June 11, 2011; Day 0 of Naropa University’s Summer Writing Program

Arrived in Boulder on Tuesday, eager, excited, nervous. My husband and daughter accompanied me on this initial leg of the journey, and we spent the early part of the week eating, hiking, walking, visiting Naropa, occasionally sleeping. In preparation for their departure, we went hiking at Chautauque yesterday so I could put my feet in the water and clear my head. Then we went off for tea at the Dashanbe Tea House (lovely). This morning, we got up, showered, dressed and headed out the door. Now they’re driving to Denver to catch a flight home and I’m here in Boulder wondering why I do this to myself, while at the same time heaving an enormous sigh of relief. Makes no sense, I know… or maybe it does. Maybe someone out there reading this is thinking, “yup, I can see that.” If not, I’ll try to explain.

Being the progressive, college town that it is, Boulder thrives on diversity. There are retirees walking the street in chains and leather, tattooed mamas pushing strollers filled with adorable, barefoot babies and street corners populated by buskers, hustlers and sad little old men in rags. At Naropa, a wonderful school founded on the principles of Buddhist contemplation, Western-education and near universal acceptance, there are students from all paths in life (see previous post). Some are male, some are female, some are gender neutral. Straight, gay, monogamous, single, polyamorous. Writers, dancers, artists, theater and religion majors.

None of this is bad. In fact, except for the proliferation of homelessness, it is all quite wonderful. Except that I’m a bit dull. Nerdy, even. Fond of words and coffee and small, still corners. Despite being independent, stubborn and perhaps a bit too fond of incense, I’m not an obvious rebel. I wear skirts and jeans with white t-shirts. I take my mom to lunch every Wednesday, floss most days and occasionally pay other people to paint my nails. I practice yoga in sweat pants. My hair is mousy brown and correspondingly lifeless and I haven’t a single tattoo. Though I am now largely atheistic, I was raised Catholic; cursed from birth by a strong history of guilt and conformity. And now, I’ve flown 1500 miles to once again plop myself down in the far out land of way cool hipsterdom. Even the anti-hipsters are hip. To the outside eye, the single thing in short supply in Boulder is that bastion of perceived deadly dullness—the traditional family. Did I mention I arrived here with my family? My husband of nearly 30 years and our basically well-adjusted daughter? Yeah. Nowwwww you understand.
I know that there are people out there who will read this in outrage: “What the hell is she complaining about—love, stability, happiness?—who doesn’t long for all three?” And I absolutely agree (b/c I am so grateful for all three), Hence the conflict.

But try to see it another way. In four days, this is what I’ve encountered: a waiter, unable to process the information that I was attending Naropa (he had asked what brought us Boulder), asked my daughter what she was studying. Arriving on campus for a meeting with an unknown classmate, I was confronted by an image of youth and beauty; tall, thick hair pulled carelessly back in a golden weave of tumbling curls, no time or need for make-up. Signing in at Snow Lion, Naropa’s dorm and my domicile for the month, I met a lovely woman—not too tall, pretty but not intimidatingly so, my age. Woohooo, I thought! Two seconds into the conversation, she informed me she was there dropping off her son. Sonsofbitches.

There are MFA programs all over America staying in business on the dimes of middle-aged women seeking a new course in life and I chose the only one slowly sinking beneath the burden of educating free-spirited young men and women arriving straight from college on scholarships. Even here, I am an anomaly.

But what the hell—isn’t that why I chose Naropa in the first place? We are all anomalies.
And I cannot wait for the month to begin.

July 6, 2010: Week Four of SWP, Day 78 of the BP Disaster

Day 78, are you still paying attention? If not, but think you should, or if you just want more information, follow this link:http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128330651

Naropa SWP

Week four and exhaustion has become a way of life. Between being in class/lectures/readings 10 hours a day, hiking each weekend and the occasional drunken party (drunken as in companions, that is, I’ve tried to limit myself to slight pixelation), my brain feels like something ancient and wizened. I love Boulder, though, love Naropa even more, and I’ve met quite the array of amazing people. (Hi Mel!) I miss SC and my friends and family there, I miss Billy and my bed and boo kitty, but could easily relocate myself to this land of eco-consciousness, open skies and beautiful mountains. (Have I mentioned how much I love the West??) 

For instance, this is a town that respects, supports and honors art – written, spoken, sung, poetry, music, prose. Last night, poet Amiri Baraka  (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=80788read) read at the Laughing Goat coffee house, along with Anne Waldman and Akilah Oliver. (Akilah is my MFA instructor for the month! Lucky me!) The place was packed, not only with Naropa students, but also with locals who know LG puts on a fabulous  reading every Monday night (thanks to Tom, who VOLUNTEERS his time to creating a venue for local poets). Last night was extraordinary, though. As one of the few remaining writers (poetry, prose, plays) active in the New York and Beat movements of the 50s and 60s, hearing Baraka is like witnessing history.  A poetry/music/life lesson in each verse. Though he’s older now, gray-haired and stoop-backed, his wonderful deep voice is just as strong, just as resonant and compelling as ever.  And his poetry remains a call to action. I don’t always agree with his politics, but I can’t argue with his passion for and committment to community.  So, that was last night – 2 1/2 hours of poetry, camaraderie, singing, shouting and drinking (chai in my case). (Why do I feel the need to keep pointing out that I haven’t been over-imbibing?) 

In between all of the above, I’ve been writing (and reading! To applause! What an amazing concept!). In three weeks, I’ve pounded my keyboard to a glossy sheen, trying to pour out, and hopefully preserve, all that I’ve learned. Much of this learning has been in the sphere of academia–I now know, for instance, how to set type on an old-fashioned printing press (THAT was fun!), the names and works of poets from the  first and second generations of the New York School, the meaning of the word liminal, and the  difference between modernism and post modernism. (Actually, I’m still trying to get a grip on that last bit.)

Just as importantly (more importantly?), though, what I’ve learned, or what I am learning, is how I want to be in the world. What kind of person, writer, friend, activist. Being in a place where no one knows your hang-ups is very liberating. I’ve discovered that sometimes it really is as easy as just letting go. Not that my neuroses don’t surface from time to time, but the combination of creative days spent with creative people, long, meditative hikes, and forced anonymity prevent too much soul diving. Or shallow soul diving. In such a setting, the more important kind, the kind that leads not to “navel gazing” but to insight and compassion, is inescapable. This is where things could get boring, where I could stray into the kind of verbal introspection that no one should have to read, so I’ll sum this up in a sentence. My writing, like my life, is too careful. I need to read and study more, not with an eye to trying to peg myself into some pattern of academic expectation, but to gaining the confidence to freely develop my own style(s). And not only in my writing. 

Time for another reading!

  

 

Naropa – June 12-19, 2010

Ah, Saturday at last! I feel the need to have a nice, quiet, nervous breakdown. Or perhaps a really loud one! The past week has been AMAZING! Challenging, busy, exciting, surprising (who knew the brash, no hold barred guy sitting next to me in workshop wearing blue and white striped t-shirt, jeans cut off at the knee and a pork-pie hat who writes about telling his boss he is a “homosexual with a firearms fetish” in the most graphic, in your face terms, was actually a fairly shy, sweet guy??), unsettling, grounding and perfect in almost every way.

I’ve learned more about writing and the person who calls herself Annie Maier in one week than I have in the last 47 years. I can’t possibly put it all in a blog, and won’t even try, but please check out the following writers: Linh Dinh (not for the faint of heart), Jaime Manrique (the most empathetic teacher I’ve ever had), Bobbie Louise Hawkins (above all others), and Ross Gay. Oh, and Thalia Field. Also, we had a moment of silence yesterday for the wonderful Jose Saramago. Check him out at  http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/06/18/AR2010061805426.html

I can’t let the week slip away, though, without recording two middle of the night epiphanies.  First, the issues I’ve been having with Please Kill Me and Other Life Lessons have been solved. Not only have I discovered how to go about making the entire book better, but I know exactly where to go from here and how to pull it together  structurally so that I can be as excited about pages 1-25 as I am about pages 26-300 and so I can say in one sentence exactly what the book is about. I feel like Donald Johanson when he discovered Lucy! Stay tuned for further developments!  Second: Listening to Linh Dinh tell us that the world has absolutely no interest in poets and that the only answer to the storm of systemic failure taking place in our world is to get out into the world – I wrote in my notes: “My life has been transformed.” I didn’t know in that moment what forces in the universe I was channeling, or what the hell they meant by that statement, but it came to me at about 7am this morning. The answer will be my thesis, temporarily titled Tell Me a Story. Again, that’s all I can say right now, but I am WAY excited.  

Finally: the manifesto. I’ve not been in a car, seen a tv (either on or off), eaten meat or been alone other than in the shower or going to the bathroom for the past 7 days. If you discount the fact that roomie is a PSYCHO, the experience has been great. I’ve bonded with others, most notably Mel and Raki (say Rocky, she’s Isreali-American), spoken in public (read “Farragut North Inferno,” a poem written in workshop, at the colloquium yesterday. There were about 100 people there – those who know me will be pleased to hear I didn’t trip on the mike cord that wrapped itself around my ankle nor did I vomit.), and endured a schedule that starts at 8 am and ends at 10pm, with plenty of homework afterward.

It’s been wonderful.