I’ve never actually read A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf, published in 1929.
Yet, I was an English major. I don’t know what happened there. Poor education? Poor attitude? I don’t remember.
It didn’t keep me from continually referencing the title; it has such a nice ring. I have now read the Wikipedia page on it, so I feel “qualified” ; – | to tell you that this blog is the cyber room of my own and my new attic apartment is the tangible room of my own.
Virginia Woolf created Judith Shakespeare? She said that Chloe liked Olivia? Like, LIKED, Olivia? In 1929?
She said about women:
“She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words and profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read; scarcely spell; and was the property of her husband.”
You go Ginny! May I call you Ginny?
Thank you for your essay
Ms. Virginia Woolf. I’m going to go get a copy of A Room of One’s Own to read in my attic room. I hope I become as modern and educated as you were in 1929.
I am supposed to write a poem for my therapy appointment tomorrow. I forgot the date of my appointment, and can’t remember the specific topic assigned for the poem, but I will try to write one. I guess I was really scattered that day.
On another topic, I have just picked up my “healing stone” again. I tried carrying it around in my pockets, and putting it on a chain, but it ended up nestled in my bra most of the time. Near my heart, I thought. It’s been in my dainties drawer for several months now, because I thought the nature of our relationship had run it’s course.
Silly me — It’s in my bra as I write. Things are rarely linear, right? It will assist my convalescing heart for many more cycles, I predict. If you want to read that first post about the stone, search for, “Powers of the Healing Stone.” As I wrote about a year ago, real or imagined, I’ll take any healing it generates, in any way it generates it.
The draft poem:
After 24 Years, Now.
Some of my hibernating ideas are
waking up. I tease a few
forward, but mess up their
implementation. Quite a lot. Now.
It’s very satisfying, however. So
satisfying, that the outcomes are
irrelevant. The relevance is in the
waking up and the acting out. Now.
I don’t drink Starbucks. I don’t
eat Chinese take out, or bagels, or
matzo brei. I don’t keep the cat
indoors, or even off the counter. Now.
I pick mushrooms for pizza. I keep
the heat down. I roam around all
weekend, and I’ve got more smiles. Sly
ones. Toothy ones. Devilish ones. Now.
I’m in a lull.
It’s kind of dull.
And the poems suck
So who gives a f*@k?
When I started my blog, I wanted to write something every weekday. I could fill up empty space at first with all the (tenaciously un-publishable) poetry I have written over the years. But, I just don’t think I have all that much to say. Day in and day out.
Sometimes something flares up, and I have plenty to say; otherwise I’m a pretty boring gal. (Like who says, “gal?”) One time I told my hair stylist that I thought my regular hairstyle was boring. He said, “We like to call it classic.”
Indeed, it might be a point of perception.
I’m going to give it some thought. Another goal was to write every weekday for a year. I’d like to hit that mark, but not with just nonsense filler.
I’m pretty sure “-” will rear his head again and then we’ll have something to talk about. He’s starting his new job today, the one that will cover us for health insurance, and the one he will not tell me the name. Of. I guess that’s for lawyers to find out. My advice to him was to try harder this time to not to sleep with a co-worker.
Let me try to butcher it anyway:
My heart slows to a sleeping beat, yet vibrates with
alertness. I’m up for all newness, all the time, after decades of
dryness. But find I respond to his answer to that, to my deep
past, that I’m trying to reacquaint myself with, and
reconcile with, and his echoes to it, with unleashed, ancient,
clenched up, sobs that swell into bubbles, and project with
inhuman ferocity, from my human body
Is this garbage?
I can’t tell anymore…
I have thought of myself as a poet since I was nine or ten. I liked the label, since it really isn’t a crowded field or outwardly competitive (both things I abhor), but you have to be careful. Subjective people can really stomp on your feelings about how you express yourself. My writing has been called both “unremarkable” and “modern Emily Dickinson.”
My daughter has been tossing off poems this summer that blow me away with their depth and strike of perfect chords. I’m jealous, but only in the best way. If there’s someone’s poetry I want to admire and love more than my own, it’s hers. It’s breathtaking. She has no idea how good she is at it yet.
Then there’s my son, the composter, herb grower, lentil-eating, accepting of all living things, medical student, who wants to learn about everyone and everything’s journey through life. If you have an ailment, he wants to help heal you, so you can enjoy your journey more fully. He’s philosophical and heady in the most gentle and practical way.
I hope you get to cross paths with my kids someday – the children I helped create – who are a healing poet and a poetic healer.
If I were thinner, hair longer, skin
smoother, eyes bluer, lips darker, and
I incorporated more daytime leather —
could I make you want me?
Instead of her, of course,
If I were dumber, but fit,
less pent up — overtly angry – right?
Could I make you want me?
Instead of her, of course,
Could there be a trice of
acceptance? Not as I am, of course, but
as you would want me to be,
and as I would want to be, too,
to be with you,
instead of her, of course,
I call shotgun! I call dibs!
I call steak instead of ribs!
I call mac and cheese, not Thai!
I call cake instead of pie!
I call heads! No I call tails!
I call tater tots not snails!
I call jinks and you can’t speak!
I call this a winning streak!