Entropeia – Goddess of Disorder
25 Oct 2011 Leave a Comment
in Bipolar mood swings, Julie's Poetry Tags: chaos, depression, disorder, Entropy, Julie Lomoe, Lunesta, Spider solitaire, writers block
Kali
I’ve long been fascinated by the concept of entropy, the idea that chaos and disorder tend to increase in a closed system. I’m not talking about the scientific explanations – the second law of thermodynamics and all the inscrutable equations that remind me of why science courses terrified me in college. Rather, I’m using the term the way sociologists do, as a measure of what Merriam-Webster describes as “chaos, disorganization, randomness.”
As a description of my life, sometimes those words seem all too apt. Another definition I like describes entropy as “a measure of the unavailability of energy in a closed system” – not a bad description of clinical depression, when life closes in claustrophobically and it’s hard even to get out of bed. I’ve only recently emerged from over a year of living in this sorry state, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
A year ago, in the depths of my doldrums, I summoned the energy to write a poem in which entropy takes on the guise of a goddess. Here it is:
Entropeia
I’m Entropeia, Goddess of Disorder
Shape shifter, seductress
Enticing as your cat Lunesta
Purring and writhing on your desk
Unsheathed claws swatting the mouse
Knocking your pens and papers to the floor
Where they remain untouched for days on end
Over the years I’ve worn away
The letters at the center of your keyboard
A dozen keys, blank as an erased blackboard
Your fingers blindly grope for vanished symbols
You used to know by heart
Words become maddeningly elusive
Refuse to reveal themselves
Hide in the plaques and tangles
Of your aging brain
I wield Time’s Arrow
Wound you with panicked fear
Of irreversible dementia
I lure you with endless hours
Of Spider solitaire
Clawed hand cramping the mouse
You bargain with time for one more game
And throw away another day
Blundering on with stinging eyes
Till darkness falls
Nature tends from order to disorder
In isolated systems
That’s the entropic law that guides my every move
Your every lonely act or lazy lack of action
Under my ruthless reign
You fall apart
Athena
I’m delighted to report I no longer feel I’m falling apart, and I’ve managed to transcend my writer’s block and fear of dementia. But the other manifestations of disorder and chaos remain major issues. Lunesta still writhes around on my desk and tries to swat the mouse to the floor, and yes, she’s named for the sleeping pill I still take every night.
And I’m still using the same keyboard with the rubbed-away letters. The year of nonproductivity impacted on my touch typing ability, and I make more typos than I used to. Still, on the whole, life is good.
Venting negative thoughts in writing – is it always therapeutic?
07 Jul 2010 4 Comments
in Art of Writing, Bipolar mood swings, Creativity, Julie's Poetry, Miscellaneous Musings Tags: Bob Sanchez, creative block, Eldercide, Julie Lomoe, M.E. Kemp, Mood Swing: The BIpolar Murders, venting
Edward Munch
Commenting on my “Slump-A-Dump” poem in the last post, Bob Sanchez praised my quasi-rap rhyming and characterized the piece as “healthy venting.” He got me thinking – how healthy is using your writing as a way of venting negative thoughts? Can it be counterproductive? I’m afraid that sometimes the answer is yes.
This morning I attempted a poem about the depression that’s been plaguing me since May. One passage reads:
I score my mood on scales of one through ten,
with one as suicidal, ten as manic, trying to uncover
conscious weather patterns I can manipulate at will
by choosing wholesome activities that bring me pleasure
or failing that, alleviate the pain. Writing works sometimes.
Writing didn’t work today. I woke up with my mood at three or four, but wallowing in negativity for the hour it took me took me to come up with a first draft left me feeling like a two. I wrote about the heat wave that’s forecast to roll in tomorrow,* and how that will give me a more valid excuse for misery than I’ve had during the recent stretch of gorgeous summer days. Did committing my thoughts to paper have a positive cathartic effect? On the contrary, I felt even worse.
M.E. Kemp commented that short stories are one option for barreling through a creative block. I began one a few days ago about a woman who decides to take to her bed for good. She converses with a shadowy archetype who encourages her in her resolution, and speculates about how high a dosage of her favorite sleeping pill, Lunesta, would prove fatal. Only the need to feed her cats prevents her from carrying out her plans – for the time being.
As I wrote about Gladys’s sweat-stained sheets and wondered how long it would take for her cats’ hungry nudges and love nips to morph into full-blown attack mode – would she have to die first? – I realized I didn’t want to go down the path my imagination was taking me. I couldn’t envision an epiphany for Gladys, something for her to live for, nor did I want to accompany her on a slow and painful death. After three pages, the story peters out, possibly for good.
On the other hand, healthy venting fueled the fire that inspired both my mystery novels. Mood Swing: The Bipolar Murders is about transcending the stigma of mental illness, and Eldercide explores the ethical dilemmas that arise as our allotted life spans grow ever longer. For me, writing has to spring from conviction, something I feel passionately about that I’ve absolutely got to get down on paper. I’m waiting impatiently for that subject to manifest itself.
*The heat wave is here, threatening to break all kinds of records in upstate New York, and sure enough, the external excuse for misery helps me feel a little better about myself. I wrote this post a few days ago but felt it was too downbeat to publish unless I could come up with a more positive ending. But what the heck – I need to get something up here regardless. Maybe you can come up with some more upbeat comments to help cheer me up.
Slump-A-Dump: Rapping my way through a creative block
30 Jun 2010 9 Comments
in Art of Writing, Creativity, Julie's Poetry Tags: creative block, creative slump, Creativity, inner critic, Julie Lomoe, poetry
Writing as everyday spiritual practice was the topic of one of my recent blog posts, but writing mindfully and staying in the present moment is a lot more difficult than it might seem. Since I’ve been feeling creatively blocked lately, I decided to follow my own advice, switch genres and write a poem about my current state of mind.
Simple enough, right? Hardly. My inner critic kicked in big-time. I found myself playing with rhyme and rhythm as a rapper might, but my “umpire” kept telling me I was making a mess of things. No sooner had I come up with the first few lines than I began wondering if the poem would be appropriate for posting on my blog. I could envision myself reading it at the next open mic at the Social Justice Center in Albany, but how would it come across online? Would the constipation imagery turn people off?
Is the word “turd” too vulgar for my readers?
I decided I could care less. I’ll let you be the judge, and I’ll try not to worry what you think (although as always, I welcome your comments). I recommend the following exercise: write a poem, and make it as crass, corny and vulgar as you can. Have fun, and don’t worry about quality. Who knows what makes for good poetry anyway?
So is this poem an example of everyday spiritual practice? Writing it, I found myself immersed in the moment, and I feel more centered and energized now than before I began, so I believe it qualifies.
Slump-A-Dump Poem
Humpty-dump-dump, I’m sure in a slump.
Got that internal ump telling me I’m no damn good,
saying to give writing up – hell, well, maybe I should,
but that leaves a huge hole where there used to be soul.
***
Hey, I sound like a rapper, with my heart in the crapper,
chasing rhythms and rhymes, trying to get through this time
of gloom and despair – came on me from nowhere,
snaking up through thin air, twining me in its grasp,
this rhetorical asp has its coils round my throat.
Now my umpire gloats as I strangle on words
hard and dry as old turds that refuse to come out.
The frustration’s so painful, I choke back a shout.
***
I blogged about writing as spiritual practice –
sure, that’s what my act is, but the matter of fact is
I feel like a fake, and that critic keeps raking me
over the coals, telling me I’m too old
to go on any longer. Sure, if I were lots younger,
I might join the dance, have a chance to advance
in this crazy charade of a writing career,
refuse to accept that the end’s far too near –
no, that just isn’t so – I’ve got decades to go.
(Yeah, right, if I’m lucky, and relentlessly plucky.)
***
So I sit on my rump in this bitch of a slump,
fingers clawed over keys, hoping for a fresh breeze
blown my way by some muse who might choose
to fill up my sails, lift me out of these doldrums,
stop me going insane from this sludge in my brain.
***
Maybe writing this doggerel will lift all the fog, or I’ll
stay in this slough of despond – but no, I don’t want
to give in to being mopey and dopey. Nope,
I must persevere. Tell that muse, “Hey, I’m here!”
Tell the ump she’s a chump, and soar out of this slump.
Country concert distilled as poem
31 May 2010 2 Comments
in Julie's Poetry, Memoir, Music Tags: concerts, country music, Country Throwdown, Jack Ingram, Jamey Johnson, Julie Lomoe, Little Big Town, Montgomery Gentry, poetry
Jack Ingram
Sometimes a poem’s the best way to capture the essence of an experience. Case in point: my excursion yesterday to “Country Throwdown,” a marathon country music concert in Saratoga Springs with many bands, including Montgomery Gentry, Jack Ingram, Jamey Johnson and Little Big Town. There was lots of excellent music, but maybe it’s time to face the facts: I’m not the music fan I was 40 years ago, either in body or spirit.
It’s fascinating how modern country musicians channel the musical styles of rockers of my generation, including Jimi Hendrix, Tom Petty and Crosby, Stills and Nash. Jamey Johnson was the only headliner who played what might be termed traditional country.
Here’s my poetic take on the dark side of the day’s happenings (it’s always easier to wax poetic about the shadow side of things):
Country Throwdown Concert
“On your feet!” The singer screams the order.
The crowd obeys, fists pump the air.
A shirtless youth salutes with horny fingers.
Erratic heartbeat of the bass thumps in my chest.
Extrasystoles hammer, relentless, triggering fears
of cardiac arrest. Red searchlights swivel
through clouds of smoke, target band and fans –
the entryway to hell. Batted by the mob, enormous vinyl balls
with New York Lotto logos crash endlessly above. One hits me
on the head, sparking phobic high school volleyball flashbacks.
Yellow-shirt security patrol with eagle eyes and walkie-talkies.
Outside the music shed, the crowd queues up and funnels through
metal barricades in quest of precious liquid.
Blue shirts check IDs and brand us with plastic bracelets.
We’ve been stripped of private bottles at the gates,
so now are forced to pony up eight bucks a cup to quench our thirst
on the arid patch of chewed up grass
called a beer garden. Shades of Germany.
Outside, the ATM machine attracts long lines –
suckers in search of cash, desperate for food and drink,
cowboy hats and black skull-logo tee shirts.
I’ve come here trying to conjure up
that long lost summer of love in Sixty-Nine.
Crows feet around my eyes and fifty extra pounds
brand me an imposter among the lanky girls
in skimpy shorts and cowboy boots. Ten hours of music
is seven too many for my aging psyche and physique.
To my relief, the headline final act is crass and mediocre.
I steal away to beat the traffic jam, pass through metal gates
emblazoned with a banner overhead:
All exits are final. No reentry.
They’ve got that right – I can’t go back again.
© Memorial Day, May 31, 2010 Julie Lomoe
Blogging trumps poetry: I’m so much cooler online
16 Apr 2010 4 Comments
in Art of Blogging, Creativity, Julie's Poetry Tags: Albany Word Fest, blogger, blogging, Brad Paisley, Empire State Book Festival, I'm so much cooler online, Julie Lomoe, poetry
Tonight I’ll be reading my poetry at the Albany Word Fest, an annual event that’s a virtual orgy of the spoken word. I thought I should come up with at least one new poem for the event, but instead I came up with a severe case of writer’s block. I managed to confront it in the following poem.
Word Fest features a 12-Hour Friday Open Mic that kicks off at 7 p.m. I’m scheduled for 10:30 p.m., so by all means stop by to cheer me on (and buy my books, if you haven’t already.) There’s be dozens of poets and spoken-word artists there, and it’s always a festive night. It’s free, too! Come to the UAG Gallery at 247 Lark Street. 
I’m still planning to cover more topics from the Empire State Book Festival, but today this poem took priority. By the way, I borrowed the phrase “I’m so much cooler online” from Brad Paisley’s megahit of the same name. As an entertaining lyricist, he’s peerless in country music.
I’VE BECOME A BLOGGER
My fingers have stage fright.
Knowing I’ll have the floor
tonight at Word Fest, I sit paralyzed at my computer.
Picturing people perched on metal chairs in narrow rows,
faces inscrutable, judging my every word,
my brain slams on the brakes, then sputters out,
rolls over and plays dead. As a poet I’ve grown shy and tongue-tied,
probably because
I’ve become a blogger.
Blogging, I measure my audience in hundreds,
rack them up as hits on my stat counter,
check the numbers daily. Nearly sixty thousand now,
but are they human beings, or merely phantom ciphers?
Some are real people. I treasure comments
from Albuquerque and Australia, schmooze with friends
I know by photos from their books, mostly self-published.
We all look our best on line, young for our actual ages.
We spill selected secrets, shout in virtual keystrokes, 600 words or so,
enough for a few pithy points, stopping just shy of boredom.
I feel I know them better than folks I know face to face.
I’ve become a blogger.
My words flow free and easy when I blog.
I keep it bright and breezy, mindful that readers can abandon me
with a single mouse click, never to return.
Still, I’ll never know the pain of their rejection,
never see their restless jiggling legs or condescending smirks.
Month by month I’m turning inward,
conjuring an adoring virtual audience,
withdrawing from flesh and blood communion,
leaving a minimal carbon footprint as I cleave to my computer,
swaddled in my fuzzy pink schmatta from WalMart.
I leave home less and less.
I’ve become a blogger.
My fictional career is on sabbatical. Why write fiction,
when I’ve living in the World Wide Web,
spinning my tales, creating my character, branding my name
in Musings Mysterioso. Racking up the readers,
watching my WordPress graphs spike ever higher.
Mystery novels grow redundant, slow the flow.
Who needs them, reads them anyway?
I’ve become a blogger.
©2010 Julie Lomoe
Seven reasons I love writing poetry
10 Mar 2010 9 Comments
in Art of Writing, Creativity, Julie's Poetry Tags: creative process, Creativity, Julie Lomoe, Mary Oliver, poetry, Sylvia Plath, Windows on the World, World Trade Center
Sylvia Plath
Writing poetry is a wonderful way to jumpstart your creativity and hone your writing skills. A decade ago, I wouldn’t have dared write this sentence, much less declare myself a poet, but now I have no qualms about it. After all, who decides who’s a poet and who isn’t? Danged if I know.
I’ve written in many genres over the years, but poetry eluded me until the year 2001. As a member of the First Unitarian Universalist Society of Albany, I had the opportunity to submit my work to the Oriel, the congregation’s annual literary magazine, and I decided to give it a try. Since then, poetry has become one of my favorite means of expressing myself. I have no aspirations to fame and fortune as a poet; I haven’t even published a chapbook yet. But there’s something wonderfully satisfying about writing poetry. Today I’d like to share seven reasons I love this art form.
- Poetry is speedy. On average, once the words start to flow, it takes me about an hour to come up with a reasonably polished first draft – about the same time I spend on a blog post.
- Poetry’s a good way of catching ideas on the fly. Most of my poetic inspiration comes from immediate experience. There’s usually an “ah hah!” moment when I think “this would make a good poem.” If I’ve got a journal handy, I jot down a few preliminary phrases and ideas. This isn’t always possible, though. When I was skiing down Panorama at Jiminy Peak last week, the slushy spring conditions inspired me to think, “This would be a good blog post. No, on second thought, it would be better as a poem.” It wasn’t until later, when I was at the bar with my hot buttered rum, that I had a chance to capture the ideas on paper. You can read the results in Monday’s blog on skiing.
- Poetry’s a wonderful way of processing your emotions. I
Mary Oliver
became intensively involved in poetry a few years ago, when I was depressed and discouraged about publishing my novels. Exploring my feelings through poetry became a vital way of coping with my depression. For many, poetry has been literally life-saving.
- Poetry’s highly subjective, and hardly anyone knows what makes a good poem. It’s a lot like the cliché about visual art, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.” That’s how most people react to poetry.
- Poetry’s great for getting immediate feedback and applause. No matter where you live, there’s likely to be at least one poetry open mic near you. Many of my poems have been precipitated by the knowledge that there’s an open reading that night and I really ought to bring something new. Most poetry audiences are supportive and enthusiastic no matter what you read.
- Poetry’s highly compatible with computers. I do my best writing in Microsoft word, editing as I go. Some poets prefer longhand, but I love the flexibility of diving in with the first phrase that comes to mind, then playing around with the words on the screen.
- Poetry’s a good way to hone your literary skills in other genres. In poetry, every word counts. Part of the process lies in finding the best possible way to communicate your ideas in the fewest possible words, rooting out the clichés and discovering the most powerful images possible. The habit of writing this way carries over into other genres.
What about you? Have you tried your hand at poetry? I know quite a few readers of this blog are part of the vibrant poetry scene in New York’s Capital District, but what about the rest of you? As always, I’d love to hear from you. Please – come out of lurk mode and comment!
Windows on the World, World Trade Center
Stop by on Friday when my guest will be Roger Hudson, author of the historical mystery set in Athens, Death by Amphora. And click below to read “In Memoriam: Windows on the World,” my somewhat solipsistic take on the tragedy of September 11th and one of my first published poems.
Looking ahead – life lessons from skiing
08 Mar 2010 4 Comments
in Julie's Poetry, Memoir, Miscellaneous Musings Tags: Byrds, Gore Mountain, Jay Leno, Jiminy Peak, Julie Lomoe, Lindsey Vonn, Neil Young, Spring skiing
“Don’t look down at your skis or right in front of you,” my instructor said yesterday. “Look far ahead down the mountain, the way you want to go.”
“But what if there’s uneven terrain or something nasty right in front of me?”
“It’ll be too late then anyway. You don’t look at the hood of your car when you drive, do you?”
She was right – I actually managed to get my skis more parallel and carve better turns when I stopped looking down at them.
Who’d have ever imagined I’d be able to improve my athletic prowess so late in life? All through my teens, I was one of those kids who dreaded gym, who was picked last for every team in every season. I especially hated volleyball, and used the “female troubles” ploy more times than was physiologically possible. In spring, when my classmates played softball, I chose tennis, 
which meant hiding behind the backboard out of sight of the gym teacher. Years later, as an art therapist at a psychiatric center, I generated much merriment during a softball game with patients at a picnic because I screamed and dodged whenever a ball flew anywhere in my vicinity.
But clutzy as I am, for some reason I’ve always loved skiing. Maybe it’s my Scandinavian genes, or the fact that I can steer clear of competition and ski alone. In the past two years, my skiing has improved about a thousand percent, or so Jude, my instructor, said. We were midway down Gore Mountain, and I was taking advantage of the Out of Control Ski Club’s free private lesson day on my last ski outing of the season.
In the interim since I’d last seen her, I took a series of weekly lessons at Jiminy Peak in a program especially designed for women, in which the lessons are followed by a buffet lunch at Jiminy’s John Harvard restaurant and then unlimited access to the hot tub and heated pool. I’m not enamored of lessons – at my age, I don’t take directions well. But it really helps to know what I’m doing, and my ego loves knowing that I can actually improve at something athletic that most folks my age are too terrified even to attempt.
So why was yesterday my last ski day? Simple – I hate spring slush. Here’s a poem I wrote about my last day at Jiminy. I took some poetic license, since my last ski day was yesterday at Gore, and I spent most of the afternoon in the bar listening to a band that did excellent covers of the Byrds, Neil Young and the like. As the poem says, I’m turning my thoughts to spring. And as Jude advised, I’m looking ahead, rather than dwelling on the muddy ground at my feet.
Were you a clutzy kid in gym? Have you gotten more athletic with age? I’d love to hear your stories. Meanwhile, here’s my poem.
Spring Skiing
Alone on the vast white slope of Panorama,
not a soul in sight. March is doing her early lion number,
ripping and whistling past my ears, searing my cheeks,
making me wish I’d worn my black ski mask,
my terrorist balaklava. The weathermen were wrong,
but Jiminy was right. Machine-groomed granular,
they called it in their morning e-mail –
another word for crap.
I’m channeling my Viking forebears,
forcing myself to face the fall line,
carving my way through piles of sodden slush.
My thighs ache from the work, the weight of it.
I picture Lindsey Vonn, flaunting her mini-skirted thighs,
flashing her gold Olympic medal
on Jay Leno’s first come-back show.
How can she be so strong and yet so slender,
not to mention gorgeous.
Me, I’m more the Brunhilde type,
complete with helmet to guard against concussions
or sudden death. Rubenesque flesh,
swathed in baggy black pants
I’ll ditch upon final snow melt.
Next year I’ll need a smaller size – yeah, right.
So this is pleasure? Halfway down the hill
the realization hits me – this is my final run.
The season’s truly shifting.
Crocuses are pushing up unseen
beneath the mounds of filthy snow that shroud my garden.
Winter’s a goner – time to lay the ground for spring.
© March 6, 2010 Julie Lomoe
Talking politics on your blog or in your books – is it taboo?
03 Feb 2010 15 Comments
in Art of Blogging, Art of Writing, Julie's Poetry, Miscellaneous Musings Tags: Acme Authors Link, Barack Obama, Celine Dion, Elliott SPitzer, Julie Lomoe, Morgan Mandel, Scott Brown, Stephen Colbert
Morgan Mandel posed an interesting question in her post on Acme Authors Link today:
Because of the primary election, my thoughts turned to politics and the role they play with authors and bloggers. I purposely avoid speaking of politics on my blogs. I don’t like to force my opinion on others or alienate people of opposite tastes. I only include politics in a very general sense in my novels.
What about you? I’m not asking you to tell us your political opinions here. I just want to know your ideas about sharing political views.
Great question, Morgan! As I began to comment, I realized I had so much to say that I’d better post it here rather than cluttering up Morgan’s blog with an endless essay. So here goes . . .
I’ve never consciously considered whether or not to address politics on my blogs or in my fiction. Yes, I try to avoid offending people, but only in certain respects:
- I never, ever knowingly insult or criticize people in my blogs or my novels, with the occasional exception of celebrities who are famous enough to be fair game. Online, I try to follow the old adage my mother taught me: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!” In person, it’s another matter. I love dishing the dirt and badmouthing people – only when they deserve it, of course.
- With rare exceptions, I avoid using the standard four-letter words, because I know some people are truly offended by them. In my novels, people swear when it’s in character, but not to excess. Orally, again, it’s another matter. In fact, I was once almost banned from the YMCA for use of the F word. If you want to read a poem about it, it’s on the continuation page.
- There are areas I find too offensive to write about. Excessive sex or violence, torture, child or animal abuse, defamation of minorities or the disabled . . .
I could go on, but when it comes to politics, I have no compunctions about sharing my opinions, whether people agree with me or not. So why don’t I write about politics? Simple – it practically never occurs to me. Politics is a frequent topic in my home, because my husband is executive director of a progressive advocacy organization who deals with political issues constantly. We live in New York State’s Capital Region, and politics here is about as dysfunctional and disgusting as it gets. When Stephen Colbert interviewed Elliott Spitzer last night, it made me long for the good old days before Elliott quit – that’s how bad it is! And I’m really sad that Obama isn’t turning out to be the inspiring leader we’d longed for, although I believe he has the smarts and the good judgment to redeem himself. He’d better hurry up, though, or it’ll be too late. That newly elected Massachusetts Senator Scott Brown is entirely too charismatic and presidential-looking. Be afraid, Barack – be very, very afraid.
In short, politics is a downer, and it’s the last thing I want to think about when I’m at my computer. I won’t refuse to read other writers because of their political views, but I do admit to being turned off by people who use Facebook as a forum for ranting about their beliefs. If they do it too much, there’s a simple remedy – I hide them.
What about you? Do you share your political views in your blog or your books? As a reader, if someone’s political views offend you, do you boycott their writing as a result? I’d love to hear from you. And thanks again, Morgan, for the inspiration for this post.
As promised above, here’s “Anger Management,” my poem about using the F word at the Y – continue reading if you dare!
A Dialogue with my Inner Critic
25 Jan 2010 1 Comment
in Art of Writing, Creativity, Julie's Poetry Tags: inner critic, Jiminy Peak, Julie Lomoe, Mary Panza, Poets Speak Loud, Tess' Lark Tavern
Pablo Picasso
There’s nothing like a deadline to jolt my muse awake, and today I have two of them. Tonight is the fifth anniversary of Poets Speak Loud, an open mic at Tess’ Lark Tavern. After the reading, they’ll walk to nearby Washington Park to toss a beret onto the head of the Robert Burns statue in honor of the late social activist and poet Tom Nattell. I wanted to write something new for the occasion rather than recycle one of my old poems. I also need something new to submit to Oriel, the annual literary magazine for my Unitarian Universalist congregation.
I haven’t written a new poem in months, not since I became obsessed with blogging. What to do? I decided to write a dialogue with the nasty Inner Critic who continues to plague me daily. Here it is:
Golden Years (a dialogue with my inner critic)
Monday morning, and my calendar’s nearly blank.
I’m truly blessed, free to follow my bliss wherever it leads.
Your bliss won’t take you far, not till Social Security
replenishes your account tomorrow.
Hey, I’m not talking big-time travel here, I’m talking feeling states.
I’ve paid my dues and earned these Golden Years.
Golden? That’s rich – you have to scrimp and save.
No raise this year – the benefits are frozen.
Speaking of frozen, today looks good for skiing. Maybe I’ll play hooky,
drive to Jiminy Peak. The view of the Berkshires from the top is gorgeous.
Yeah, right, it’s skiing down that stinks. You want to break a leg?
Besides, the wind chill’s minus ten below.
I guess you’re right – I’ll hit the Y instead, go to my Nia class,
then do the weight machines.
Why bother? You’ve been doing that draggy routine for years –
you’re still as fat as ever. You’ll never be as skinny as those other women.
But there’s still hope – I’m in the weight loss program, Lose to Win.
I’m journaling my diet, e-mailing the instructor everything I eat and drink.
That’s a crock – you know you cheat and leave the bad stuff out.
You haven’t lost a pound.
I’m feeling great now that I’ve done my workout, eaten my sardines
on Wasa crackers with V8 – it’s finally time to write.
And miss your favorite soap? Give me a break!
John is in jail, they’ve kidnapped Jessica. You’ve got to see what happens.
No, I’ll be strong and write my blog post now, then start that chapter
for my latest opus. One Life To Live can wait – I’ll catch it on SoapNet later.
Why not give up those writing dreams for good? Nobody’s reading anymore,
they’re all too busy with their blogs and Tweets and Facebook status updates.
Yes, it’s a grand new global world. People are visiting my blog in droves,
saying how they love my writing. Three hundred visitors some days.
How does that translate into book sales? Hah – it doesn’t, does it?
I’ve seen your royalty statements – they’re pathetic. Play Solitaire instead.
No, it’s addictive and it brings me down! How can I get you out of my head for good?
I know – I’ll write a poem about my golden years and all my blissful options.
You haven’t written poetry in ages. It’ll be garbage,
but no one will know the difference, not if you read it at an open mic.
Hey, that’s an idea! There’s one tonight – Poets Speak Loud, at Tess’s Lark Tavern.
They always clap and cheer, and say how cool I am.
They’ve got no class, and probably they’re drunk. Oh no, I’m feeling faint.
I think I’m going out of your head . . .
Good riddance, Doppelganger!
©2010 Julie Lomoe
I took poetic license with the ski conditions – it’s pouring rain throughout the Capital Region and the Berkshires, and Jiminy’s closed today. Last night, when I began this poem, I didn’t realize how devastating this January rain storm would be. The radio is blasting flood warnings for Stratton and Bromley in southern Vermont. I wonder if all that machine-made snow will contribute to the flooding as it flows off the mountains. What if that were a motive for murder on the slopes . . .
Oh well, back to the subject of dialogues and inner critics. This is a great technique I learned many years ago, and a wonderful way of jump starting your creativity. I’ll blog more about it on Wednesday. For now, I’m off to the Lark Tavern and Mary Panza’s wonderful open mic, Poets Speak Loud. I’m looking forward to a fabulous blue cheese bacon burger too. And no, I won’t report it in my diet log.
Too old for downhill skiing? No way!
18 Dec 2009 10 Comments
in Julie's Poetry, Miscellaneous Musings Tags: Downhill skiing, Gore Mountain, Jiminy Peak, Julie Lomoe, Stratton Mountain, Warren Miller
I’ve been thinking about downhill skiing, but I haven’t hit the slopes yet this year. It’s been abnormally warm in the Northeast, and most ski areas opened much later than usual. Today my daily e-mail from Jiminy Peak reports packed powder conditions, but I know the snow is machine-made, and the wind chill is below zero. I’m putting it off till we’ve got a few inches of the real stuff, a calm, sunny day, and minimal lift lines. Chances are that means January.
I wrote the following poem several years ago, when I took up downhill skiing after a hiatus of many years. When I wrote of the skeptics who told me I was too old, I really meant my husband, but I was too diplomatic to say so. He was relieved today when I told him I might not ski as much this year – he still thinks I’m too old, and he’s still wrong.
Downhill Skiing
Too old for downhill skiing? The skeptics told me so.
On the downhill side of sixty, my brittle bones might shatter
If I fell. My reflexes, never all that great, were no doubt shot by now.
My Rossignols, state of the art in ‘69, were obsolete today,
The leather run-away straps flat-out illegal. Now metal brakes are in.
New equipment? Rent if you must, they said – you’ll soon get over this insanity.
The skeptics spurred me onward to the slopes.
On the first day of downhill, I thought they might be right.
Muscles screaming in pain by mid-day, trembling, weak.
My brush-up lesson an exercise in panic, my instructor a sadistic drill sergeant.
Don’t work so hard, he barked. Face down the fall line!
No more cowardly traverses – carve big, arcing turns!
You’ll pick up speed, but it’s all right – let the mountain take you down!
The falling was easy, the getting up, well nigh impossible.
On the second day of downhill, I gave it one more chance.
A four-hour twilight ticket, alone under the arc lights.
A full moon flanked by Saturn, the mountain glistening white
With dusky shadows, snow boarders hurtling by.
Fleeting glimmers of hope, elation when turns felt right.
My falls were fewer than the first time. Once, two men skied to my rescue,
Made sure I was unharmed and helped me to my feet. I have trouble too, one said.
The rigid boots don’t let you flex your ankles. It’s hard for everyone.
On the third day of downhill, I wasn’t quite so scared.
Another night excursion, a few more runs this time, and just one fall.
Carving huge curves through fresh powder, conquering moguls,
Remembering the sergeant’s words, facing down the mountain,
Relishing the growing sense of power in my thighs,
The sense of cellulite melting away, vanquished by muscle.
The tingling sense of well being and the hot chocolate in the lodge.
On the fourth day of downhill, I knew that I was hooked.
Glorious sunlight, fresh fallen snow and steeper slopes than ever.
Still the young men on snowboards, surfing far too fast,
But I’d learned to trust to fate, to share the chairlifts with them.
I promise not to kick you getting off, said one. But if I do, feel free to kick me back.
They fell often, flailing in spectacular windmill wipeouts, then popping up unharmed.
Me, I didn’t fall at all the fourth time. But if I had, it would have been all right.
Too old for downhill skiing? I proved them wrong.
I’ll always be a cautious intermediate, shun the black diamond expert runs.
But I’ll buy those jazzy skis and boots, be stronger, swifter than I was at twenty,
A Viking crone carving graceful arcs on my long slow downhill glide.
©2003 Julie Lomoe
I’ve gotten the jazzy equipment I wrote about, plus a helmet – I don’t want to end up like Natasha Richardson. I rarely fall anymore. My prediction was dead right – I’m still a cautious intermediate, and I still haven’t skied any black diamond trails. But I’ve got my coupons for free lift tickets from the Warren Miller movie, and a Value Pass for discounts at Jiminy, which is only 35 minutes from my house. And I’m still a member of the Out of Control Ski Club, which runs bus trips to Stratton and Gore with ample time for après-ski partying.
Writing this post, I’m getting more in the mood for skiing. What about you? Any downhill skiers out there? I’d love to hear from you, especially if you’re in the Capital Region. Maybe we could carpool to Stratton some Wednesday – that’s when they honor the free lift ticket coupons.
