There is extreme vulnerability in performing comedy, and in performing poetry.
Comedians and poets both play with mirroring and subverting cultural norms.
Poetry and comedy (good poetry and comedy, at least), require a wild and fearless flexibility with language, and a strong affinity for the absurd.
Poets and comedians both tend have an intimate and somewhat addictive relationship with the darker side of human nature, which is what I suspect compels both of them to do what they do.
Both are ultimately completely impatient with all the above points, and, at their core, only care about one thing: Is it funny? Or, is it a good poem?

This is just a working theory I’ve been pondering for a while. I haven’t thought all of it through yet, and I didn’t even want to write about it for fear of seeming to be pretentious and gas-baggy and wanting to put myself in the category of “good poet”, which I in no way consider myself to be. I’m just a beginner, aspiring to be competent, hoping to one day maybe be “good”. And I think of my army of (invisible, podcastian) comedian friends as my spiritual allies in this quest.

In Part Two of this post, I’m going to highlight some of my favorite comedy podcasts. Maybe you could get addicted, too, and I’ll have someone to party with!

--Kristen McHenry

I Heart Volunteers!

2011-01-04T19:38:00.001-08:00

I Heart Volunteers!

I was recently accepted as a content writer for Suite 101, which is for all practical purposes an unpaid writing gig; but a great way to obtain a forum for writing about your passion, be it container gardening, model train sets, or...volunteerism! Besides poetry, mine is volunteering. This winter, after a year of hard work, study, test-taking, and the submission of a professional portfolio, I earned my CVA (Certified Volunteer Administrator) credential, something I feel a lot of pride in. It was a really good program. You never really know until you're deep into these things how practical or useful this sort of program is going to be in the real world; especially in the much-misunderstood field of volunteer management, but it was amazing. I can wholeheartedly endorse it as extremely practical, hands-on, and immediately useful in the profession. I feel a lot more confident and sure of myself now, even after eight years in the field. Being so inspired, I wrote a few articles for Suite 101 on volunteering, and will have more coming soon. Check them out if you want to find a great volunteer gig--and get the most out of it!

http://www.suite101.com/content/how-to-find-a-great-volunteer-job-a326211

http://www.suite101.com/content/how-to-maximize-your-volunteer-experience-a326383

--Kristen McHenry

Existentialism, Entropy, Infomercial Hypnosis, and Impressive Displays of Iron Discipline

2011-01-03T18:55:00.000-08:00

Existentialism, Entropy, Infomercial Hypnosis, and Impressive Displays of Iron Discipline

Tonight while shopping for cat litter at my beloved neighborhood drug store, angels began singing, the heavens broke open, and a beam of golden light shone down upon me as I stumbled upon onto what I have deemed the Miracle Aisle— a gorgeous eight feet of shelving containing all of the products from As Seen on TV! I was riveted. Being a very focused shopper, normally I would just breeze right by the Miracle Aisle, but I have been kept up the last three nights by stabbing pains in my ears from an over-Q-tipping-induced infection, and all I can do is lie there in an aspirin stupor, fading in and out of consciousness while letting the hypnotic tones of one infomercial after the other waft through my impressionable cerebral cortex.

I stood there in a near panic, unable to decide which amazing product to grab first. There was the Lady Hair Trimmer—I need that for my eyebrows, you see, because with sensitive redhead skin, waxing is torture, and I have noticed the insidious beginnings of beetle-brow. There was the Shake Weight—I’m short on time and you will get skinny toned arms in a mere six minutes a day—and then there was the magnified toe clipper, the miracle wallet, (I love wallets!), the drain snake, and the magic bread bag. It occurred to me that I have seen infomercials for every one of these products at some point during my sweaty nighttime half-sleeps, and I have been hypnotized into wanting them. But that didn’t stop my heart from lusting.

Because, I also want to believe that there are solutions. Looking at that shelf, it seemed for a moment as though there is amazing cleverness in the world; that no matter what the problem is, some patriotic innovator will think up the solution and whiz-bang a patent, and there is not a trouble on this green earth that can’t be soothed or made better. It was a cozy little haven of florescence and answers; a momentary escape from the existentialism that's been plaguing me the last few weeks. Yesterday, I wrote this e-mail to a physicist friend of mine:

“Sometimes I think all we ever do is "create the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency and demoralization”*; I think this is true on so many macro and micro levels. Lately, I've been having a weird existential crisis where I feel like all action is futile, because it will just lead to more confusion and muddle. It's a bone deep, cold, frightening feeling --as though I'm on the cusp of realizing that nothing in my life is real; it's all just a bluescreen that I'm playing out my pathetic humanity against, and no matter what action I take, that won't change. It's a freeing feeling, but very scary nonetheless because it proves how little control I actually have over anything.”

And he wrote back:

“A friend of mine brought up this issue to me when we were in our late teens. He said, "I try to clean my room, but it's impossible. When I vacuum, it just stirs up more dust elsewhere. I can move a book from one place to what I think is a better place, but it always ends in the room being worse off." He was literally talking about his room, but I think he was unknowingly talking about his life, or life in general.

There is a physics to all of this: Entropy. The best the universe can do is stay as ordered as it is now. For every effort to improve some small part of the universe, we MUST make the rest of the universe AT LEAST that much worse. If I just sit on my ass for the rest of my life, I will be adding to the universe exactly the same as if I suddenly became Graham Greene. In the end, humans will die off. Books will last only a couple hundred years. Actually, the best thing I can do for the universe is to remain very still.”

It turns out, within me was a deep reserve of iron will and discipline. I bought only the drain snake and the magic bread bag. I’m tired of going through bottle after bottle of Drano, and tossing out bread three days after I buy it. All in all, a pretty savvy move, I think. Now I am going to pop a few aspirins and sit very still…but not in front of the television.

--Kristen McHenry

*Quote from Charlton Ogburn

Photo from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pittsinger/favorites/page4/

Witness

2010-12-28T11:51:00.000-08:00

The Jehova's Witness folks just stopped by to check in on my soul. It's nice to know they're looking out for me--and I don't mean that sarcastically. I genuinely enjoy our little chats. There are so few earnest people in the world anymore.

WITNESS

The shimmering ones
alight on my doorstep. They have come
with their kindness
and their satchel of mysteries
to tell me the story of lawns:

After the earth has turned
three times in the mouth of fire and dust, God
will shake out the grime
and roll it out anew,
a vibrant carpet for the righteous
and their children to bask upon.
All will be nubby and new as skin,
fresh-minted, so crazy green, a grand
do-over for the earth--
our planet,
returned to us pristine as paper--
and us, set down gently upon it
with His own hands.

And it is good--
the miracle of the sick waters rinsed,
the dew clear, the air thick
with purity.

We, too
have been turned
in the mouth of fire.
We, too
have been this pure.

--Kristen McHenry

Image: http://artisttonigrote.blogspot.com/

Beauty Breathes: On Dreams, Place, Imagination, Jobs vs. Work, and Being Against Gratitude

2010-12-27T13:58:00.000-08:00

Beauty Breathes: On Dreams, Place, Imagination, Jobs vs. Work, and Being Against Gratitude

Many years ago, in another life, I wrote and directed a play about dreams that I put on in a tiny art gallery called “Dreamz”. It was so named, said the fey, dreamy-faced owner, because owning a gallery had always been her dream. Dreamz closed down a year or two later, and, in my head at least, the owner moved on to new dreams, a bigger gallery, a space more equipped to hold the sum of her imagination. But it’s just as possible that she got sad, or lost, or lonely, and forgot to dream.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember that there is a difference between a job and work. I’ve always longed to have meaningful work; to be useful in the world. All I have ever wanted was to be given a task, and the freedom to carry out that task to the best of my ability. Because I’ve never known what it’s like to stay in one place for very long, my sense of place has always been tied up in my sense of meaningful work. I don’t feel fully at home unless I what I am doing is linked to a sense of purpose.

I believe that I’ve been granted much meaningful work in my life, although I didn’t always recognize at the time that was what is was. At the time I produced my play, it really wasn't my work to produce a play--it my work to learn how to fight for a vision. During the years I was doing healing work, it was my task to heal myself, and to come to understand what giving is, and what it is not. When I managed a spa, I was really there to to disseminate pride, courage and compassion. I have the ongoing, daunting and awesome task of loving my eccentric, sometimes difficult, and deeply kind-hearted husband, which has its own always-shifting lessons; its own deeper mission. I have made enormous mistakes. I have done none of these things impeccably, but through each I one, I felt driven; I felt some sense of home. At the time, each of these things was my dream.

I realized recently that somewhere along the line, I’ve forgotten what I long for. I’ve forgotten to dream. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be plugged into a source of electricity, of energy, of passion. To feel excited, to know that there is magic humming beneath the Great Veil. I’ve lost my perspective on the proper place of a job in my life, (as opposed to work), and let it negatively affect the way I feel about myself. I’ve accepted my lack of place with sadness but without any kind of a fight. I’ve let gratitude get out of balance--to blind me to admitting what I really want, and to rob me of my ability to imagine.

But most of all, I’ve either consciously or unconsciously cut myself off from spiritual fulfillment; I’ve not yet returned to a meditation practice although I’ve ached to; I have too long abandon a path that once sustained me because I have been terrified of being wounded in a way that I was years ago. I have felt restless. I have felt out of place. I always feel alienated, but my sense of alienation has become untenable. Something is moving within my bones; something is pacing in it’s cage. I don’t know what it is, but I think that it’s tied to a dream I have. A vision. New work, no the matter the job I have.

I don’t make New Year’ resolutions. But yesterday, I finally repotted two plants that have been bursting through their vessels for years. I reworked the décor to shift the energy of the space; bought a new plant, redid the lighting, opened up some external space. Next I will open my internal space; I will let things in, I will allow things out. I will begin to take root.

--Kristen McHenry

Image: http://www.heartgallery.dk/maleriereng.html

A Very Special Holiday Message

2010-12-21T17:45:00.000-08:00

You're still an okay person if:

You resent Christmas.
You always feel sad this time of year.
The season makes you untenably lonely.
You don't want to buy presents or receive presents.
You're not fulfilled by giving or receiving gifts.
You don't want to see your family.
You really don't want to see your family.
You feel like crying a lot.
You're depressed (get some help if it feels unmanageable.)
You think something is wrong with you because you don't feel joyful and it seems like everyone else does.
You utterly detest Christmas carols.
The holidays fill you with a sense of existential futility and a yawning pit of dread.
You tore up the annual Christmas letter from those smug relatives you could never stand.
You haven't wrapped anything.
You haven't baked anything.
You've eaten far too many Christmas-inspired sugary carbs in an attempt to self-medicate
You haven’t managed to adroitly avoid “Holiday weight gain”.
You are revolted.
You are tired.
You just want it to be over.
Nonetheless, you find yourself spouting insipid "Happy Holidays!!" messages in your e-mails out of societally-imposed politeness, or sheer habitual ennui.
You feel bad because you didn't make any crafty, hip, environmentally correct gifts this year (or any other year).
You feel bad because you can't afford to buy presents.
You feel bad because you can afford to buy presents.
You’re fucking sick and tired of “A Christmas Story".

--Kristen McHenry

Beauty Breathes: For All the Scarves I’ve Loved Before

2010-12-11T19:34:00.000-08:00

Manifesto

The world stands perfectly still.
The world hasn’t moved an inch in weeks.
Crows have gone under, dreaming
that Spring lies limpid in their beaks. Earth
is off the hook entirely.
We shall expect
nothing of it. What’s required now,
my friends,
is scarves—not for their warmth
but for their brilliance: Lime and
scarlet, fire and turquoise,
coral, fuchsia and polished plum, plumage
fanned around our pallid necks, its dazzle
meant to send a message
in no uncertain terms:

We will not
ourselves go bald and
rigid as the trees. We will not be frozen out.
We will explode against the deadened
backdrop of these times, marching
through the gray wind
bearing our floppy,
luminous gems. We will be fearless.
We will show the winter that our colors
have been at last reclaimed—
that we do indeed,
remember gaudy Summer,
her mesmerizing hues.

--Kristen McHenry

Fallow

2010-12-11T12:05:00.000-08:00

Waiting Time

Last night I had a dream that I lost my poetry journal. In the dream, I was absolutely devastated, and no one around me understood why I was so upset. “It’s just words on a page”, they shrugged. “So write some other stuff.” I kept trying to explain (to my waking embarrassment of my dream-pretentiousness), that they weren’t artists; that they didn’t understand that in losing the journal I had lost a part of myself that I could never reconstruct. My inability to get them to understand why I was so grief-stricken over it left me feeling deeply isolated and saddened.

I believe that this dream was about the writer’s block that has once again reared it’s steely, stubborn, silent head. Conventional writing wisdom says that writing is a practice, that a “real” writer sits down and writes every single day, no matter what else is going on or whether or not they feel they have something to say in that moment. I think that something in me has been resistant to that idea for a long time. It’s not the idea of discipline that I’m resisting; it’s something deeper--something about the idea of needing to generate product rather than to be in process.

Everyone knows that fallow times are necessary for the regeneration the soil. Yet it seems that there is no longer a place in this culture for silence, for the fallow times when we are not producing, producing, producing, and doing, doing, doing. I think that my “block” this time has little to do with fear or lack of discipline. I simply feel fallow inside. My intuition is telling me that this is Waiting Time; a time of regeneration and receptivity, a time of being silent and taking in, of quiet processing. I think that this is as valid a part of the process of being a poet as are the times that we are prolific, when words come in a flood that we can’t stop even if we try. Yet I can’t help but feel panicky; to feel that maybe there’s nothing left in me; maybe I really won’t ever write another poem again; that I’ve written all of them that are inside of me and I’m done.

And what if that’s true? Could I be okay with that? If that was all I was ever meant to write, then what’s the harm in letting go completely; it letting that be what it is? What is right action when I really have nothing inside that wants to be said? Do I push through anyway, writing as an intellectual or mental exercise? Do I add to the noise in the world; creating product for the sake of creating product? Or do I embrace the silence and wait to be moved to speak from the inside, from my heart? It's not easy to do the latter when I feel internal and external pressure to have something to show for myself; to prove myself to the culture around me, which doesn't care so much about internal process, but rather what can be produced, processed, and consumed.

So far, I've been using this time to pull together a second chapbook manuscript from what I've produced over the last year and half or so, and to focus on sending out work again. And to remain open to both silence, and spiritually-driven impulses to create.

--Kristen McHenry

Draft: Love and Asperger's

2010-12-04T15:32:00.000-08:00

Love and Asperger’s

He has numbers for words, bugged
code to translate heartspeak into fix
If he can remember
all the information.
If he can formulate.
If could he know.
If it could be all the same each time.
If for now there is a work-around.
If in the end there is a code to input: Love.
If he could count off his infractions
fingertap by fingertap,
learn each input that’s required. If
there was a system
reliable enough. And if I
could be a system,
reliable enough.
If I could be consistent. If I
could write my own translations.
If I knew enough of math to get us by.

Until then all we share
is the lexicon of skin (thumbs
and fingers linked),
its simple,
moot demands.

--Kristen McHenry

I Am Really Sorry I Did That

2010-11-29T18:35:00.000-08:00

Bridalplasty: Oh, God. Oh, God. My EYES!!!!

Yes, I know I shouldn’t have watched. I know. But I couldn’t help it. I was wide awake, it was 11:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, I was channel surfing, and it was on. Up until this point, I think I was in denial about it's existence. I had heard about it, of course, but I guess that I thought that it must have somehow been my demented imagination playing tricks on me. Now that I knew it was actually real, I had to see for myself if it was as awful as I imagined it would be.

It was worse. Far, far worse. Luckily, I turned off the TV after twenty minutes so I could avoid slashing my wrists in despair over the fact that I live in a world where a show like “Bridalplasty” can exist.

I don’t even know where to start. With the obvious, gleeful attempts of the show’s producers to showcase the clichéd, time-worn myth that women are catty, shallow, competitive, vain, materialistic whores in the constant throes of a deranged obsession with wedding-day princess fantasies? With their emotionally disengaged, inertia-ridden fiances, mumbling impassively at the camera during the "joint interviews"? With the gorgeous bride-to-be’s heartbreaking litanies of self-disgust over the width of their thighs, (or noses, or chins, or breasts), and other imperceptible “flaws”? Or, the powerful underlying invitation to schadenfreude: Hey, it’s okay to enjoy watching those shallow bitches suffer for their vanity! They deserve it for trying so desperately to meet the physical standards that our culture demands of them. The same as they deserve to be punished for not attempting to meet those standards, of course. Or maybe just how it's retro notions of female "empowerment" through ostentatious displays of materialism made me want to go live in a cave with nothing but a incense burner and a jar of earplugs?

I was sure that “The Swan” was about as far as we could sink into the rank, steaming cesspool of reality T.V. misogyny, but I guess I was wrong. I just hope to god we’ve actually hit bottom with this one, because I don’t how much lower we could go.

More on this after I've bathed my eyeballs in bleach.

--Kristen McHenry

New Anthology from Rose Alley Press!

2010-11-28T14:26:00.000-08:00

"Many Trails to the Summit"

Many Trails to the Summit: Poems from For t y-two Pacific Northwest Poets is now available through Rose Alley Press! David Horowitz has put together a really amazing anthology, and I'm still flabbergasted that I got to have some of my work in it. I've been reading my contributors copy over the last several weeks, and it's been a joy to make my way through amazing poems by Sherman Alexie, Micheal Dylan Welch, Belle Randall, Richard Wakefield, and others too numerous to mention here. The holiday are here, and if you make one meaningful gift purchase this season for yourself or someone else, I urge you to give the gift of poetry. You can pick up a copy of "Many Trails" at local bookstores or directly through the Rose Alley Press website.

UPDATE: I will be reading at Hugo House on Saturday, December 18th with Joannie Kervran Stangeland, Oliver de la Paz, and Nancy Dahlberg. The reading will feature selections from “Many Trails to the Summit”. Come check it out! It will be a low-key, fun, unpretentious evening of good poetry and companionship–a perfect way to spend a wintery December evening!

--Kristen McHenry

Winter People

2010-11-24T16:59:00.000-08:00

Winter People

It snowed and slowly I awoke, slowly I remembered that I was born a winter person, born for adapting. I remember now, that I have few but vital knowings: How to Protect from the Wind, How to Keep the Blood Warmed in Freezing Conditions. How to adapt my eyes to the dimness, how to become, in fact, intolerant of light. And my essential nature--how my skin shrinks from the breath of the sun, how my skin is not: nut-brown, light-craving, healed by heat. How I was born fighting against the elements, how it changes you when you’re delivered at birth into the shock of wind chill and deep frozen white, when you must choose early and wisely your methods of survival, when you are weaned on tales of frostbite and the lengths others before you have gone to keep from dying of cold. It changes you, to know that you must always carry with you the tools of survival: Always, matches in a waterproof tin. Always, a blade with which to stab your prey. Always, a fur to protect the heart. Always a willingness to kill that which you love, so you may plunge your raw hands into their still-warm viscera, so you may be granted another twenty, invaluable minutes of warmth. And of course, the skills needed to build a fire in the wilderness, in the dead of winter, everything hostile and incurably damp.

When I dream, I dream of summer people. What it is like to be dusky, to require the heat. To be born in sun, to be born knowing the land will always warm you, that the land wrapped you in itself from the moment you entered the world. That as a newborn, you looked straight into the white, roaring sun, and from then on your eyes were ready, eager, expectant of love.

--Kristen McHenry

Science Fiction Sunday: The Ufologist

2010-11-21T17:44:00.000-08:00

The Ufologist

“Since human DNA no longer exists in their reality, they have to harvest it to add to their own and manipulate in order to survive.”--Bashar, as channeled by Darryl Anka.

You the watchers of elusive lights, worried
longers, hypothesizers, constant
gazers of YouTube snow-dome video flickers--
have faith: For we ourselves have come,
inevitable and swift, bearing
merciful vials of telepathy and fugue. Those
turbulent orbs that so seduce are only us:
ethereal cannibals, returned to scavenge
for what we've wasted.

Our bodies are bandages and salve, curing clay
for our future editions. We have boomeranged
back in our dying times, to pluck
our own molecules with reckless precision, as we lay
amnesiac in our swampy beds,
so fretfully alone, so eager for the harvest.

--Kristen McHenry

Beauty Breathes: Poem-A-Day-phobia

2010-11-19T21:13:00.000-08:00

Beauty Breathes: Poem-A-Day-phobia

I can always tell what time it is in the morning when my email ding goes off shortly after my first cup of coffee. First cup of coffee downed + ding = the Poem-a-Day poem has arrived in my inbox. Because this invariably occurs after only one cup of coffee, I’m still quite crabby and eager to judge, (a morning person I am not), and besides, my mind is racing around tagging all of my worries for the day…this meeting, that drive to the place I don’t know how to get to, the fear of what I have forgotten. I’m impatient and in “go”-mode. I dread the Poem -A-Day. I’m certain that it is going to be nonsense and that I will therefore resent the author for getting their poem into this mysterious, impenetrable Poem-A-Day system when obviously they are crap. Then I get afraid of feeling stupid because I might not understand the Poem-A-Day. I usually just glance at it for length, then move it to my Poem-A-Day file for further reading, or read the first several lines, decide it’s interesting enough to merit my full attention, and flag it for later reading.

I feel that this is a horrible, low-attention-spanny, consumerist attitude towards the Poem-A-Day, and I would like to change it. I would like to resolve to make reading the Poem-A-Day a calming, meditative experience, one in which I slow down, focus, concentrate, and commit fully to the three to five minutes it will take to read the poem carefully, with open-hearted attention and full mental cognition. But it arrives in my inbox at 6:50 a.m. This is about the time I have to go apply my face (which I resent), and commit to the 520 commute (which I also resent, but as not as much as having to plaster on expensive makeup in order to feel that I’m presentable.) Honestly, I don’t know if I can do it. But I’m worried that by not doing it, I might be missing something, like this amazing poem from a few mornings ago, which I just glared at and then ignored. I didn’t come back to it until tonight, when I finally read it in a relaxed state, and cried for a full ten minutes.

Then I think, so why does it have to be morning, the worst time for me to concentrate and open my heart to anything, that I put pressure on myself to do this? Then I think, it’s because morning is the worst time for me to concentrate and open my heart to anything. The Beauty Breathes project, in conjunction with Dana Guthrie-Martin’s Compassion Project, was supposed to be a way for me to begin changing some of my less-helpful patterns, not to reinforce them.

I’ll start on Monday.

--Kristen McHenry