Song is "Sleepy Maggie"
by Ashley MacIssac from his cd, hi how are you today?

Hello, yes, it's Thursday and I'm writing this tonight because it's the only way it will be here waiting for you tomorrow, Friday-- as I said it would be.

But before I stumble about trying to share whatever is going on in my head, I thought I'd let you know that you should keep a look out for an article with my name in leading scientific journals because in the interests of furthering medical science, I will be submitting the following experiment which is designed to pinpoint (to an extraordinary level of detail, I might add) the precise threshold for maximum frustration in a human being.

Although this groundbreaking approach may lack the requisite field trials that the scientific community generally demands, I do believe its merit will be obvious to even the lay people among us and that this test formula will be enthusiastically embraced by researchers across the globe!

What's nice is this experiment is divided into five steps. Five is such a fine number, don't you think?

STEP ONE: have your subject choose a project that they have never done before. For example, if they have never created a slideshow from photographs, have them set out to create a simple collection of photos.

STEP TWO: have your subject undertake gathering the photos from several different sources. For example, photos could be on two, three or even four different computers (in as wide a range of folder types as you can create) as well as on discs (would be good if the discs are no longer compatible with the computer your subject is working on. Also? Have the photos come from multiple cameras-- two is the minimum.

STEP THREE: your subject must have a project scope that is significant-- let's just say, oh, five years of photographs. Anything less than that may alter the results of your experiment.

STEP FOUR: your subject has no prior experience which ensures they will try a number of software programs that promise quick and easy results-- we advise you wear protective gear during this step as your subject's behavior upon realizing the slideshow software packages are made of old string and dried turkey droppings may become violent and erratic.

STEP FIVE: if you have invested in the vision goggles we recommended on page 837 of helpful equipment to have on hand, please wear them now. You will be able to see your subject's head begin to swell swiftly much like Jiffypop popcorn of old. In fact, the sudden increase in in cranial matter, punctuated with increasingly violent explosions of blood vessels, is so similar to the bulbous, tinfoil head of a Jiffypop popcorn that we've placed the photographs side by side here in fig. 5 a.

Ahem.

As you may have guessed, my little plan of leaving a slideshow here today was not nearly the simple lock and load activity I had anticipated. (Have you identified a trend, lo these long and lovely five years . . .? If a hollywood screenwriter wanted to pitch me as a movie I think "lofty ambition meets quicksand" would sum it up nicely. Fortunately for me, there is a knight in a forest green Jetta who rescues me every. damn. time).

But, for the record, when did technology not advance as fast and as far as I thought it had? Was it so wrong of me to expect to grab a couple of photos, import them into some program and instantly have a clean, professional looking slideshow? Yeah, I didn't think so. Get back to work you techie slackers. Or wait, seeing as I'm probably not going to be needing slick, simple slideshow software again any time soon-- forget what I just said-- go on back to surfing porn, you crazy kids.

Tuesday night I was teaching my fairy tale class and we are at the point in the semester where our focus has now shifted to the work of Anne Sexton. Specifically, her collection of poems, Transformations.

There have been so many stellar moments in this class so far-- a steady flow of beautiful awakenings, insightful comments and such rampant enthusiasm that it feels as if serendipity is not a frozen moment in time, but a bird on my shoulder. Does passion breed passion? I don't know. All I know is each week I prepare for the inevitable "flat" class-- the few absent students-- the waning interest in the material (I have, after all, been teaching since I was 19, I have no illusions about the ebb and flow of any given class) and yet. These kids. They are so into this class and their excitement feeds my excitement and we have so much fun together, and sadness.

Remember?----------> Anne Sexton.

Oh, sorry got distracted there for a minute-- so I was going to share one stellar moment that occurred just as we began her collection. The foreward is by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr and as I have been shocked one too many times by the gap between my expectations of these students' basic literary knowledge and their, um, literary knowledge, I had put together a bit of a bio about Kurt so that they might have better chance of appreciating the brilliance of his introduction.

Now, naturally, I don't let on that I expect they won't know who the big V is, so I begin by asking them if they'd ever heard of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. A glance around the room informs me that it was a good thing I'd taken the time to cobble together a bio and so I reach around behind me for the stack of paper to distribute when a clarion voice cuts through the silence.

"I fucking love Kurt Vonnegut."

The voice belongs to Anneke, a girl (whose name has been changed to protect her innocence) that has not joined the impassioned discussions once all semester. Not once. And, as much as I encourage everyone to contribute and ensure they are aware that class participation factors into their grade, I never, ever push. I could see she was always deeply engaged, she just didn't want to talk-- some people are shy, this can be especially true for artists (and you all know I teach writing at an art college, yes?)

So here were are. Nine weeks in and all of a sudden Anneke has found her voice. She loves Kurt Vonnegut!? Bring it--

And so Anneke introduced the class to Kurt Vonnegut. She shared how she found him, why he rocks her world-- and there (I'm thinking) was Kurt sitting on the corner of my desk digging it big time. I know I was.

And so (I do apologize, I can see how much I am using "so" here as I write, but there's nothing I can do. It must be akin to deep sighs. A lot of deep sighs as I am writing to you), and so.

Anne Sexton.

Born in Newton, Massachusetts as I was. Forty-six when she committed suicide. The same age as I am today.

Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf and Judy Garland each had a profound impact on the trajectory of my life. All suicides, obviously-- Judy was the first one I was aware of as a kid. I mean, wrap your 7-year old brain around Dorothy killing herself. Not gonna be an actress, that's for sure. And then later, writer after writer after writer-- drunk, dead, drugged, dead, dead, dead-- puncturing my heart with that which cannot be named, leaving me with their gorgeous words wrapped around my wrists like so many charm bracelets, calling my ship to their rocks with their songs of the Lorelei.

And, being young, overly educated, disconnected from the natural world and spiritually inclined to live life to the brink-- I did, in fact, bottom out on the shoals.

Six weeks in an intensive care unit and then another two on the normal psych ward (yes, I do love oxymorons). Not gonna be a writer, that's for sure.

And then some years pass and I decide-- screw them. There's gotta be another way. Like Magellan or Lewis & Clarke or Bill & Ted or whoever it was looking for a new way through-- I decided to climb the north face of the mountain. Screw art via misery. Screw art via poverty. Screw art via drugs and alcohol. Actually, I think all I really said at that time was, screw art. Yeah, now that I think about it, that's as much as I had written on my map when I sallied forth.

Wouldn't you know (just like in those crazy fairytales!?) along my way I encountered help in all kinds of forms and shapes. Of course, some of them were assholes and they didn't even know they had helped me, but they did, just the same. Most were not. And, I also found writers and artists who were not so much with the agony and the blood-letting and more with the let's get high off of how incredibly cool this all is.

One writer in particular sustains me deeply. Her poems ground me and provide good footing as I travel. Finding joy, seeking light, taking time to spend an entire day in a sunny meadow, breathing deeply, resting, luxuriating in the pleasure of long walk-- these are things she calls me to do.

I share this one with you.

With love.

And a heart full of gratitude.

Bisous, Elizabeth

The Gift

I wanted to thank the mockingbird for the vigor of his song.
Every day he sang from the rim of the field, while I picked
blueberries or just idled in the sun.
Every day he came fluttering by to show me, and why not,
the white blossoms in his wings.
So one day I went there with a machine, and played some songs of
Mahler.
The mockingbird stopped singing, he came close and seemed
to listen.
Now when I go down to the field, a little Mahler spills
through the sputters of his song.
How happy I am, lounging in the light, listening as the music
floats by!
And I give thanks also for my mind, that thought of giving
a gift.
And mostly I'm grateful that I take this world so seriously.

~ Mary Oliver, House of Light

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