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Me & Anxiety
Sep. 20th, 2011 07:49 pmToday I am anxious. Maybe I'm sleep deprived. I think I need to stop making excuses for my emotional states. I've been riding on a flatness that is almost certainly depression, manifesting as ennui or apathy. How many times have I blamed hormones or lack of sleep so that I could spare anyone else from -- whatever? I think this is who I am. Not-okay. I have good days. I have a lot of good days, even. This is me: not-okay. Ever.
Today I am anxious, and anyway I stayed home from work. I stayed in bed, got up to write (haiku) a bit, felt very lonely and -- because I could do something about feeling lonely -- clambered back into bed to get some snuggles. Later I made an appointment for a haircut. I've been finishing bead projects from my work bag for much of the day. Everything was 96% done. No wonder I am crazy. I was going to bead a lattice around some glass ornament spheres; I had to do some of those projects first.
( Inept )
On Friday I went a poetry reading/release party at Elliot Bay Books. This was the first time I had been in the reading room of the new space. It's in the basement, below the cafe (instead of next to) and has the look of a room with a specific purpose. The old space seemed like a partitioned off space, not a room. The new one smacks of theatrics, though, from the stage bookshelves that are full of prop books, multiple copies of junk books spaced for color, to the overhead lights which, being incandescent, might be unbearable on a hot day if the room is also full of living beings. They seem to have been chosen because they look stylish: clear glass "shades" with clear incandescent bulbs.
The evening's reading was a presentation of two poets who both had first books. They were friends, members of a poetry writing group. The room was filled by people they knew. I had been invited/encouraged to attend by one of their friends. I may have been the only stranger to them in attendance, for all I know. The first poet has the cumbersome name of Ann M. Doe Overstreet. If she is good (I intuit that she didn't get a fair shake), the reading didn't showcase that well. Every poem was preceded with an explanation of what inspired it and what it was about. Too much explaining! The poems seemed short, plain, and underdeveloped when she read them. It was all made worse by the woman -- another group member -- who introduced each of the poets. This woman read a speech that cited lines from their poems and sounded like an academic essay.
The second poet, Arlene Kim, was a dynamic and practiced speaker. The contrast was harsh. They were, at least, sensible to have her read second. A quick look at her website tells me that it captures her personality. I did feel that I connected with her poems. There was one that I especially liked where wind was personified as a mad, violent, searching woman. Her collection is hung on a framework of Hansel & Gretel. She talked about the hunger of the witch.
I think about poetry. Who reads it? Does it need to be read, or only written?
I read it. I'm thirsty for it.
I think -- I suffer an inability to speak clearly because I love the silences and the spaces of poetry best. I want meaning and less explanation, which doesn't work very well in the everyday.
Today I am anxious, and anyway I stayed home from work. I stayed in bed, got up to write (haiku) a bit, felt very lonely and -- because I could do something about feeling lonely -- clambered back into bed to get some snuggles. Later I made an appointment for a haircut. I've been finishing bead projects from my work bag for much of the day. Everything was 96% done. No wonder I am crazy. I was going to bead a lattice around some glass ornament spheres; I had to do some of those projects first.
( Inept )
On Friday I went a poetry reading/release party at Elliot Bay Books. This was the first time I had been in the reading room of the new space. It's in the basement, below the cafe (instead of next to) and has the look of a room with a specific purpose. The old space seemed like a partitioned off space, not a room. The new one smacks of theatrics, though, from the stage bookshelves that are full of prop books, multiple copies of junk books spaced for color, to the overhead lights which, being incandescent, might be unbearable on a hot day if the room is also full of living beings. They seem to have been chosen because they look stylish: clear glass "shades" with clear incandescent bulbs.
The evening's reading was a presentation of two poets who both had first books. They were friends, members of a poetry writing group. The room was filled by people they knew. I had been invited/encouraged to attend by one of their friends. I may have been the only stranger to them in attendance, for all I know. The first poet has the cumbersome name of Ann M. Doe Overstreet. If she is good (I intuit that she didn't get a fair shake), the reading didn't showcase that well. Every poem was preceded with an explanation of what inspired it and what it was about. Too much explaining! The poems seemed short, plain, and underdeveloped when she read them. It was all made worse by the woman -- another group member -- who introduced each of the poets. This woman read a speech that cited lines from their poems and sounded like an academic essay.
The second poet, Arlene Kim, was a dynamic and practiced speaker. The contrast was harsh. They were, at least, sensible to have her read second. A quick look at her website tells me that it captures her personality. I did feel that I connected with her poems. There was one that I especially liked where wind was personified as a mad, violent, searching woman. Her collection is hung on a framework of Hansel & Gretel. She talked about the hunger of the witch.
I think about poetry. Who reads it? Does it need to be read, or only written?
I read it. I'm thirsty for it.
I think -- I suffer an inability to speak clearly because I love the silences and the spaces of poetry best. I want meaning and less explanation, which doesn't work very well in the everyday.