Rick Bass response

I went to see Rick Bass tonight from 7-8. I wasn't really looking forward to it; I had been out of town all weekend and he was the only one left by the time I got back. I haven't heard of him before and I was just dreading it, to be honest.
However, he read two short stories to us, and I thought they were really good. He read one that was about a couple who hit an owl while driving, then stop at a diner where the man eats 24 eggs and other various breakfast-type foods... and they notice the owl they hit is stuck in the canoe on top of their car. I liked the easy way Rick read the stories... he has a very interesting accent. He was born in Texas and also lived in Missouri, but he didn't have an extremely thick Southern accent. It was a more a slight, eloquent drawl, and I found this accent was highly effective... and it definitely fit with the stories he read. I liked the first story the best, I think, because it was very interesting, had some funny parts, and the end was sudden and a little disorienting. I had been silently watching the chair in front of me, enthralled with the story; and then it was over, and I felt a little lost. But in a good way.. in a way that made me think over the story again.
Then he read his second story, which was about his family, especially his brother who is more focused on material things than Rick sees himself to be. They would vacation at a beach resort in Texas, maybe? I didn't catch that part. Anyway, then there would sometimes be a "jubilee" where the mixing of salt and fresh water would cause the resort goers to be able to wade into the waves and reap fish after fish after fish into pillowcases and have a huge feast on the beach.
This story was definitely more political- Rick is a conservationist and it was pointing out the gluttony people had for the fish.. they took many more than they needed simply because they could. I didn't like the political tones to the story, but I still liked the way it was written and the way he read it.

I found the hour passed quickly and Rick Bass was an interesting writer as well as adept speaker.

How 'Bout Them Apples

This poem was inspired by "Siblings" by Patricia Smith. Not for any reason other than it talks about lots of siblings, and it reminded me of the part in Good Will Hunting when Matt Damon tells Minnie Driver that he has 12 brothers. So I wrote a poem from Minnie's perspective. Random, but whatever.

i'm sitting, watching him in defeat
he's standing,
slowly putting on his mask
i didn't mean to cause this
there are questions i can't ask
his childhood, his scars, his brothers
his feelings are not even an option
these parts of him are closed off
hidden
by the mask
sometimes i get close
it's like looking through the lens of a camera
and the image is fuzzy
and just as i'm about to focus it
the cap clicks on
the mask slips on
he doesn't come around too often
he makes me
sweat it out
wondering if i did something
wrong
but when we're together
we're happy
i hate that he thinks i'm like the others
there must have been others
right?
why else would he always insist on wearing
that ridiculous mask?
the mask that says he doesn't care
he's untouchable
sometimes i try to rip it off
out of frustration
but the harder i pull
the more stuck it be comes
i hope that one day
he'll trust me enough
he'll see that i am waiting
for the time
he finally lets me
in.
but
i
can't
wait
forever.

inspired by "m'dear thinks on luther b" by patricia smith.

February 10, 2009

no.
what I thought when I read
that little screen with three little words.three unbelieveable, unbearable words
three tiny words that meant so much.

no.
this time I said it out loud.making it more concrete; more true.no, no no.I denied it as I pulled into somenow unameable parking lot off someirrelevant road.
no.
I denied it as I called home. As it sank in.as I went to the wake; the funeral.no.
this did not happen.I denied it even up to when I stood in the line;
a line that resembled any other line;a ticket line, a line for food, a line to meet someone famous.
it wasn’t like those other lines after all.

no
resonated in my head the whole timein that line
no
screamed my heart as I neared the end.I stopped. looking down. and suddenly there was no denying it.
no.
the word now denies something else.
it denies the thoughts of that day.
of the life so far from fulfilled.
of the moments never to be had.of the loss of a friend.

I want to go back to the first
no.
the one that insisted
those three horrible, ugly words
were just a misunderstanding
and it would be cleared up soon
and life would go back to normal

(he died, leah)

two poems

Spinelessness as an excuse for not saying sorry

The birch tree peeled and crackled like old paint
the grass swayed ever so slightly in the deep breeze
the sun beat down like a hammer on a stubborn nail
I became a stubborn nail floating on a piece of rotting wood in a mossy swamp; alone
a lazy dragonfly buzzed past my hazy eyes
I sat motionless, the sun still hammering away my very core
I wanted to push myself up
to run to your door
to let my apologies spill and scatter like marbles at your feet
but nothing would change, in the end.
I would probably just trip and slide on the marbles
my own apologies rolling under my feet.
my view shifted to blue sky as I fell back
I spread out my arms in the tender grass, so tender and soft
that I hated it for not being rocky and uncomfortable on my spine
I felt the earth beneath me opening, but did not move to escape the oncoming darkness
It swallowed me with clumping mounds and roots and worms
it spat me out at your door but I did not
let myself spill my marble apologies at your feet
I did not.

regret feels just like a sunburn sometimes.

The view from five foot, eleven inches tall

Walking outside, I notice how much closer
I am to the big branch I used to climb when I was young
how much easier it would be for me to grab that birch branch
to pull myself up, and to sit on my perch, looking down at the world
I am taller, but I am not changed. I have not progressed.
when I look at this peeling birch tree, I still feel like a
wild-eyed nine-year-old girl, filled with wonder and excitement
thinking this branch could make me feel the sky
run my fingers through the clouds; touch God’s fingertips with mine

I look around at the yard that used to look as big
as the world
I am taller, but I am the same
this tree shows me that though my body has grown
my wonder and excitement at this big, wide world
is the same
and will be the same
trees are the kinds of things that keep you grounded;
help you remain who you were

one of my favorite poems.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

and experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens,

(touching skillfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands