I recently recorded a couple of poems I’m thinking about performing on Saturday at a Breaking Ground Poets benefit event in hopes that listening to the piece over and over again would help me memorize the work so I don’t have to stand up there reading from a piece of paper. Even the smallest piece of paper is a barrier between audience and performer.
I’m not sure I’m going to be able to reach that goal but after posting the recordings because what the heck, I made them, I found I’m getting an unexpected warm response from people who’ve not been so inclined to comment on my written posts. I think I’ll record a couple of more pieces before the week is out, maybe asking those who can’t make the fundraiser to consider making a donation to the BGP Brave New Voices travel fund. -ag
this is beautiful
n.paradoxa has a new searchable list of 1171 MA and PhD theses on feminist art/contemporary women artists in 35 countries (1974-present). The list contains links to information pages with abstracts in Open Access Repositories, and full text PDFs. Go to : www.ktpress.co.uk/feminist-art-theses.asp
Given the growing number of MAs and PhDs available in electronic form, we wanted to provide an accessible route to this research on contemporary women artists and feminist art. Careful searching of this project also highlights many trends and tendencies in feminist research across different countries.
This project does not captures “all” theses written on this subject, but is the result of wide searching online. Information about some of the publications which have resulted from this research is also available.
If your thesis, or your students’ thesis, is not listed: please add using the form on our website.
We are aware that there are many…
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The journey is not over.
Gotta keep moving forward the rest of this life.
But a pit stop at the tops of molehills
to celebrate the miracle that we are alive at all
is not only excusable;
it’s endorsed.
They say it’s not about winning
just doing your best —
when the world is trying to silence you
sit you down
shut you down
put you in your place,
not being ashamed to exist is victory.
Success is learning not to shy away from the sound of your own voice
not wincing at your distorted reflection
as you pass through the glass and metal cityscape
ebbing from and flowing to Sisyphean wage slavery.
Graciously accept the compliment
even though you don’t need his affirmation
because you nurture and love yourself now.
I’m not afraid of death,
only not having lived enough.
What is enough?
Is it ever?
To live with enough curiosity and awareness
enthusiasm, applause and hope
enough courage, love and forgiveness –
that is enough.
I’m not afraid of making mistakes,
dropping and breaking your precious vase,
but rather, not brushing up against the boundaries
not getting close enough to smell the
burnt popcorn dumpster fart skunk vomit
burnt hair morning breath of failure.
Better to trip and fall; scrape knees and cry.
Better to jump in the puddles;
wander off and pick flowers on the
dangerous paths our mothers warned us about
and make awkward wildflower and weed bouquets
that wilt before you get to Grandma’s
than remain dry and unsoiled
unbruised in your safety bubble
not leaving a mark
sneaking nondescriptly away,
no evidence that you were ever here at all.
-ag
Is it feasible to say,
“I know what I’m doing is wrong, but to not do it is even more wrong, so until another option emerges, c’est la vie?”
Or is that just cowardice and a desperate attempt to justify ethically-flawed behavior?
Does it make sense to say,
“I deserve better but I’m not into deprivation either, so I’ll take what I can get for now until a better offer comes along?
And is this reasonable compromise or settling for less than I deserve?
Don’t want to undercut myself but is pricing myself out of the market any more honorable?
Who sets the fair market value of a freewheeling 43-year-old divorced under-employed female writer/artist mother of two teenage girls in 2015?
-ag
“It’s about the terror … the terror of being found out.”
“…we all have ticking away within us something we fear will badly harm our reputation if it got out. Maybe our secret is actually nothing horrendous. Maybe nobody would even consider it a big deal if it was exposed, but we can’t take that risk so we keep it buried. Maybe it’s a work inpropriety or maybe it’s just a feeling that at any moment we’ll blurt something out during some important meeting that will prove to everyone that we aren’t proper professional people or, in fact, functional human beings.
I think even in these days of significant over-sharing we keep this particular terror concealed like people used to do with things like masturbation before everybody suddenly got blasé about it online. With masturbation nobody cares where as our reputation – it’s everything.”
regifting poem (#creativesprint no. 16)
My favorite gifts are the ones you don’t even know you’ve given me
the smile when you see me walk into the room
the final look you give on your way out like you’re taking one last sip before you leave
the pause after you ask how I’m doing because you really want to hear the answer
how you always ask where and when I’m going to be
and then remember my schedule
not because there’s something to prove but because it must mean something to you to know where I am in the world at any given time on any given day
the air you’ve breathed into my second wind
our connection that doesn’t need to be explained
and feelings only poetry can explain
the way you look at me before you touch me as if you are saying thank you to God for giving me to you
the care I feel in your hands
the apology you don’t have to give when you call 10 minutes later than you planned and I am not complaining, just happy to hear your voice
that I believe what’s actually best for me has crossed your mind
the deeper dimension of time we experience together – not just existing on the surface but also penetrating those more intimate layers of each other’s presence – that makes 15 minutes feel like an hour and a couple of hours feel like a day
the way you like me just the way I am and don’t want me to act or think differently or look at me like there are things you wish you could change
the things you hear between the lines that I can’t figure out how to say
the way you read every word as if it really mattered
that you understand some things just need to be allowed to exist and evolve without scrutiny
the sincerity with which you strive to be a “better person” because you think others, including me, deserve your best
that you perceive my value with such certainty you don’t need society to tell you how much I’m worth
how when even my enthusiasm for you seems perplexing, you don’t try to take it away from me
that I look forward to tomorrow because you will be part of that day
i will see your eyes when i close mine
feel the contour of your shoulders underneath my hand even if you aren’t there
my ears will still be smiling in the vibration of your laugh
that you don’t seem to mind that I keep writing
to you
for you
because you have inspired me
even though it must be a little terrifying
to see yourself through the bruised prism of someone else’s heart
like a fun house mirror
these gifts you’ve given are shaping me
the fibers of your constancy
your discipline
your conviction
and compassion
cannot be untangled
they are part of who I am now.
april 2105
alicia grega
Panic used to be my default mode.
Focusing my fear on what wasn’t there,
I would have been sobbing and shaking, blaming and cursing
Before I found the inspiration
to realize that a cup of rice, some frozen spinach, and a little cheese go a long way.
How a little smoked paprika
can almost make it gourmet.
Cut the bad spots off this ripe tomato
and chop that up too.
All these years living in the scarcity economy
have taught you to make delicious out of nothing.
You taught yourself to work from scratch,
like your grandmothers used to do.
Not just for pride
Or less preservatives
Or on principal
but so you could weather days like these,
feeding on faith between pay checks
Whipping together meals out of whatever’s left.
A little salt and some garlic …
If you weren’t so hungry after yoga
you could have waited for the dried beans to cook.
Thrown those in the pot, too,
wrap it all up in a tortilla
like that’s what you meant to do all along
like this is what you would have cooked
even if you had other choices.
But you were that hungry.
Yoga always leaves you hungry
but not starving.
You will never starve.
Even if your own ingenuity were to fail,
you have nourished too many people.
Even though you always used to feel like it wasn’t enough
were always left wanting to do more,
to give more
to be more
(Maybe even stop writing about yourself in the second person —
Claim your life with an I;
identify with yourself.)
Today, I am full on the belief that
we have grown too much love
to let each other suffer senselessly.
-ag
“It got dark real slow and then real fast at the end, the way it always did, even in the summer, like daylight realized it had to be somewhere right away. Somewhere else.”
-From “Origin Story,” Get in Trouble: stories by Kelly Link
The wind had died down, she noticed, and the water was so smooth now, it was as if a maid had come in to make the bed, stretching out the sheets with flat precision.
“Did you ever notice how fireflies rise up when they glow?” she asked, scooting a little closer to him and pointing at one, though by the time her finger extended the rising had ceased and the bug’s light had already dimmed.
“Oh yeah. We always called them lightning bugs.”
“We did, too, sometimes. That’s one of those things. I don’t think I ever made my my mind to pick just one.”
“So what is it, you think? Like a mating call, probably.”
“It’s the male signaling to the female. And if she doesn’t flash back the right pattern, he won’t fly to her. There are all different signals, flashing patterns. There are 2,000 kinds of fireflies.”
“No way. That’s crazy.”
“That’s what I read somewhere. They’re beetles. This one kind imitates the flash of another species or whatever to attract the males, and then they eat them. Femme fatale fireflies.”
“Huh. You never hear about male bugs eating the females, do you?”
She knew he was kidding. It’s not like male humans were so harmless. She wanted to lean in and kiss him on the cheek, breathe in his scent, but he was still too far away. So she poked him in the side just under the ribs. He folded a little in surpise.
“We used to count them, the flashes. And when you reached 100 you could make a wish,” he said, searching for her eyes in the dark. “I usually lost count though. ADHD. What did you used to wish for when you made wishes?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I believed they would come true.”
“Oh come on. When you were little?”
“I don’t remember. I didn’t want things like that, to be rich or famous or a princess or anything. I just wanted friends. Not to be ugly. Maybe some clothes that didn’t come from the bargain basement of Hess’s. I wanted my Mom to be happy.”
“You didn’t want to go to outer space or live in a castle or ride a unicorn or something?”
“Are you kidding? No. I didn’t believe in fantasy. That’s what books were for. I could tell the difference.”
“So what do you want now? If you were going to make a wish?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Just pick something. You wanna go to Paris? You want a theater, don’t you? Wish for that.”
“It’s silly. I’ve spent most of my life trying not to think about what I want. It’s not like I’m ever going to get it.”
She untied the knot of hair from the top of her head and let it fall down over her neck and across her shoulders, combing through it with her fingers. She should have brought her sweatshirt down her to the dock. She forgot how cold it got here when the sun went down.
“You’re so dramatic.” She could hear his smirk.
“You’re so patronizing,” she countered.
“Don’t get mad. It’ll be a long weekend if you’re mad at me. I think it’s cute.”
“Cute.”
“What could you possibly want so bad that you can’t have? That it would hurt you to dream?”
“I don’t know.” She did not want to get annoyed. “What’s wrong with this moment right here, right now?”
“Nothing. This is great.”
“This lake was always my favorite place in the world. At least that’s what I used to say if anyone asked. My happiest memories were here. Not doing much of anything – digging in the dirt making clay pots, taking walks and picking berries, swimming for hours – just floating out there on my back in the middle of the lake. Waking up before everyone else and watching the mist slowly retreat as the sun rose higher. Reading old pulpy paperbacks that someone left behind in the ’60s. I love it here. And now you are here with me. We are here. What else could I possibly ever want again for the rest of my life? It just doesn’t matter.”
“OK.” He took her hand but didn’t say anything else.
“Do you remember when we went to Manhattan that first time and we didn’t do anything?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“No. We walked around Central Park. And ate from that food cart outside the Natural History Musuem. But we didn’t go inside. You kept asking me what I wanted to do, but it didn’t matter. I said, whatever you wanted. Because I didn’t want to pay attention to art or exhibits or whatever. I just wanted to be there with you. Walking next to you, catching your eye as often as I could without staring. I didn’t want to learn about history. There was still so much I didn’t know about you. But I didn’t know how to act. I guess I was nervous. But it was like a nervous excitement. I couldn’t think. I just needed you to tell me what to do.”
He gave her hand a light squeeze. “And then I started to feel sick. I shouldn’t have eaten that hot dog.”
“And so we just got tea and went home. And I was happy. Just to be there. We drove into that unbelievable sunset. I can’t picture it. I wish I could remember better. I just remember it was amazing, like we only get a few sunsets like that and that was one of them.”
“I remember.”
“I wouldn’t have picked that day- I mean, I wouldn’t have dreamed it. But it happened in the quirky unimaginable way that life happens and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
“Like this moment now, here in the dark by the lake,” he said, releasing her hand and slapping a mosquito on his arm as if for emphasis or punctuation. “We should go back before it gets even darker. I should have brought a flashlight.”
He stood and reached down for her. She gathered her skirt in her left hand and accepted his help. She could barely see his face.
“I’ll go first,” she said. “Stay close.”
She stepped carefully like they did on those sunrise hikes at camp, knowing the dock was straight and there was nothing to trip over, as long as they took their time. They would reach the grassy field and then the campsite where they might light a fire. Or was he tired? They could just climb inside the sleeping bags they had left zipped open inside the tent like a twin-size and call it a day.
“This is a really great moment, too.” she agreed. “Except I did dream this one. Well, something sort of just like this.”
-ag
Gregarious Expressions 