What 4AM Looks Like From The Inside Of My Eyeballs

Nada Surf coupled with a decaffeinated latte (it’s all it takes) should keep me awake at least until the end of the workday when I will collapse into a lack-of-sleep lump in front of the television.

My deadline highlights the word “dead” if I keep going at this pace; the panic from knowing that I’m nowhere near finishing my edits and the fact that have trumped the “May 1st” from coast to coast is coming back to haunt me. Four weeks and only 80 pages and I have been working, I have. Tonight is the last night before I give away the book to the three other people in my so-called creative group (which is distinct from my writer’s group in that it includes a supremely talented artist) tomorrow. Commas will be the death of me. So will run on sentences and a change in narrative voice. I want the m/s to hum like the guitar line in “Hi-Speed Soul.” I want my friends to enjoy reading the book as much as I love the drum line in “Slow Nerve Action,” but I’m afraid the book’s more cobbled together at this point than anything else. And staying up until well past the witching hour didn’t help.

It’s hard to shut off your brain once it starts down a creative path that goes something like this:

1. I’ve always hated the title I attached to the book from the beginning. It felt bland and kind of meaningless and I’ve sat through enough publishing-type meetings to know that titles change all the time. Editors change titles too, make suggestions, and often improve what the writer has come up with.

2. Along comes Poetry Month. And catching up with Melanie’s lovely blog where she posted this wicked poem that caught my attention. Hallelujah! A new title is born. And yes, I’ve already phrased my thank you should the book ever, ever be published.

3. But then last night I was reading and rereading the poem and I came upon a whole new structure for the book that will solve all kinds of chronological poems. See, brain, not turning off, and had to crawl out of bed to write it all down. The time I started: 12:30 AM.

4. Also, it’s lovely to welcome someone home that you love, which meant that my schedule for the last week, work, home, cat-tending, quick dinner, editing, ragdoll-tv, was blown away. In a good way, meant that I started working late, ate even later, and went to bed well beyond my normal time. For a girl who has always had trouble sleeping, all that adds up to disaster. Oh, and the organic brownies at 10 PM didn’t help. But they are so good. So good.

5. Fast forward to 2:30 AM and I’m still writing, soundless because I didn’t want to wake up my RRHB who was sleeping in his own bed for the first time in a week. NOTE: the music quest has gone really, really well. So far, I’ve downloaded some Brian Eno that I quite like, added some world music (Ali Farke Toure), and of course, my new obsession, Nada Surf. NOTE REDUX: My RRHB openly mocked the fact that everyone on this earth has heard of this band except me. Keep the suggestions coming, I love them. It’s good to give Wilco a rest every now and again.

6. Now I’m finally back in bed but it’s 3:30 AM, just the time when Willie Pep wakes up and decides it’s time for him to go outside. Walking on my head, walking on my legs, half-settling on my chest, and I’m out of bed again drinking Sleepytime tea and reading Huckleberry Finn.

7. 4 AM looks and sounds an awful lot like the three hours preceding it. Fluffy duvet, warm socks tucked into jogging pants, lots of deep breaths and I fall asleep finally until 6:55 AM. Now, I can barely keep myself propped up on my desk, but the book is definitely better for it.

Gosh, I’ve been making a lot of lists lately. TK momentarily, a review of DeNiro’s Game, which I loved.

Another Long List Of Things Not To Do

1. Wear brand-new shoes to a book launch. My pointe shoes from the last year of high school were less painful.

2. Thanks to all who offered up their music suggestions. I’ve made a list and am going to try out Last.fm to see what’s going to stick. I’ve already found one record that I am enjoying very much from listening to concerts on All Songs Considered: Nada Surf‘s Lucky. It’s most excellent. This is obviously a GOOD point, not a BAD point.

3. Watch the same, truly lame, film I watched last night. I’m not going to blather on about all that was wrong with it, except to say that it’s a movie with parts based in Ireland, with characters who are Irish, and were there no actual Irish actors available? Only American actors with really bad accents, and one Scottish guy who had the worst accent of them all. It’s as if he didn’t even try. Someone said, “grand” and I threw up a little in my mouth. But whatever. The script contained lines like the following:

Person A: Where are all the good men then?

Person B: With all the wrong women.

Fast forward to a scene where Person B meets a handsome, interesting fellow and the conversation goes as such:

Person B: Where have you been all my life (seriously?)

Person C: With all the wrong women.

Gack.

4. Say goodbyes after having two glasses of wine and having no feeling in their feet. You’ll really, really wish you could remember what you said.

5. Wake up slightly tired and kind of hungover and watch far, far too much Tom Green TV. If I were, ahem, younger, I might even consider making a ridiculous video and trying to get his RV to come to our cottage. But I am too old for that stuff. Plus, my RRHB would mock me mercilessly. As would many other people I know.

6. Leave your hand-written edits on your desk for your slightly troubled cat to rip to shreds with her teeth. Having the m/s open on the desk also leaves room for her to barf up a hairball or two, and then get her cat litter everywhere. It’s not pretty. She needs constant management. Ah, pets.

7. Forget one of your best friend’s birthday for the, um, third year in a row. Luckily, I have written myself a giant note and pasted in on the monitor so I have to look at it everyday.

8. Have a sore throat and have no throat tea. Everyone (coworkers, RRHB) is sick around me, which means it’s just a matter of time. I feel decidedly under the weather today, my throat is killing me and I’m not happy about it. Oh, and the farking TTC went on strike.

Perhaps it’s not such a long list.

A List Of Things One Should Not Do

1. One should not drink three beers and then scream “mouse” in a crowded restaurant. It’s not that there wasn’t a mouse (there was; he scurried) but it could have upset people who would be less than thrilled about said rodent in the same place where they’re eating. Hence the hushing and talking-to by management.

2. Edit while intoxicated. It makes notation quite messy, although does inspire a feeling of acting like Carson McCullers and wanting a flask. Somehow, I think though that beer would not keep quite right in a flask.

3. Drink three beers on the night before meeting an author at the ungoshly hour of 9 AM. Also, don’t wear new shoes, trip over your purse, and then tumble into a stack of books on your desk that then falls to the floor. Because that’s not embarrassing AT ALL.

4. Wear a white shirt on a day that you’re tired. It’s just asking for trouble.

5. Ponder the fact that you’d come across not one but two people named Calvin within the space of 12 hours, note that that doesn’t even include the one whose name is tattooed on your underwear, and act truly goofy when you try to tell the story of running into all these cavalcades of Calvins. People will look at you strangely.

6. Attempt to watch PS I Love You after drinking three beers and eating nachos. Harder liquor might be required.

7. Try to read so late at night that the same paragraph feels fresh and new despite going over it at least seven times. It’s not your fault DeNiro’s Game, I promise. I am liking you very much.

8. Forget to feed your cats in the morning because your RRHB is away recording and not there to do it.

9. Buy a pair of shoes (they were on sale) that seemed to fit in the store but certainly were not comfortable by the time you got them home. Thus, ensuring the truly attractive “tube-sox” method of stretching them out so they won’t mangle your feet at the book launch tonight.

10. Forget to bring an extra post-breakfast snack to work because it means you’re starving and unable to concentrate by 11 AM. A quick trip to Noah’s solved that problem.

11. Wear brown makeup. See #4.

12. Bring an umbrella and then promptly leave it at your desk before going outside.

13. Openly mock. You’re just asking for karma to come and bite you on the ass. But sometimes it’s hard when two ad guys get into the elevator with you, obviously pumped up on their ad brilliance, and swear like truckers. How do you keep quiet in your head? How do you not smirk?

14. Imagine, blissfully, having a sandwich for dinner because it’s awesome. See #8.

15. Squish your brain so hard to try and remember the name of the documentary a friend recommended at lunch a couple weeks ago so that you almost run into oncoming traffic at Yonge and Bloor. It would be an easy question to answer in an email, but somehow, you don’t want to seem stupid or like you weren’t paying attention. Hence, the brain squishing.

16. Not fully read the emails before forwarding them along.

17. Listen to this trailer. The song, the song will get in your head for hours, days, weeks. It’s not a bad thing, but when you’re already tired, songs seem to echo in your head in ways that make you quite uncomfortable.

18. Make inane lists on your blog.

19. Drink massive amounts of licorice tea. Just trust me on that one.

20. Put your head down on your desk and try to act like you’re not hungover from the three beers and amazing conversation.

21. One thing to do: openly mock your own self yesterday when you show up for work with full-on rocker girl hair. Evidence that it is so? The 45+ dude with his own layered and longish hair wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt under his jean jacket giving you a smile at 9 PM on Landsdowne Ave last night. Party on Garth. Party on Wayne. Two words: awe and some.

Oh, and Barney? And Robin? Wha?

November (Rice Lake)

[I don’t think this one is quite done yet; still percolating]

A passing glance at the calendar
leads to hours spent flipping photos
examining the evidence of your existence

Your birthday–one of the few things I recall–
along with the smell of your cigarettes, how
you slapped my ass that one day, and your
prickly, adolescent chin.

I fell for the softness of your skin,
gentle like the lake water, Diego Luna,
Pacey, my Trip Fontaine, all the boys
of an over-active imagination.

Our time ran out like a rainstorm: quick, fierce
and uncontrollable on my part, lying in wait with no
sun to pass through.

It rains today. The same kind of rain,
thick, crisp like toast, and I crave an Export A,
Jay’s hotbox BMW, and the sour smell of your ball cap,
but the cold shoulder of my youth has passed.

Music To Write To

I am dire need of some new music to write to. Does anyone else out there need a writing soundtrack? I feel like I’ve played every song in my iTunes 100 times and I’m still coming up short. April as poetry month is totally inspiring me.

I finally tracked down the folder that had all the drafts of the poems I worked on during the one class I took with Ken Babstock, many of which were on the computer that was stolen from our house two years ago. In my insanity, I had printed many, many of them up many times, so at least I’ve got copies, and I’ve been going through them tonight. A part of me wants to post all of them, just to see which ones are more successful than others, but I’ll exercise restraint and keep going with the poem a day (I missed yesterday, so that’s why there are two posted tonight).

The air’s warm. The candles smell yummy. We ordered pizza for dinner. And I feel like my fingers could go all night. So instead of posting all of my cycle, 12 poems based on each (you guessed it) month in a year, I give you a highly illegal version of a William Carlos Williams poem that knocks me to my knees every single time I read it:

Nantucket
(William Carlos Williams 1883-1963)

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtain–
Smell of cleanliness–

Sunshine of late afternoon–
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying — And the
immaculate white bed.

February

[One for yesterday and one for today. But this one’s for Sam. She’ll appreciate it.]

The recipe called for confectioner’s sugar
Dusty, super-sweet, and melting on top of your tongue
Light as a natural laugh and a joke that’s easy to remember.

We all secretly yearn to avoid the middle of every month,
Not just this one. Would it mean more or mean less?
Days later, I wrapped my legs around you and squeezed tight.

An arrow of lipstick painted my mouth the same colour as dessert,
And I giggled. We mocked wounded hearts together; then
Missed our main course to be home and watch Law & Order.

Satiated by the addition of extra cream, I was happy,
And added a heavy, over-burdened teaspoon of Mexican vanilla,
Both uncalled for, and the dish all the better for it.

January (My Violent Heart)

The temperature dropped the day I left;
hours later I smelled cinnamon and saffron,
my nose, assaulted by warm air

(but not in a way I felt violated)

The sheets tried to hard to achieve a
balance between home and away,
and gave me large, angry hives.

(“A vacation,” he said, “would restore your health)

I took the news hard, my heart
stamped and packed down hard,
sand on a beach, snow underfoot

(the waves violated an all-inclusive order)

There’s nothing worse than a tourist
who doesn’t want to tour the ruins
of a most important relationship.

(I still avoid salt water)

I saw you, you who had been mine,
with your hand wrapped in hers,
with bow-like accuracy

(Violence against self excluded from the air fare)

Raced half-way around the world
to realise that the weather
did not improve the mood.

(Sunshine to sun visor to sunscreen)

Damn you and those intertwining
fingers that will never do
what I will forever want them to.