June 23 2009 Unmown, Untamed Prairie*

I taught a lesson on something my 12th grade English Teacher called "Ransom Poetry." The assignment: to chop up publications and make a poem on a piece of paper. I worked for hours, with my sister's help, deep into the night hunting down the right words to make the poem flow, to make the phrases connect, to communicate. I returned to class to be met with gaping jaws as mine went on the wall next to creations of fifteen related words, or unrelated words, on a central theme. Mine was a poem. Theirs, barely an effort. Am I an overachiever, or an artist? I did exactly what was asked of me. My piece was, as I later learned, performative in that it was self-referential. It talked about itself. It was about hacking a magazine into pieces and creating something from others' words and phrases.

A late start to the morning but I am ready for study. I prepare a stack of magazines for my babysitter and children for the morning, for "destroying" as my son calls it, and three envelopes with each of their names for their findings. They only got to go through the ones I have already conquered, though. I'm collecting designs, words, and other sundries. Mine are too numerous for a folder; I use a briefcase. The designs are for projects, mostly of the knitting sort. The words are the most important, though, they are for writing with. I haven't been writing much lately, but not for lack of trying. Except, of course, for this.



Stand back+zoom+flash on Auto.

* You will not find this reference. This is a quote from my own piece, discussed above. Maybe one day it will be Googleable. Maybe one day I won't just be a nocturnal overachiever. You could try to name the ad, though, that I hacked it from. Think, 1998.